Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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very urgent.” So saying, Bob entered an adjoining room. A second later he returned, triumphant, his face wrinkled with smiles. Fifteen minutes later a shuffling of feet was heard outside the door. Someone knocked. “Come in!” Five chaps eagerly entered. On seeing Doris, they made an ineffec- tual attempt to leave. “Easy, fellows. I want you to meet a cousin of mine.” The pleasant procedure of introduction over, the fellows demanded that Bob solve a problem in math for them. For an hour Bob bluffed through an imaginary problem. For an hour the others laughed, and chatted. “I’ll have to be moving. Good-bye, Bob. Good-bye, boys.” At this farewell greeting, five chaps as if suddenly pricked with needles sprang up, and asked for permission to escort her home. “Sorry, boys, but I’ve got to meet mother.” It was now 5:20. Forty more minutes remained in which to settle his debt. As each fellow left, he tendered Bob a five dollar bill. “Oh! what a wonderful girl she is!” was the single unanimous shout of satisfaction. Bob pinched himself unmercifully. Ouch! It hurts. No, he wasn’t dreaming. Triumphantly, he counted the bills—five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. LEWIS RICHMOND, ’23. Page Twenty

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A PENNY A WORD OT unlike the drowning person who so eagerly clutches at a straw, Bob, with a quick nervous grasp, clutched the tele- gram and tore it open. So eagerly did he absorb its con- tents that his eyes fairly bulged. The words were so black and cold, and yet—so full of meaning. It read thus: “Not another cent—allowance cut off. Father.” Impatient, and in a hopelessly desperate frame of mind, Bob nerv- ously paced the floor. A hundred jumbled thoughts flashed through his mind. Mr. Volstead’s hoarse demanding threat—$25 spot cash, by six o’clock, or I notify your father. Then what? Expulsion from college, just for thoughtless extravagance—disgrace, and what not. Another monotonous repetition of hand delving into pocket, but always with the same unmistakable result. Not a cent did he possess. The clock struck four. Two hours remained. A knock on the door brought him to his senses—awakened him, from his orgy of hideous thoughts. “Come in!” Doris Breamer, his fascinating cousin, entered the room. “How are you, Bob?” “Hello, Doris. This is surely a pleasant surprise.” “I’m on my way to meet mother. She wants you to come for dinner with us,” was her explanation. “Sorry”—Bob remembered his predicament—“But I have something on for tonight.” Her unexpected appearance—previous conversations with the fellows —and then almost instantaneously, Bob was struck with an idea. Her presence gave him courage, and like a dying spark kindling into fire, hope seized him. She would have him—and she would. How? Borrow money from her? No. How then? Indirectly. Would she know? Never. Had not the fellows agreed to give Bob five dollars for the privilege of being able to speak to Doris for an hour? Would they keep their promises? Willingly. Did not the opportunity offer itself now, and did he not urgently need the money? All these thoughts flashed through his mind. “Excuse me for half a minute, Doris. Have to phone a friend— Page Nineteen

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THE FOOTBALL SEASON, 1921 |ES, sire-e-c, a new addition has been built to the Hall of Fame to accommodate the members of our nineteen hundred and twenty-one rugby squad. Some squad, eh? Or, as our i victims have said, “Some wrecking crew.” The blame for this terrible destruction which our boys wrecked upon our opponents rests solely upon the shoulders of our coach, Mr. Palmer. In the eyes of his pigskin chasers, Napoleon looks like a back number compared with him. Of what importance is a trifle like conquering the world when it comes to placing Clifton High on the map in one year by winning nine games in succession? Probably the person most afflicted by this rugby-itus bacillus, and the one upon whom it inflicted the most amazing results, is Mr. Nutt. How opposed he had been to football in former years—and now! Some change, not only in his attitude, but his chest measurement as well. There is enough space there now to print in bold type, “That was my team.” We don’t blame him for feeling that way; he sure had a fine lot of boys. Ye gods, but how this fine lot of boys could tear, ruin and destroy! Sympathy was all that was extended to the unfortunates who tried to stop the onslaughts of that Chimenti-Augauer combination. “Red” Sut- ter, our strategist, with his “sixteen sixty-six,” used “Rummy,” the larg- est fullback in the country, to chop up our rivals by sneaking him through their lines. Our ace, “Billy” Sigler, also spoiled many a football aspir- ant’s ambitions with his steamroller crush. “Billy’s” able assistants, Page Twenty-one