Far Rockaway High School - Dolphin Yearbook (Far Rockaway, NY)

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Candidate., Pursued -Arthur Palmer He had received a letter warning him not to run for mayor. Perhaps it was written by some crank, perhaps not. Nonetheless, now of all times, why should he sacrifice a promising career and yield to a piece of stationery? After all, was it not inevitable that he would be Bethwood Falls' next mayor? For weeks, he had been signing legal documents, preparing and presenting long, eloquently worded speeches. One night he would get away from all this. That night had finally arrived. He left his home unseen, through the rear entrance, and headed toward Main Street, consuming great quantities of the cool, clear air as he walked. He sought serenity, but soon found that Main Street was f ar from serene. There was electioneering everywhere. Massive banners, bearing his name and picture, were dangling from the roof-tops as far distant as his eyes could penetrate, but strangely enough, he was not recognized amidst these throngs of voters. Then he tumed about and walked in the direction of the East Side-the factory district. Surely, few persons would be there at this hour. There he would find the peace, the quiet, the tranquillity, for which he had starved so long. Most of the way, he heard footsteps behind him. His sus- picions were aroused, he hastened his pace, and his speed changed gradually from a walk to a trot, and then to a desperate canter. Down alleys and around corners he dodged, hoping with every turn and step to elude his pursuers. Hopping over a backyard fence, his eyes met with a welcome sight, a candy store-a place of refuge. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps they have a telephone. They did. As he darted into the doorway he stumbled over the jamb, but sprang to his feet immediately, entered a phone booth and deposited a quarter, for which there was no time to ask for change. When his fingers came in contact with the dial, a small, tin out-of-order sign dropped to the Hoor, -causing a sickening, metallic ring. And simultaneously his quarter dropped into the return coin slot with a similar sound. Metaphorically, as these objects fell, his heart accompanied them. No sooner had he left the phone, than the proprietor was at his side, ushering him out of the door, with the explanation that it was past closing time. He heard the door slam behind him, and the latch snap into place. He stood motionless for a moment, looking in all directions. THEY . . . whoever they might be, were not in sight but he felt their presence. Across the street, two ape-like figures stepped silently out of the shadows and moved towards him. Well, what do you guys want? he demanded, although he wanted to make a break for it. One of them spoke up. You're Floyd Hall, aren't you? Your campaign manager hired us. Why were you trying to give us the slip all night? We're your bodyguardsf'

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certain of doing it justice. But this was not the case. To faint became common and vulgar, and gradually it lost its charm and meaning and almost disappeared from the earth. Many have tried to restore the lost art but as yet none have attained any degree of success. Perhaps those who finally achieve success because of their convincing eiforts will be the horde of bobby-soxers who, every time they hear the voice of a rather thin crooner, immediately set up a loud wail and swoon in unison. More power to them, say I, for the art of fainting is one which should not be lost to the world. Are You an Idiot? -Audrey Marx I have devised another one of those scientific quiz tests calculated to discern whether you are a flock of idiots. It is not like other tests. It's new. It's different. And I can pass it. The latter is one of the big advantages of the test. When I see one of these tests in a magazine, I read the first question with trepidation. When I look back to page 169, where the answers are found, to verify my guess at the answers, I sneak a glimpse at the answers to the second and third questions. When I look back to check whether I have remembered the answers to the second and third questions, I peek at the answers to the fourth, fifth, and sixth, and so on into the night. All the questions are written by someone who knows the answers. This time I am the boss. You have no idea what efforts I've put in and what headaches I've suffered evolving this novel test. I have put in a lot of research work on this matter since last night, when I was floored by one of these tests. The title of the test was Are You an Idiot? It was made up of ten questions on ordinary subjects. I knocked oil' the test in merely one hour. I added up my score, 27.08. Excitedly I turned to the ratings: 100-90 Genius 90-80 Almost Genius 80-70 Brilliant 70-60 Fairly Brilliant 60-50 Passably Brilliant 50-40 Not Too Bad 40-30 Idiot As the magazine fell from my hands, I conceived a plan of making my own test. This is it: There aren't ten questions in my test. If you can't answer one, you can't be expected to answer ten. So I limit mine to one question. The correct answer scores 100,000,000 A high score, you say, but this is better than any other quiz. It's a test to end all tests. Thinking caps on, everybody, and sharpen your wits. Here is the question: How much dirt is there in a hole 8 inches by 8 inches by 8 inches? Note the word Hole, It contains a clue to the correct answer. My own score is 100,000,000 but, you see, I know the answer!

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The Escape -Doris Farkas EDITORQS NOTE: The author's last contribution to the DOLPHIN was a new version of a mythological story. Now, her source is very different. The following is her account of incidents which occurred to her father. In the year 1917, Paul Janosek joined the Hungarian army. A few months later, he was working in the lumber yards of Petrograd, a prisoner of the Russians. He and some other prisoners, taking advantage of an opportunity resulting from disorders during the Revolution, escaped and purchased clothes and train tickets to the Hungarian border. uWe'H get off at a station during the night. If everything works out all right, we can cross the border without being seen. Be as inconspicuous as possible, and since I know the language, let me do the talking, Paul ordered. They decided to cross the tracks at night instead of leaving the station in the usual manner. They were almost across when suddenly they heard a shout, Halt! The men whirled around and saw two Russian soldiers staring at them. Someone's suspicions had been aroused, and the soldiers on guard at the station had been informed. The prisoners were locked up, and the next morning they were sent back to camp. . Paul determined to escape again, and decided, 'This time I'll go alone. He planned to take the same train to the same station, hoping to have better luck than before. As he was waiting for the train, he was approached by an old man who had befriended him while he was working in Petrograd. Paul confided to him the details of his escape from the camp. The old gentleman looked about nervously and then beckoned to Paul to follow him. I'll help you get away, he whispered. I can get you a passport. Paul looked astonished. How can you do that? My son, who was sent here from Poland, has been given a passport to return there. But he has decided to remain in Russia, and I will give you his passport. In a few hours Paul was on the train, speeding toward the border. This time he got oil' in the daytime and mingled with the crowd. His nervousness increased when he learned that he had to present the passport to the guard at the station. I hope I don't look as sick as I feel, he thought as he handed the- paper to the stern-looking soldier, and breathed a sigh of relief as it was handed back to him without a word. He felt more and more tense as freedom came closer and closer to being a reality. As Paul stood on the street deciding what his next move would be, he noticed a coachman staring at him, and soon discovered why. The man had recognized Paul as an escaped war prisoner, and offered to make a deal with him. In return for a large sum of money, he would escort Paul over the border, which was only a short distance away. You don't leave me much choice, muttered Paul. Let's go. After traveling through many muddy side streets, the carriage suddenly stopped. It was stuck in the mud and refused to budge. Paul stepped down and started to walk. He had gone only a short distance when to his dismay he saw in front of him a group of soldiers with their guns pointed at him. Paul saw no way out of his predicament. He slowly approached the soldiers and found to his amazement that they were Hungarians, and that he was over the border.