Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR Revenge hot wind moaned softly through the tree tops and matted un- f C dergrowth. Far away, softened by the great distance, sounded the hunting cry of a hungry lion, a dreadful sound, once heard, never to be forgotten. All animal life large and small was out to kill, slay, devour and destroy. The endless battle of the jungle was on with the survival of the fittest” as the only law. Back and forth, back and forth in ceaseless monotony, now high and fast, now low and slow, sounded the din of the tom-toms, those great drums used for the transmitting of messages over miles of country. Seated at the door of his little tent was Sir Robert Allen, smoking his pipe and getting what little coolness there was in the hot wind. Sud- denly he was startled by a scream of pain. Jumping up he rushed to the tent from which the cry came. Now all was silent within, so walking up quietly he entered. The sight which greeted him was enough to make anyone’s blood boil. In one corner of the tent lay a boy, his head beaten in and covered with blood. Over him stood his master, Allen’s chief porter. With a cry like an enraged beast, Allen threw himself at the negro and with a strength born of fury flung him bodily from the tent. Follow- ing up his advantage Allen rushed out with pistol drawn but the negro with the nimbleness of a cat had regained his feet and disappeared into the jungle. Re-entering the tent, Allen tried to do what he could for the boy but it was too late:—he was dead. This affected Allen greatly for, used as he was to violent death, he could not stand the thought of this helpless boy’s being struck down for some trivial offense. Calling his assistant, he gave orders to prepare for the burial of the boy and to watch for the killer, who was to be shot at sight. An hour later as he was headed for his tent he heard a shot and a cry of triumph. Rushing out he saw a porter dragging the dead body of the murderer away. Evidently the fellow had been surprised in the act of entering or leaving his tent. With no other thought but that of joy at the killing of the murderer, Allen entered his tent and took up his violin to amuse himself for a while. After playing a few minutes he heard something rustle on the floor. Looking down, his hair rose upon his head and he was frozen with terror for there upon the floor within easy reach of his unprotected legs was a deadly snake swaying to and fro, evidently charmed by the music. As he stopped playing for a few seconds the swaying stopped and the snake began to coil up ready to spring. 12

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LITECATLCE S'

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THE REFLECTOR Gathering himself together, Allen started to play for he knew his only chance was to play and charm the snake until help came. He played and played, until finally he began to wonder how the snake got there. Suddenly he knew—the murderer of the boy had placed it there to kill him and had been shot on coming out of the tent. Hour after hour he played, not daring to move, knowing full well that to stop playing or to move would mean his death. All the scenes of his past life rose up before him, his friends, his sweetheart, his vast wealth and finally he thought of the strange wanderlust which had gotten him into this position. Was he to die like this? No! Every fiber in his body rebelled against it. He had only to play until dawn and then his servant would come in, discover his danger and kill the snake. Even as he thought this he saw the first faint greyness of the approaching dawn. Dead for want of sleep and confident that help would arrive, he let his violin fall from the exhausted fingers. The snake slowly stopped his swaying, coiled for a spring and struck! sinking his cruel fangs deep into Allen’s leg. With a wild yell Allen sprang up and with one blow severed the snake’s head from its body. Then he sank back upon his bed, forgetful of the wound and sleep once more overcame him. Half an hour later his servant came to the tent and found him lying peacefully with closed eyes and a faint smile on his lips—stone dead. “Her” I OB MACFARLAND was a quiet lad, well liked by his superior officers and fellow men. When word was received from the front that Lieutenant Macfarland had been killed while saving his com- panion, and further announcements were made regarding his few posses- sions, together with a small gold locket and chain to be delivered to Her,” the soldiers of the regiment were mystified as well as grieved. The locket was examined, and inside was found the picture of a sweet- faced girl. An address was on the back of it. Out of respect to the last wish of a brave soldier, Tom Bryce, Macfarland’s companion, was sent to deliver the trinkets in person. After a few day’s journey Bryce reached the quaint Scotch town of Traquair, and, following the directions of a ragged Scotchman, he found the home of Macfarland’s sweetheart. It was an odd little house, sheltered by a blooming plum tree, and as Tom hesitated before knocking at the weather-beaten door, it was opened by a tiny, crippled old woman. She looked into his face, and, seeing only sympathy in his eyes, stretched out her hands and cried: 13