Holbrook High School - Echo Yearbook (Holbrook, MA)

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THE ECHO 9 BILL’S EXPLOITS B ill HARRISON, who was spending the summer at Popham on the bank of the Kennebec River, left his cottage with the intention of exploring and possibly making some interesting discoveries in his small motor boat. You could hear the cling-cling of his engine until long after he had dis- appeared from sight. When some distance up stream, he heard shots from a near by island and quickly turned toward it, determined to find out what this meant. On nearing the shore, he saw a boy who was racing along at great speed followed closely by a man with a rifle which he repeatly aimed at the boy and fired, although missing him each time. Bill jumped ashore thinking only of res- cuing the young chap from the hands of his enemy, but he had no sooner started towards him than he himself was tackled by a number of men. He was immediately bound, and thrown into a hut with no pos- sible chance to escape. Later he Avas brought before what seemed to be the chief of the gang, who asked him what his busi- ness was in this particular territory. Bill replied that he was just hunting. They took him and tied him hand and foot and locked him in the next room. The men then started a discussion as to what they should do with him. Some of them wanted to let him go, but others said he would give away their hiding place, sp they decided to keep him until they had carried out their plans of robbing the bank. Bill was kept there for two days, not seeing anyone except when he was fed, and then he was closely guarded ; during this time, however, he was making his plans of escape. All the next day the robbers continued to make plans for the robbery which was to take place the coming night. As night cam° on. Bill began to carry out his plans of es- cape. During the day he called for a glass of water, and purposely dropped the glass, which broke when it hit the floor. His cap- tive kicked it angrily into the corner. Before leaving, the robbers made sure that Bill was securely bound so there could be no possible chance of escaping; then they departed for the city. As soon as Bill thought they had got away from the island he rolled over to the comer where the brok- en glass was. After feeling around the best he could, he found the glass and proceeded to cut his bonds. He would cut a little, then the glass would slip, and inflict a cut on his arms. After receiving a number of cuts, he finally freed himself. Quickly he untied his feet, and without stopping to think about the wounds he had received, he made his way hastily towards the door. Finding it locked, he threw his weight against it. The door failed to give way under his weight so he took a heavy bar which he found among some rubbish in one corner of the room, and with a number of quick blows smashed the lock. Bill now rushed out and down to the shore, where much to his dismay, his motor boat was gone. He quickly dived into the stream and swam to the opposite shore. When he reached the shore he started off on the run through the woods to the road. After a half mile run through the un- traveled paths. Bill was quite exhausted when he reached the road, but when he thought of the robbers and the bank, it seemed to give him new courage, and he raced on down the road. Soon the lights of the city loomed up before him, and he never once faltered until he reached his destination. Rushing into the Police Sta- tion and yelling, “The Bank! Robbers”! he fell to the floor, unconscious from exposure and exhaustion. When he regained consciousness, he was in his own home. The president of the bank came and told him that the robbers had been captured, and gave him a reward of one hundred dollars. Later the state authorities gave him a reward of five hundred dollars for making possible the capture of a notorious band of robbers long wanted by states and counties. Kenneth Stanley, ’33. JANE’S DREAM J ANE sat in the large Morris chair be- fore the crackling fire place. A lamp on the table threw its rose rays on Jane’s English book that she had in her lap. She sighed and began again. “A spar row chirped a thirst- ty song. Now what rhymes with song? Poems ain’t so easy to make up as I thought.” Jane became sleepy, and the next thing she knew, a little man popped up and said, “I am Mr. Line of a single foot. My chil- dren call me Monometer. My wife has two feet; she’s Dimeter. Brother has three feet; Trimeter we call him. My sister has four feet, and we call her Tretrameter. My aunt has five feet, and her name is Penta- meter. Mother has six feet, and Dad has seven feet; we call them Hexameter and Heptameter. Now poor grandmother, we call her ‘Blank verse.’ She has rhythm too.” Jane awoke with a start. “What an ab- surd dream I’ve had. I had better get to work, or I’ll get a P. M. session. “Now, let me see, every two lines can rhyme, and then I can have one that doesn’t, and then two more that do. Or I can have every other sentence rhyme. — Oh, what awful stuff poetry is!” Frances Ahern, ’32. E. Mann: I’ve fired my chauffeur. He nearly killed me four times. 11. Wiggins: Oh, give him another chance. ♦ ♦ ♦ R. Whitcomb: It was kind of you to give me this dance. C. Jervey: Well, this is a charity ball.

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8 THE ECHO ATTEMPTED SUICIDE F lorence MARSTON was reclining on a sumptuous divan in the beautiful draw- ing room of her mansion. Dressed in loung- ing pajamas, she was looking at the latest books on advanced French dresses. A sud- den thought sprang into her piquant, little brunette head. Jumping to the floor, she thrust her tiny feet into a pair of pink satin slippers, and hurried to the desk in the corner of the perfectly square room. She pushed a button, flooding the room with light. After rummaging in a desk, she drew out of a bundle of letters a large bank envelope and hurriedly drew out a state- ment. “Nine million dollars is all that I own,” she cried in sheer delight. Florence called to her maid, “Jeanette, has my lawyer called here today?” “No, Madam, but the treasurer of the Fifth National Bank called and said that he wished to see you to-morrow morning at eight o’clock, at the bank.” “All right! By the way, tell James to get me the Fnancial Review immediately.” Florence walked slowly to the couch where she had been lying, and she was standing near it when James entered with the newspaper. Taking the paper, she asked for a glass of gingerale and some cookies. Glancing at the headlines, she became pet- rified with fear. “Fifth National Bank on Verge of Failure. Four day Run on the Bank Has Exhausted All But One S ' ingle- Deposit of Nine Million Dollars.” She gasped for breath. “All my money will be lost.” Reading a little further, she noticed that all other banks of the city had refused to help stop the run. “They are trying their best to ruin me.” She gasped. “They shall not succeed.” The following morning at eight o’clock saw Florence at the main entrance to the bank. The door was immediately opened by an attendant, and she was ushered into the presence of the board of directors. “How do you do? Miss Marston! I can not say good morning because it is not to be for you. This bank closed its doors last night for the last time. As President of the board of directors I announce to you that there is less than five thousand dollars in the vault, and there are no assets. Hold ! I know what you are going to say. The newspapers had a wrong story. Do you suppose any bank could stand a four-day run, and not close its doors? There has been a slow but steady run on this bank for four days. As I said, there is five thousand dollars, but that is needed to pay taxes, electric power bills, and employees wages that must be paid. I extend to you my most sincere sympathy and regret. “Then, as it stands, I lose a cool nine million dollars.” “Yes, Miss Marston, a very large amount of money. But you are a young girl and can start over, while I am an old man. Fortun- ately for me, my wife has some money in- vested in her own name; on this we can live in a very modest way.” “If that is all, I will leave you. Thank you very much for not notifying me of the run until the bank had failed. A nice set of financial advisers you turned out to be! Good day!” Florenc e left the bank and drove to a very well equipped pharmacy and, after a short visit, she drove to her summer home at Hyannisport. Having fixed a hot meal for her, the caretaker, John, left the room to prepare a place for her to sleep that ‘ night. What a night it was to be! About six oclock John entered the main part of the house from the ell, and he soon became aware of the presence of visitors. Walking down the cor- ridor to the room he had prepared tor Florence, he heard and recognized the voice of a Hyannis physician. “And now, if you move her very carefully upon the couch, face down, we can try to eject the malicious poison from her stomach, ’ was what John heard. John opened the door to look on the strangest sight he had seen in many years. Death-white, Florence was being laid on the couch by a tall well proportioned blond man. “Why! Why! What’s the matter? Doctor, What’s happened? Is she dead?” “No, she is not dead, but she has had a very close call. I believe you are the care- taker. Telephone my secretary to send two registered nurses here immediately. Also, heat some water and bring it to me. After you have telephoned my office, you may bring me some mustard, milk, and three or four fresh eggs. Quick now! A life depends on your speed.” John quickly telephoned to the doctor’s office, and then he brought the specified articles to the doctor. The mustard and eggs were used as emetics to be doubly sure that all the poison was out of Florence’s stomach. When the water was hot, John brought it to the living room, and, accord- ing to orders, he bathed the sick girl’s arms and feet. The nurses stayed with Miss Marston four days, and then John and a farmer housekeeper did the housework and nursing. All during Florences’s illness the tall, blond man came regularly to pay her his respects. At the end of six months Florence an- nounced that the man, who had watched her take the poison, and then called the doctor, was to be her future husband. Harry J. Wiggins. Miss Maguire: An anonymous person is one who does not wish to be known. Who’s that laughing in this class? Voice from the rear: An anonymous per- son, Miss Maguire.

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10 THE ECHO HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE H arlequin and Columbine were cos- mopolitans. They danced in Vienna, Copenhagen, and Paris, and were now in Moscow. It was revolution time in Russia, and the city of Moscow was a magnet for the com- munists. Everywhere one went one would see a thin, mad looking man on a crazy box addressing and declaiming to a crowd of excited bystanders. Harlequin and Columbine were much too silly and frivolous to be at all interested in such heavy and serious matters, and would probably look blank as if they had never heard the word if you spoke to them of the communistic plan or Russian wheat mon- opoly. They had spent their life flitting from one gay capital to another and would be leaving Moscow now if it were not for the fact that their flnancial resources had become very low through living too near the center of the city and Columbine’s fond- ness for bonbons. Finally this sedition came to a head, and war was declared. All foreigners were very firmly and not too politely requested to leave the country, and all able-bodied Rus- sian men were compelled to bear arms in the army. Harlequin and Columbine did not worry about being deported. In fact, it never en- tered their minds as they continued their nightly appearances at the Play House where audiences were becoming smaller and smaller and more unresponsive. Indeed they were as light-hearted as ever. But both Harlequin and Columbine had forgotten the fact that they were Russian citizens until it was brought forcibly to their minds by communist officials. Harle- quin joined the huge army and was lost among the crowd. Columbine returned to her hitherto forgotten home in the monot- onous Russian steppes, where she stayed with three Russian peasants for servants while her father was away leading the Cossacks on their ransacking maraudings. She was lonesome for Harlequin and spent long days morosely toasting marshmallows before the open Are. Then one day word came to the lonely manor that the great Cossack leader had been slain in battle, and Harlequin had been court-martialled and shot for insub- ordination. Poor Harlequin, the clown, was not cut out for the army. Columbine went back to her public, to the stage. Sometimes in the audience Har- lequin’s happy laugh would ring out. And, although the excellence of the performance on such evenings was always testifled in the morning papers by the critics, Columbine was never happy again. Marion Jervey, ’31. Mr. Walsh: Who was Homer? J. Sullivan: The fellow who made Babe Ruth famous. A WARNING! A LONELY house in the woods! It is a large, barn-like affair. The windows are grimy and broken. The shutters flap dis- mally in the wind. The trees cast lurid shadows on the house. The moon sheds a ghastly green light over all. The dilapid- ated old porch creeks dismally as a tall, thin, waving flgure groans and creeps up the stairs. The door opens mysteriously and it enters. We follow. The “thing” is seen going up the dusty, old stairs. Everything but the stairs is dark. These are covered with a livid, red light. We follow. It sharply turns a corner. We follow! Our eyes must be deceiving us.’ It has vanished. We step cautiously down the dark, dismal hall. We light a candle. Suddenly! A ghastly, ungodly moan is heard! Then a shriek! Another! Then si- lence! When we regain our courage and look around, we shiver with fear. One per- son is missing! We turn, bolt down stairs for the door. As we turn the corner, a cold, clammy, wet wind blows out our candles. Frightened and in the dark, we cling to- gether. A long, low, wierd moan is heard rising up to a shriek and then dying away, only to begin with increased volume. We have been here a long while now. “Look!” The old grand-father’s clock was bathed in a very cold, blue light. Over it hung a horrid yellow face. The door of the clock slowly opened ! A white-clad flgure slowly floated o ut! Screech after screech was heard. We turned and ran for the door. It stuck! We looked over our shoulders and there a hideous figure with a horrible face was coming after us. Oheehohee! Ohmeho- ho! Hah! Hah! Hah! The hideous screeches rent the air. With a final tug the door came open. We fell headlong into the arms of a horrible, faceless monster who carried us back to the house. I let out one shriek ! And with that shriek I awoke and found my- self on the floor with my lovely dream rudely interrupted. But a lesson was learned from that visit and, I impart it to you, so you will not visit the faceless monster’s home. Here it is! Never, never eat ice-cream and pickles before going to bed. Leslie Thorud, ’33. There was once a young boy they called Bob, And they say he was out of a job; So he stepped in the car And went hunting afar For the women, his favorite job. There is Mike, a boy whom you know. It is said he was quite all the show For one night he did tip And his pants took a rip For poor Mike wasn’t slow! Oh no!