Gordon Bell High School - Purple and Gold Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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12 GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL Two years ago, when absolutely down and out, Collet had been be¬ friended by some rather rough men, many of whom were foreigners. He was taken to a tenement house in the worst part of the city, where he received lodging in return for his services around a printing-press. He was in the employ of the Reds! About this Collet was indifferent. He had been accused before this of being one; and he was given a living—that was sufficient. He had no good reason to be patriotic—the world had treated him very harshly—although his senses often rebelled against certain prin¬ ciples and acts of these coarse people. So for two years Byron Collet had earned his keep by doing odd jobs. He had had many spells of despondency in which he had thought of ending it all. At first his tasks were not important; but soon the leaders of that group of Communists found that he was to be trusted and, as a result, he was given more weighty duties to perform. Once he had been implicated in a strike in which three people had been killed. After being tried at court, he had been acquitted, due chiefly to a good lawyer and to the fact that it was the first time that he had appeared in court. After this incident he would have left the Communists but for a substantial increase in salary and much persuasive talk. Now, with tingling nerves, he stared unseeingly at the paper which he held in his hand. The other men watched him; some pityingly, some with wide grins on their ugly faces, and others with relief. Then Collet set up a cry: “I won’t, I won’t!” he screamed in a high pitched voice. Two men came up to him and forcibly led him to a small ante-room where he assumed a white-faced sullen silence. Gradually he began to face realities. Fate had chosen him as the killer of many men, women and children, among whom was a royal family. He was to bomb a car of the fast mail train on a bridge the following noon. The words, “I won’t do it, I won’t do it!” keep running through his brain although, when two men came for him, he appeared resigned to the fact that he was going to bomb the train. While he was given his instructions, he appeared to be listening with interest and attention, and his employers thought that everything would go off without a hitch. He was to stand at he end of a bridge. The train would be moving slowly—just starting up after taking on water. He was to have two powerful bombs and as the royal car, the fifth, started over the bridge he was to throw the bomb where he thought most of the occupants were. If possible, he was to throw both bombs. After being carefully guarded all that night and the next morning, he was bundled into a fast-looking car, about eleven o’clock. They could not go all the way by car and were forced to walk across two fields before they came to the bridge. They were half an hour ahead of time. Once more Byron Collet was given explicit instructions and warned that if he made any false move they would be standing behind him with drawn guns . Now the train was seen in the distance, beating down upon them like a bird of ill omen. It stopped to take on water some half mile away. Collet was ordered to conceal himself behind a huge stone seven feet from the track. Shivering like a leaf, Collet stepped up, noticing the turbulant waters of the river far beneath, and wondering if he had anything to live for. Dying screams of men, women and children began to ring in his ears, and then he realized that if the bombs were as powerful as they were supposed to be he, too, would be killed, if not by the explosion, by the flying wreck¬ age. Then a desperate thought came to him. Would it not be better to kill the Communists? But, turning, he noticed that they were too far away, having moved back, and that they were protected by a huge rock. Now the train was approaching again. What should he do? His hands began to work deftly with the bombs, and in a second they were harmless. He at least would not kill anybody, and even to him at this moment life seemed sweet. The train was gaining speed. It was only a hundred yards away. Couldn’t he try to stop it! No, that would be entailing too much risk; he could easily be shot at. The train was nearly even with him. He

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GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL 11 Tom came struggling to the surface. “Elaine,” he yelled, “Elaine,” but no answer came back to him. “Elaine,” he called again, but there was no reply. In the little house Jean, Tony and Peter sat talking. Midget, the huge Newfoundland dog and their constant companion, dreamed of juicy bones in front of the fire, Peter the Great, a little water spaniel, named after his young master, beside him. Suddenly the great dog started, barked excitedly and ran almost in a frenzy to the door, closely followed by the diminutive Peter. “Let him out quickly Tony, something’s the matter,” said Jean. The door being opened, Midget dashed madly on to the beach. Jean and Peter, snatching hats and coats, followed Midget’s lead, while Peter the Great tore around in circles, adding to the general confusion. “Look,” said Tony, pointing out in the lake, “there’s an overturned boat, let’s hurry.” Tony and his sister clambered into their own boat and Peter the Great bounded in after them. But Midget had taken the way he knew best and was already swimming at top speed to the overturned boat. Coming abreast of it they recognized Tom. “Where’s Elaine?” cried Jean as the almost exhausted boy was hauled to safety. “I don’t know,” panted Tom, “though I’ve yelled myself hoarse,” Tony interrupted with a whoop of delight. “There she is, good old Midge found her.” “Whatever brought you out on such a day” said Jean as Tom and Elaine in dry clothes enjoyed the fire’s heat. So they told her all about it. And Tom finished with: “But if it hadn’t been for old Midge we might have been out there,” pointing to the lake. “Woof,” barked Midge lazily, as if to say, “don’t you think I’ve earned a bone?” Third Prize Decreed by Fate By JACK COWAN I T was in the summer of T7, in a dirty, low-ceilinged, darkened room. A dead silence hung over the group of filthy, shabbily-clad men. Although the day was abnormally hot, every man present was experiencing what is known as a cold perspiration. A hat was being passed around from which each drew a slip of paper. Each man seemed afraid to look at the paper which he had drawn. Then came a short, hoarse cry from a young man who was of a somewhat better appearance. Byron Collet was little more than a boy, although already he was weary of the life which had treated him so unkindly. He had been robbed of both his parents by a fire when he was a very young lad. Then for the next seven years he had been brought up in an orphanage where he had been brutally treated, chiefly because his proud spirit had never bowed to the harsh treatment of the staff. At the age of fifteen he had run away. For the next four years he had spent his time either searching for some kind of employment or trying to hold the small occupation which he had obtained. Fortune, however, did not give him a square deal and at the age of twenty he became so dejected that he resigned himself to the fact that he was a no-good, and so became just a plain every-day “bum.”

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GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL 13 stepped across in front of it, and at the same time a gun barked. The brakes let out a terrible scream—the engineer had seen him. Collet’s body was found the next day five miles down stream. The fire¬ man had seen him trip and topple headlong over the river bank and fall into the swift waters. He had not been drowned; his neck had been broken in the fall. The bombs had been found and three men seen hurrying across the field. After a thorough check-up the story of the near bombing came out and many Communists were given long prison sentences. Collet was given a military funeral at which the royal family was represented by the Crown Prince; and his story flooded the newspapers for a week. Experience Talks ' ' By AUBREY WARING “rpHE only thing I can say and think of is that faithfulness and doing -L your job well don’t pay! I’ve been in the force for six years and I’ve never received a raise or promotion and I can honestly say I’ve done my work well and have attended to my duty without a murmur. Jim Bradley was promoted to sergeant of ‘13 division,’ but, of course, he knows an alderman, and is a friend of the Chief; he’s only been there for four years! Now, I a sk you, Pat, how can my faithfulness pay me?” This resentful question, directed to a well-built, jovial policeman, Sergeant Pat O’Brien, was answered in an understanding way. “Harry, old boy, you get that idea out of your head, and quick! Now let me tell you something. Sticking to it pays a reward in the end. I used to be pretty hot and bothered once; I had the same thoughts as you have About five years ago I was on the force and motor-cycle brigade. One day when it was as hot as blazes I was on country highway patrol near the city. It was strange to see the gleaming white pavement disappear into a mirage a few hundred yards away. I had reckoned picnickers from the stifling city would soon be bringing their lunches out there to sort of cool off. About noon I parked my machine under a shade of trees to eat the quick-prepared lunch which I had bought downtown. It sure was great to feel a cool breeze across my forehead. A distant sound of a pur-r-r-, gradu¬ ally becoming louder, warned me of some “bird” speeding. I hardly saw him as he shot by in a big blue roadster; but he saw me. Like magic he slowed down to a snail’s pace, thirty miles an hour. “What a change,” I laughed, “Funny what a blue uniform and cap will do.” The day seemed uneventful, as it dragged on. Then the road began to fill up because of the five o’clock rush of city workers hastening to their country homes. Around the big bend swooped a big, light-green Lincoln, doing eighty miles an hour! “Crazy fool!” I gasped as I manhandled my machine to a roaring, spurting start. It was a long grind—you know the type where you swear and cuss the speeder as he dodges in and out of cars. My lecture was well prepared miles before. At last! The quarry was in hand. I signalled him to pull over, but evidently he was deaf to the police siren. In fact he turned around and laughed in my face. As a last resort my 38 revolver came in handy. I dipped the left tire flat, and this brought the fool to a long, grinding stop. A “blue ticket,” a lecture, a squabble and a search of the car followed, all the while my victim sat perfectly calm, amazingly calm, answering my questions in a low, grumbly voice. He was Jack Newton, and at that time his voice and name seemed strangely familiar.