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

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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.

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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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14 GORDON BELL HIGH SCHOOL The rigour and hard work ended in time. I was called off duty. The weather, the police station and my friends just didn’t seem right. I was out and out disappointed, discontented. I received my pay check and began to curse it. “What a measly sum of shekels for thirty days of slav¬ ery,” I murmured. Here, the bulletin board was my subject for inspection. A note was pinned to it. It read: ‘Report to me, Chief of Police, immediately, as soon as you are off duty. Very important.’ Imagine the fast-flitting thought I had—getting fired, getting a raise, etc. Finally, the Chief’s office hove into view. There on the door was JACK NEWTON Chief of Police Startled as I was, I mustered enough courage to walk in. Then I could scarcely credit my eyes; it was amazing, colossal! There in the chair sat the “speeder,” Jack Newton. Ordering me to sit down, he soon put two and two together for me. He explained how he tested his men on the force once in a while when a promotion was due. This he had done with me. “That lecture you gave me was enough to make any man think. It was excellent! Besides catching me, you riveted my tires perfectly. That’s the way to work and get your man,” he said enthusiastically. “Pat O’Brien, I want to congratulate you on your work—tomorrow you take Downing’s place as sergeant of A division.” I was flabbergasted. I wanted to shout for joy! But my face soon turned pale as he spoke seriously. “Tell me, how is it you didn’t know me as the Chief?” My answer was to the effect that it was a big world and that I had been shifted in from the Other Big City only a week back. “Oh! I see,” he exclaimed, and then quite solemnly: “By the way, Pat, give me the duplicate blue-ticket and I’ll get it cancelled downstairs.” “Oh, now you can’t fool me,” I laughed. “The rules say that I must cancel it myself.” With that we shook hands and laughed. I sure left the office far hap¬ pier than I had entered it. “There you are, Harry. Doing your duty pays, doesn’t it?” “Yes, Pat, I suppose so,” Harry gloomily answered. “But that hap¬ pened to you. It doesn’t do me any good.” The somewhat egotistic Pat O’Brien laughed and said: “Harry, remember saying one has to know an alderman, the mayor, the Chief, or a ‘big-bug’ to get anywhere on the force? Well, tomorrow night you’re going to be a sergeant! Harry, you’re on the good books of the new Chief of Police, and that’s me.”