Galileo High School - Telescope Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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December, 1927 THE TELESCOPE besides who knew where he was? Wip was imbued with an idea, the thought of which made him swear vehemently. Those blankety blank installment people are everywhere, he said aloud. He resigned himself to his fate, however, and waited for the voice to draw near. You couldn't imagine his astonishment if you tried when he saw a dwarfish man rolling a barrel up the hill. Wip and Shorty got to be real friends in no time. CWip was like that.D The pigmy told him that he had some liquor in the barrel and wanted Wip to give him a lift to the top. What? cried Wip, me push a barrel of 2 per cent beer up a 60 per cent grade? However, the little chap in the circus clothes told him that the keg contained good old Carson City Jackrabbit and promised to let him in on some at the end of the line. Wip helped the little fellow up the hill, and the view he got at the summit made him rub his eyes. There lay the finest bowling alley he had ever set eyes on, complete even to a ma- hogany bar with a brass rail. All the barmaids began to fill Wip up with really high class beverage. After a few rounds our hero began to feel gay. In fact he got mixed up with a Dutch barmaid named Katrinka and her sweetie, a pinsetter, had to give him the works with the ninth pin. An indefinite time afterwards Wip woke up doing the Australian Crawl in a gutter. Ah me, thought Wip gutterally, was it all a dream? He found out later that a real estate company had merely started a new subdivision over the old bowling alley, and that they had even laid the street without disturbing him. He dragged himself out of the slimy water, brushed off his coat and decided he needed a shave. He'd better be getting home, too. He looked for Sylvester but remembered they weren't on speaking terms. Boarding a passing trolley he started home. As he was passing Ike Stuyevesanfs store he heard the radio broadcasting the game between New York and Pittsburgh. Hurrah for Boston, he cried, whereupon someone threw him a rope. Walking down the street, Wip saw his wife coming straight at him. There was no chance for escape as she had already seen him. Putting up his umbrella. Wip resigned himself to his fate and quietly awaited the dissec- tion process. XVe won't delve further into the poor devil's history, but shall leave him to his fate. NW ll kg N gl N :N ll FQR Her sweetie had to give him the works with the ninth pin. lThi1'ty-Oriel

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THE 'TELESCOPE December, 1927 Wip Venn Rinlkle By R1cKs-OVIATT, '28 IP was a good guy. He couldn't hop: he swallowed his .3 75 of one per cent like nobody's business and shot pool as if he was washing dishes. He was just a darn good fellow. He hardly looked as though his tailors were Hart, Schaffner and Marx: he wore no cravats: and the closest he ever came to a pair of shoes was once when a salesman gave him a bottle of shoe polish which the poor egg promptly drank. All of Local No. 23 of the Barber's Union was thrown in gaol one morning after having given him the old ride, and for trying to make a bird out of him by applying tar and feathers. In short, Wip looked like the fellow from the place where the busses don't go to. Had be been 44 hundredths pyorrhea, sore pard? She was needed it. She was so mean that the that her old man had either lived in tion agent. All her love, if any, and believe it or not, the immediate traced to the eldest one. 99 44!l00 per cent pure, his wife would have begrudged him any one of the per cent. No peddlers frequented her block: the price of dandruif, halitosis teeth and a good kind, though-she hard rolling pin is plenty high, eh. only hit Wip when she thought he sports in the village all warranted Chicago or else had been a prohibi- was bestowed upon the children. ancestry of Jesse James has been Sylvester von Walkoutside, III, the mange, but he was as meek as be in old Lady Rinkle's way. She when in a playful mood, and Syl since for fear she might want to It was after a wild all night orgy nice little fistic massage from Mrs. hero decided to go places and shoot DON DOUGLASS, '28 Literary Editor his dog, looked like an attack of his master. Far be it from him to bobbed his tail with a fork once vester has been sleeping outside ever pet him. at Ye Getswakked Inn and a Wip the next morning that our snipe. Taking enough ammuni- tion to fight the war all over again, Wip jumped in his Hivver and toddled off. He stopped about six miles up the road at a place where it looked as though he might have some luck. Leaving the rubber burner by the highway, he struck off through the woods. He came upon a path which seemed to him rather wide for this part of the country, but banishing the thought he trudged on. Turning with the path he suddenly came upon a marvelous eight-point buck. Taking careful aim he pulled the trigger, but the bally idiot just stood there waiting to be shot again. The second shot brought a bald man out of a house which stood amazingly close but which poor Wip had only just noticed. What the blankety blank do ya mean by shootin' my statue, ya blankety blank? he was greeted. Completely bewildered by the action in the last few minutes, Wip moved unconsciously away, swearing all the time at that cock-eyed varnish the innkeeper had shellacked his stomach with the night before. Going back to the lizzie, Wip drained the gas tank and drank the contents, so that instead of hiccing he was honking. After stumbling along the highway for three quarters of an hour and- having his pants torn off by a passing stage, Wip decided to hit for the wilds where his garb and feelings would harmonize better with his surroundings. Accordingly he left the high- way to the road hogs and the puncture weed and cut off through Ike McWeeney's beet patch and headed for the mountains. In due course of time Wip reached the five thousand foot level of the good old Kill-the-Cats range, where he decided to take a little beauty nap. At this point Slyvester became estranged from his master after a bitterly contested battle beween the two as to whether the third man in the ring at Chicago last September could count up to ten or not. Walking up a hill is no gent's job, decided Wip after walking the better part of the afternoon. Why the devil hadn't he gone around the hill and taken the scenic railroad to the top, anyway. Wip was fizzing like the fuse for a twenty-ton charge of dynamite when he thought he heard someone calling his name! Impossible. What would anyone want of him on a mountain and ITh1'rtyj

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THE TELESCOPE December, 1927 The Sacrifice By LAURA DORISS, '29 T WAS one of the miserably hot nights so characteristic of the islands near the equator. The pitch darkness that surrounded all seemed to be alive with unusual sounds that were felt rather than heard. The slimy earth that covered decaying trees was alive with crawling, uncouth things that made the footing precarious. The screeching of the jungle birds rang weirdly through the darkness, echoing far in the distance. Mosquitos, always typical of torrid climates, were unusually thick-massed in this lonely heart of the jungle, Wild beasts prowling about on midnight tours of hunting, skulked silently away. It was a night with disaster in every breath of parching air that blew. Suddenly, out of the east came a faint rumbling sound, slowly increasing in volume until it sounded like the first peals of distant thunder, a sound so blood curdling as to make any person lose his mind. A thousand tom-toms, resounding voices of doom! The natives were about to commence their rites. It was here that he found himself-this white man. Through some misrepresented informa- tion he had lost his way in the steaming undergrowth of the jungle, and, sick with the heat and fever, had been attracted by the tom-toms. He had been warned by his friends about the fzendish ways of the natives when they were swayed by the impulse of sacrifice, but he always scoffed at their stories of ceremonies and beliefs. Little did he know what sort of participant he would soon be. The crazed thoughts of the natives, based on the ancient religion of their forefathers, made them unconscious of the present civilization of the white man. Their God was angry and he must be appeased. Voodoo magic and reincarnation of souls were held supreme. Did not the crops fail and the stock die? Blood must be shed-blood to lure the demon of bad-luck away: blood, not of their own kind, but of the white man. Only by drinking blood of a white settler from the little colony across the island could the demon be induced to sleep again. An involuntary chill possessed the man's body as he watched the natives among their ghastly rites. Sacrifices of sheep and oxen were unfolded before his nauseated gaze, Even with his body racked as the result of long exposure and fever, and with his head whirling as if it would CContinued on Page 50D Q? Was not the God they worshipped satisfied? lThirty-Twol