La Porte High School - El Pe Yearbook (La Porte, IN)

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9475. Warden wants to see you.” With- out further formality the guard opened the door cell for the first time since the prisoner had entered months ago. Following the guard obediently No. 9475 pondered on the nature of the summons. It couldn't be misdemeanor and his cell was always in neat order. Still pondering, the convict entered the warden’s office. The entrance of the two caused the war- den to look up. “No. 9475?” “Yes, sir.” “Governor has just granted suspension of your life sentence. Telegram here says you’re pardoned.” God! Pardoned! Pardoned from his dark cell; pardoned from the solitude that was driving him mad; pardoned. . No. 9475 reeled as in a faint. . . Then slowly he grasped the significance of the warden’s words. He was free! A free man. No longer must he suffer for the crime of another man. . . At last jus- tice had removed her blindfold, and he was free. . . He would go back to Nellie, the wife who had never lost faith in her convict husband. . . And Ma- mie, the baby. . . She must be old enough to talk now and Nellie had writ- ten with pride that she had just yesterday walked the entire length of the kitchen floor. . FREE! The joy of it all; No. 9475 shrieked for the song which sang in his heart. The unexpected outburst caused the warden to look up disapprovingly. He stroked his mustache. “You’re excused, No. 9475.” The walk back to the cell for his belong- ings was short. The ex-convict was to be a man once again with a real name, and No. 9475 was to pass out of existence. . He would surprise his little family and arrive unexpectedly. . . It would make it all the more joyful. . . But the lock clanked. . . They had reach- ed the cell. His little belongings in a red bandana, the man was leaving his cell, with the guard when a second attendant rushed up. “The warden wants to see you!” Together they again went into the war- den’s office. The official cleared his throat. “Ah—a—No. 9475, there—a—there has been a mistake made. The Western Union just phoned stating that due to the erron- eous workings of the automatic telegram ticker a confusion resulted in the numbers of the dispatch. No. 9457 is the pardoned man. You will serve your time.” And with that the warden closed the incident. Work was pressing him and he had no time to fool around. The song in No. 9475’s heart was stilled; the light of a soul reborn died; and the very being of him seemed to sag with age and despair. The guard’s hand fell heav- ily on his shoulder. Dazed, he staggered back to the cell. Again the lock clanked. Again the sound of footsteps faded away. And again No. 9475 shrieked—this time not of joy but the cry of the beaten soul of a man in the depths of despair. The descending sun reflected the shad- ows of the window bars on the face of No. 9475. With a shudder he realized the game Fate had played with him and had won. . . Back in his dark, dusty cell. . Back to this living hell where the best he could do was to wither and rot. . . God! —Edgar G. Schumm, ’23. Oh it isn’t the cough That carries you ough. It’s the coughin That carries you oughin. A Prof, there was quite sardonic, Whose lectures were never laconic. But the students all slept While the poor old Prof. wept. So he drowned all his cares in hair tonic. A fast young man Was Ernie Morz— He stuck between The swinging doors ’Twas midnight in the parlor, ’Twas darkness everywhere; The silence was unbroken, ’Cause there was no one there. PaRe Twenty-eight

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eventful! The first party we gave was a Thanksgiving dance and then we enter- tained at a St. Valentine dance. About this time we began to sport our class rings before the Seniors. Of course, everybody saw the play, “A Pair of Sixes”, so we needn't say anything about that. And last, but far from least, came the Junior Prom. We are drawing nearer to the end of four years of high school life, and are Seniors so mighty! After a fierce strug- gle we chose Roy W. Johnson for our last president. The initial social event for the year was the Senior Mixer. At the Mixer we played host to all the under classes and entertained them royally. Christmas could not be Christmas without the Sen- iors giving their annual Christmas pro- gram, and again Santa Claus remembered the good boys and girls of school. One of the merriest times ever had was enjoyed by the school at the Senior carni- val which has come to be an annual affair. Delicious sweets and frappe were served in prettily decorated booths which lined the hd.ll. Dancing was enjoyed by a large number of couples. The crowning social event of the year was presented when the Seniors gave a spring party, which also was a farewell party, at the Masonic Temple ball room. A beautifully canopied hall formed a pleas- ing stage for the evening’s festivities. Fa- vors and programs added to the attractive, ness of the affair. The class flag was un- furled on this evening. “The Charm School!” Ah, that stands for the dramatic triumph of the graduates. Directed by Miss Zourie Mell Sutton, who the year before had supervised the class play, “A Pair of Sixes,” “The Charm School” was successfully presented to a charmed audience. Roy W. Johnson play- ed the lead. In reviewing the road over which we have traveled, we find that we have gath- ered many choice roses from along the way, incidentally accompanied by a few thorns. But the chief charm associated with the days that have gone is the re- flection that the pathway is not all of roses nor yet all of thorns. As years pass by the thorns will be forgotten and the roses in their brightest hue will be ever remembered. Whatever the future may hold for us, let us always stand as representatives for all that is good! Let each of us, wherever our lot may be cast, strive to maintain po- sitions of honor, and may we all endeavor to reflect honor on the name of good old LaPorte High School. —Georgiana Bozovsky, '23. —Edna Krause, '23. ---------EL-PE- Pawns of Fate NO. 9475 stirred uneasily in his cell. He had been dreaming and lying in slum- ber on that crude bench which was his bed, he had dreamed of the times of long ago; times when he was free—out in the world God created for him and his fellow- men. For him—No. 9475 awakened—the irony of it all. Here he was pent up, like a wild animal, branded by the world a criminal; one who would cause little chil- dren to cringe when his name was men- tioned, an outcast! God! The man in the cell raised his eyes to the expressionless ceiling of his cell, and stared as he was wont to do when it seemed the eternities of time would never pass. Now he heard the tread of footsteps, and lengthening shadow on the wall at the end of the cell-lined walk meant that the visitor was coming his way. Probably a new prisoner, or grub for the sick man in the next cell, maybe a letter from Nellie. No. 9475 peered through the semidarken- ed cell. But no, the man had not stopped but was coming to his cell—the new com- er was a guard. The guard rasped, “No. Page Twenty Seven

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Pape Twenty-nino