Conneaut High School - Tattler Yearbook (Conneaut, OH)

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4 THE TATTLER Why was it that he had nothing as other boys had? Home? Home was a Michigan fruit farm, twenty miles back from the lake. He supposed that he would be sent for as soon as the news reached his father. For his aunt would lose no time in reporting over the phone the disgrace Bill had brought on her household by his rube tricks. It was late before he slouched into town again. It was Friday afternoon, and he knew that he would not meet any of the boys for they would be at practice. As for the girls. Bill had never cared a rap for them, so that not until the flying figure had stopped beside him, did he suddenly remember that Rose Wilson was the principal’s niece. “Oh, Mr. Boyer, I want to ask you something,” she said. Bill stopped gravely, his eyes taking in the girlish figure in the long plaid coat and felt hat. “Whatever made you do it?” she asked. Then she broke into a laugh. “You looked so funny. That awful bonnet!” “I did it for a joke.” “Of course,” answered the girl. “The girls are laughing yet. It—it isn’t so funny about tomorrow, is it?” “You don’t suppose I’m going to wear that rig tomorrow?” “Oh, why------” “Not on your life, I don’t. I am going to Chicago, as soon as I earn money enough.” She looked at him timidly. “I wouldn’t let him expel me,” she said forcefully. “He gave you a choice, didn’t he? And there’s the game. They’ll lose it without you.” “I don’t care.” “Yes you do. I heard Uncle Robert say that it was your touchdown that won last Saturday.” “I couldn’t have made it in a silk waist and dizzy hat,” grinned Bill. “Say, what are you trying to do, make me go down there and make a fool of myself?” “I’m trying to get you to play the game, yes,” she answered. “Oh, all right, I’ll play. But not in Nora’s silk waist, even if it is the last game with them. I threw the dog-gone stuff away.” “Is that all that is preventing you, Bill? I was the first one in the gymnasium tonight. I saw those things and put them in my locker. Here is the key. You can get them if you hurry.” He turned. “I’ll think it over but I cannot promise.” “Please?” “What! Do you care?” he asked. She looked at him for a moment then said, “Yes, I do,” and fled down the street toward her home. The boy looked after her, then turned and strode off in the opposite direction. » On Saturday afternoon, when Bill trotted out on the Barton High field, his maroon-colored sweater was easily distinguished from the others, and

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C. J. FREW, The Florist, 213 Broad St., Phone 1281-Main 3 BILL’S DISGRACE. (First Prize Story.) Bill was in disgrace. For a young giant of seventeen, who played football like a wildcat and was regarded by the coach as the likeliest half-back the Barton Harbor High had ever had, to appear in the assembly hall in the discarded finery of the school scrub-woman, was nothing less than stupid, according to Professor Ryan; and the effect of his arraignment before the entire class had been to arouse in the easy, good-natured boy a bitter antagonism which was worse than his silly prank. “I consider this a clownish breach of discipline, Boyer,” the professor was saying, ‘‘and I shall make an example of you, William Boyer. You may take your choice of expulsion, or of appearing in that ridiculous makeup on the gridiron tomorrow. And”—as Bill started toward the door— ‘‘you may have today to think it over.” The boy was conscious of the titter that followed him out of the assembly room. On the way down stairs he divested himself of the now hateful plaid silk waist, split down the back from shoulder to belt, and tore the ridiculous little hat held on by a shoe string from its perch on his shock of brown hair, rolled them into a wad and threw them in the darkest corner of the gymnasium as he went to his locker. He pulled his sweater over his head, his cap down over his eyes and went out into the October morning. He was loath to see his aunt. So he trudged down one street after another and out upon a country road.

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C. J. FREW, The Florist, 213 Broad St., Phone 1281-Main. 5 the professor was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. He had not forbidden Bill to play the game. But he had hoped that the boy would either coine as he commanded or not come at all. The Waterford team against which the Barton Harbor High boys were to play was already on the field. Professor Smith, teacher of chemistry and physics, had consented to referee. “All ready!” cried the referee. “Oh-h-h,” shouted the crowd. “Wow!” yelled the team, and------ “What the deuce,” grumbled the Waterford boys. For as Bill’s sweater was drawn briskly over his head, there was revealed the gay plaid of Nora’s waist. Solemnly producing the ridiculous hat, Bill snapped the broad rubber under his chin, and with perfect gravity saluted his principal. This was too much for Professor Ryan, and before he had recovered his dignity again the game was on. Bill had a way of playing as though he thought the game had to be won in the first ten minutes, and the very first time he gathered the ball up and broke through the line, head down, his hat went flying, and after he had mixed in a few scrimmages, the waist streamed in ribbons from his shoulders. At the end of the first half the score was six to two in favor of Barton Harbor. The second half began tamely enough. The ball moved up and down the field, never getting beyond the twenty yard line on either side until Bill, pivoting from the clutches of the Waterford tackle, left the amazed youth clutching in his hand a section of Nora’s waist, while he went flying up the field like a deer. The Waterford back shot forward and Bill, who had slowed up a bit, shifted the ball, dodged to one side with a long oblique stride, leaving another remnant of Nora’s waist behind, while he flew on unchallenged to his third touchdown. The school went wild, the referee blew his whistle, and the game was over. Then they mobbed Bill. When, at last, Bill had sheepishly surrendered the last shred of silk to the souvenir-hunting school girls, he drew on his sweater and started homeward. Rose had not appeared. Now that the game was over he thought that she would never look at him again, so he trudged along gloomily. “Bill, oh, Bill!” hailed a voice from behind. He turned. “You did just fine,” she asserted. “Maybe I’ll have a chance to do something for you some day.” “You have!” he blurted out—then stopped. “May I walk home with you?” “Of course,” murmured Rose. He carried her coat and a large bunch of asters she had gathered. When the knight of old entered the lists for his fair lady’s sake—did he not flaunt her colors? —Miriam Davis '18.