Evanston Township High School - Key Yearbook (Evanston, IL)

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PASSED Frances Philbrick The air within the study hall hung heavy, as though too lazy to stir. Seeping through the windows an uncomfortably warm ray pointed to scattered sheets of paper spread carelessly upon Bud Redington ' s desk. The light was reflected in sudden brilliance. A hand pushed aside one piece on which four numbers ranging from sixty-nine to eighty-five were scrawled. It grasped a neatly printed page and brought it nearer two keen eyes. A college entrance blank was before the motionless Bud. He seemed to gaze at it absently. Yet in truth each word he read comprehendingly. The stu- dent should preferably be in the upper half of his class. This sentence glared at Bud. His glance fell on the list of his grades. All low, but one! Bud scratched his head, laboriously moved his feet which stretched far out into the aisle. Accidentally he hit some one else ' s feet. Whispers were exchanged, silenced by a piercing glance from a far corner of the room. With an embarrassed grin Bud looked cautiously at his seat mate, Abbot. There was no appreciative audience in his person. Abbot, ignoring him, continued studying Latin. Bud turned away from his cold friend to look at his own desk, always a lit- ter of books and papers. Several minutes later a firm step neared Bud ' s desk. Some one brushed his arm and stopped. The assembly teacher standing be- side Bud cleared his throat. I ' m in for a lecture, thought Bud as he grabbed a book, pretending to study. Are you going to enter college next year? he questioned. Yes, sir. Your marks are almost too low. Bud stared uneasily at his desk. Unless you raise them there will be little chance. Your friend Abbott is on the high honor roll. You ought to be, for you have the ability. Let me see an improvement before you take the trial entrance examina- tion next month. The voice stopped abruptly. Bud sat up straighter and shook his head. The straggling wisps of hair falling over his high forehead were a shade lighter than the tawny mass that hung unevenly about his well-shaped head. His eyes were blue . . . or gray? Whatever they were, they gave an impression of alertness, dependability, and good judgment. A bell rang. All filed out in no order. Bud stood up, turned his head about, scan- ning the entire room. With a cool grin he greeted Abbot. Oh, oh, teased Abbot, lowering his voice on the second exclamation, Back again? Every now and then! You seem to Their voices trailed off as they became lost in the crowd of students in the corridor. They were nearing their next class when Abbot put the worn-out question to his friend, Done your Latin? I guess so. Did you think it was easy? No. I thought it was awfully simple, Abbot announced. By the way, what did you get in French? Bud hesitated before repeating in a sub- dued voice, Seventy-two. I got ninety-five. You always get good marks! These words were not said with admiration. You have to if you ' re going to college. Going next year, Bud? Sure, I am, he began boldlv, if I get in. Bud didn ' t like the subject of grades. Having a brilliant boy like Abbot as a con- stant companion did not increase his self respect. The thought of this brief discussion of grades and college remained with Bud all day. As he shut the door of the school be- hind that afternoon he was still thinking of Abbot and his ninety-five. Bud jumped into his old car and drove off. Want a lift? he called out to four boys who were walking with Abbot. Sure. Hop in. Bud turned left and headed home. The balky vehicle oozed up to the curb. With a violent snort it stopped. Darn that motor, yelled Bud. Get out all of y ' a. I gotta speak gently to it. Bud unceremoniously pushed his way out. He Page Twenty-six

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THE GIRLS ' GYM There is no place in all the school more dear to me than the girls ' gym. I have spent the happiest times there. The friends I have made within the precincts, whom I wouldn ' t have known otherwise, are the truest and jolliest friends I have. But the gym itself: I remember the chill of it on a damp or cold day, the towels set under the holes in the leaky roof, the row on row of empty seats on the balcony star- ing endlessly at us, at our formal marching, at our dancing. The new gym is sunny and there are only two leaks in the roof, but it, too, on dark days is cold. Who would ever forget the locker room, noisy with the clang of steel doors, echoing with the shouts of happy girls, silent dur- ing the long hours when the girls have gone? Then there is the doctor ' s office with its white table and medicine cabinet, its files and desk, and its two white beds. In fall you see us, long lines of girls waiting for physical examinations; in spring there are only a few who wait, a bit frightened perhaps, to see the doctor. Mrs. Orr rules supreme in the storeroom. Here are the balls, big and little, hard and soft. Here are nets and ties, bows and ar- rows, raquets, and mats and the poor banged-up piano. What a lot of fun we had there, last year, with some one playing away and the rest of us sitting on what- ever was available, such as the desk, a crate or the piano itself. Last of all there ' s the gym office. From two tiny rooms, one the doctor ' s, which had housed the department for nearly five years, there are now two large, roomy offices, one belonging to Miss Maine and the other ruled by Miss Maxham and Miss Flader, secretary. Miss Cutler ' s domain and desk are down- stairs, in her own private gym. Such is the gym! The fields — one for hockey, one for archery, and one for soccer — are north of the gym. There are tennis courts, blistering hot in summer and just right in fall and spring. There is a baseball diamond off in one corner. Oh! it ' s the grandest place in the world — the girls ' gym! -Gertrude Fox Page Twenty-five

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pulled up the hood and began to adjust a loose wire. Say, Bud, don ' t you need some help? called out one of the loafers. Abbot ' s bright and he ' d be awful glad to help. No, thanks, I ' ll be through in a minute, sarcastic. Bud worked quickly. During the past years when he had been working almost constantly on engines and often on radio, his mechanical mind had taught him to see details, to understand at first sight, organize the points, and quickly complete the neces- sary work. O. K. now, he called cheerfully. Fast work, old boy, came a remark accompanied by a sl ap on the back. Hey, Bud, how ' s your radio invention coming along? It ' s done. Let ' s see it, shouted another fellow. O. K. Come on in. He led them into a small workshop in the basement of his home. Every kind of radio equipment filled the room. An open um- brella lay in the corner. On the handle was fastened a small box. Bud picked up the common object in his hand. Here it is. Don ' t tell me you think an umbrella with a box on it is an invention, Bud, sneered Abbot. It ' s a portable radio, replied Bud. Bud explained to his surprised listeners that by turning the umbrella in the direc- tion of the desired station one could tune in with the crystal set attached to the handle. He proved the possibility. Having placed the ear phone on his head he pointed the umbrella and wiggled a tiny handle in the box. I ' ve got it, he shouted. He let each one listen to the distant sound of music. By his comments each fellow showed his amazement at the new trick and his pride in Bud. Soon he put the set aside. They talked about their radios and mo- tors, asking Bud ' s advice. With no show of conceit he helped them from his knowledge of mechanics. After the boys left Bud finished his regu- lar job of emptying the ash cans. Instead of stopping at the pantry, as usual, Bud moved on upstairs. A trail of ashes marked his path. Once in his room he threw down a dilapidated Latin book and slumped into his desk chair. His new Mechanic Maga- zine before him remained unopened. Bud sat motionless, staring at the wall. Presently he got up. It was growing dark. The great clock in the hall was chim- ing six as Bud crossed the room and stepped into the upper hall. The half-opened door leading into his father ' s den allowed a stream of light to flood the floor at Bud ' s feet. Bud entered slowly. His father looked up immediately. Hello, dad. May I come in? You certainly may. Sit down here, re- plied Dr. Redington pointing to a comforta- ble chair like his own. How was school today? Pretty fair. Have you been practising with the ten- nis team this afternoon? No, dad, I haven ' t. Ya see . . . You ought to get into athletics. Well, listen Dad, Bud said, hesitating, I want to tell you something important. What is it? his father asked. Bud adjusted himself uneasily, finally got up and stood in front of his father. With a decisive tone he announced, I am not go- ing to college! The deep eyes he was looking into gazed at him with a calm expression. This startled Bud. As he rehearsed this speech over and over again to himself, he had expected an indignant flow of words to greet his out- burst. All right, son. Let ' s have your rea- sons, a kindly voice returned. He began in a steadier voice. I don ' t want to go for lots of reasons. In the first place you have to have real high marks and they count an awful lot. All the fellows say they do. I can ' t get any higher than an eighty in anything. I simply can ' t get in. I have to take an examination in two weeks to see if I ' m good enough to be accepted for final exams. All the fellows have to take it, even Abbot. But it ' s pie for him. Now you know, Dad. I want to go to work after I get out of high school instead of going to college. Dr. Redington had listened to his son ' s reasons. He was glad to have Bud come to some decision, whatever it was. I ' m glad to hear your points. I ' d like to say a few things if you don ' t mind. Sure, go ahead, Bud replied indiffer- ently. Do you understand what your work at school is about? Are you getting each main point in each subject every day? I think so. Page Twenty-seven