Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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(Efje Barb is Jfligfjtirst (Being ye tale of how ye valorous Lord of ye Dark did intercept, foil, and overcome two desperate villains bent on flight.) « A ND the culprit marched boldly into the house. Fearless, he took his stand in the middle of the room and remarked indifferently: ‘Hello, Dad.’ ” ‘‘The gov’n’r looked up and surveyed his son coolly. Without showing any surprise, he said: ‘Come into the woodshed, my son.’ ” “ ‘All right, dad,’ replied our hero.” Joe Conkle had finished reading the tale of the wonderful youth who ran away from a hard-hearted father, had all kinds of adventure, and after becoming miraculously rich, returned to the “old man” and bore his punishment unflinchingly. The story was very interesting but the two listeners were more so. The youngest was a winsome little fellow. Joe’s brother. Willis. Their father was the doctor of Polus Center. Willis, or “Little Doc.” was the pet of the town. His large, innocent blue eyes and curly light hair won him many friends. Hal Brandt, the second boy, was also known as a cute youngster, smart as a whip. Joe Conkle, the oldest of the three, was ten years and five months old. (He never forgot to mention the months when stating his age.) He was: the leader, the one who originated all the games. He invented a new game of fire engine. He had built a wonderful telephone of two cigar boxes and a ball of wrapping twine. And it worked!—except at times when the transmitter proved too much of an obstacle for Joe’s voice to overcome. But on these occasions it was only necessary for Joe to step aside and call to Hal across the street: “Did you hear what I said?” It was Joe who first conceived the idea of a “den” and the forming of the “gang.” The den was located among the rafters of the woodshed, a few feet above the piles of cordwood. A villainous place was this retreat of the “gang.” It was a low-ceilinged, cramped-up little room under the eaves. At one end stood a box, which in black letters maintained the superiority of Larkin’s Soap. On this rested a candle-stick in the neck of a bottle which was proudly admired by its proprietors because blown into the glass were the letters B-E-E-R. The flickering light of the candle dimly revealed a bench along one wall occupied by the three scowling, savage beings, each pulling meditatively at a dingy black pipe. The air reeked with the smoke of the cornsilk. As the hero of the story achieved the consummation of his glory in those last bold words a sigh escaped the listeners—a sigh of relief, regret and long- 93

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“Then it should have reached you the day before yesterday. I’m sorry, madam, but I’ll have to inquire into the matter.” Mrs. Livingston closed the door and the postman walked nervously down the street. Could I have lost that letter?” he muttered to himself. “I remember having some mail for her Tuesday, but I think I delivered it. Shall I tell the postmaster about it to-day? No; I’ll wait.” The thought of the letter troubled him but he would tell no one. He remembered the bank letter which he had delivered and his consicence was clear. Meanwhile the week passed. Mrs. Livingston became nearly frantic. The money to save her home was somewhere, but it would come too late. All efforts to delay the sale were useless. A rich customer had long coveted the little home as an addition to his beautiful grounds, hence the bank was merciless. Saturday came, the day of the sale. The mother thought of her child as already homeless. A knock startled her. “The sheriff,” she thought. But to her surprise it was the postman. He handed her a letter. She opened it and clasped tightly a one thousand dollar San Francisco draft. “You don’t know how thankful I am that it has come on time.” she said. The postman was touched. “I am glad to bring you the letter on time, madam,” he said, and with a light heart he continued on his regular round of duties. She hurried to the bank. Would she be too late? “Sir. heie is the money,” she barely whispered. The cashier and president, for one man served the bank as both, looked at the clock, the hands pointed to 9:45. “All right, madam, I will telephone the sheriff that the sale is off, as the mortgage is paid.” His face reflected the excitement that she exhibited. The sale of the widow’s home had been distasteful to him. Her home was saved, and with a light step, keeping time to the beating cf her heart, she hurried homeward. She had reached the bend in the road, in a minute she would be resting in an unmortgaged home. But her heart stopped its beating. A volume of smoke was pouring skyward from the direction of the home. What did it mean! She hurried around the hill that hid the view. Her home was safe. The smoke was pouring from the chimney, and on the porch was an explanation of the extravagant use of the fuel. “Oh, John, my boy,” was all that she could say as son and mother happily met. Later John heard his mother’s story, but the mystery of the delayed letter was never made known. 92 ADELENE GREER, 1911.

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ing.) They forgot to look ruffianly. Willis expressed the thought of all when he said, “Wish we could run away.” “We can,” replied Joe with so piratical a glare that the others gasped in admiration and fright. “I’d like to know how. Pa wouldn’t let us,” choked out his brother, astounded. Joe pulled twice on his pipe, crossed his left foot deliberately over the right, blew a cloud of smoke from his nose, and delivered himself thusly: “O’ course he wouldn’t; fellows that run away always have to go after dark.” “Joe-y-y, dinner’s ready!” came the call from below. Joe turned to Hal: “You be up here at seven tonight, and we’ll start.” “Joe!” This time the call was sharp and commanding. “Yes, mamma, I’m coming,” called Joe with his head stuck through the hole in the floor. “I didn’t hear you the first time you called.” Cautiously the leader of the “gang” lowered the rope ladder. With difficulty his two subordinates climbed down it. (The difficult part was to use the ladder at all to reach the wood pile two feet below.) Then Joe “dowsed the glim” and secreted the poker chips (tiddle-de-winks), the matches, the pipes and the book, in a hidden chamber in the wall. The “gang” was assembled in the “den” per appointment, except Willis, who refused to be of the party. Cautiously, Joe scratched a match and lit the candle. The flickering flame caused huge shadow giants to appear, beckoning and reaching toward them from the walls. Hal shivered. “Awful still, ain’t it?” he whispered. Aw, you’re getting scared out already,” scoffed Joe. “No I’m not; but I bet our folks ’ll catch us, and anyway they’d be awful worried. Once when I was only a little late getting home from swimmin’, mamma was so worried she was sick-a-bed for a week.” No! you’re not getting scared any,” sneered Joe. “No, but I don’t see what we’re going to do ’thout no money.” “Aw, come on, let’s start,” replied Joe, “we’ll go over by your house and you can get some for us.” Outside it was moonlight; all that the moon’s rays reached was a bright, silvery white; the corners of the house and shadows of the trees were twice as black as usual. Keeping well away from the black shades, the boys hurried across the lawn. Hal touched his companion on the arm. Joe jumped as though he had been stabbed with a pin. Didn’t you see something move over behind the big tree, Joe?” Hal huskily whispered. “No.” Joe’s reply was checked by the choking fear that rose in his 94