Lawrence High School - Lawrencian Yearbook (Cedarhurst, NY)

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6 ;THE LAWREN CIAN Crash! The next thing he knew he was in the icy cold water, vainly endeavoring to keep his head above the tumultous sea. His boat was no longer visible. Spying a large object, floating twenty or thirty yards away, he struck out for it, fighting every inch of the way. Finally he reached it, and found that he was clinging to a large crate. A sort of packing case. The type that furniture is shipped in...........The thought struck him like a thunderbolt. Good God! Could this be the case that .......Frantically he sought the side on which the address should be painted. With a superhuman heave, he managed to turn the case on its side. There, barely discernable, was the printed legion—Mr. O. Joriig, . . . .Pitea. . . .Sweden. With a loud cry, unheard above the roar of the sea, he flung himself across the crate. His hand found a gaping hole, caused no doubt, by his boat’s crashing into it. Hooking his arm through it he essayed to hold on till aid should arrive. With every succeeding wave, the case sank lower and lower. Furiously he tried to remove his arm before it was too late. He couldn’t budge it! It was caught on the edge of the jagged hole. This was the end. He knew it. After all his planning, he was being dragged down by the very two people he had risked everything to rid himself of. The laugh that escaped from his blue lips was mirthless. He might have known that they’d come back some day to wreak full vengeance on him. What a fool he had been. The case gave a final lurch and sank beneath the waves. For several moments Peterson struggled madly. He had heard that drowning persons were wont to see important episodes of their lives pass before their very eyes. At the time, he had been inclined to sneer at such tales. Now he was having the grim proof unwillingly thurst on him. Sweden. . .home. . . the village priest giving him Communion. . . .his first boyhood sweetheart . . . America. . .Elsa. . .his unhappy marriage. . .and. . .and. . . .those faces. Elsa’s look of terrified surprise, and Greta’s mocking laugh. Well, he’d shown them. A strange picture flashed on the retna of his mind. A large three masted schooner going down to its watery grave. A courageous figure paced the flooded bridge. It took the last plunge. All that remained to show where a ship had once been, were numerous large packing cases, bobbing up and down in the swell. One in particular seemed to have a definite object in view. It was coming toward him. Look out! Too late. Far off in the distance it seemed that Elsa was calling in her grating voice. “Sven, cut some wood. Sven, fetch a bucket of water.............Yes, he’d cut the wood and fetch the water, but he was so tired. He’d lie down on this grassy slope and take a short nap, then tend to Elsa’s wants. He was so tired. . .So. . .ti. . .r. . .ed. . . When the gale had subsided. Father Osborne gathered the villagers, and went down to the shore. There he pronounced requiem mass for those lost in the storm. The name of Sven Peterson led the list. As a final tribute, flowers were tossed into the sea. The friendly, treacherous sea. The sea that took justice into its own hands. The sea that never told any tales.

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THE LAWRENCIAN 5 “Evenin' Sven, ' offered Eric from behind the smoke screen his briar was making. “What yer doin’ up here on a Tuesday night? You aint due till tomorrow, hey Ole?” “Yes, yer days off is Wednesdays and Saturdays, what'd yer do, sneak out?” “Naw”, retorted Sven, “I didn’t sneak out. There’s nobody home to keep me back any more. Elsa and Greta went off and left me.” The placing of a bomb in the center of the table could not have created a more disasterous effect, than the utterance of those few words. The charred pipe fell from Eric’s powerless jaw, and clattered to the floor. Ole half rose from his chair upsetting his glass of brandy. “They what?” the latter spluttered. “You aint hard of healin’, they walked out on me. Said they was going back to Sweden, and that I needn’t bother about them any more.” Whereupon Sven Peterson pulled a very long face indeed. Inwardly, his soul was singing. He knew that once his story was accepted by the Lind-strom boys, no one would dream of doubting it; and by their puzzled expressions, he knew that shortly they would give it full credence. “What I san’t make out,” said Ole, “is why they went? “You’ve always been a good provider, you do most of the work around the house, and you sure ain’t no hell-raiser. Seems as if yer the one who should ’uve run away. And long ago at that.” In fact it was small wonder that Sven hadn’t run off. Always used to coming and going freely, he found that marriage, especially his marriage, had kept him pretty close to the doorstep. within call of Elsa’s domineering voice; which rang out with great frequency, “Sven, cut some wood. Sven, fetch a bucket of water. Sven, clean out the cellar.” It was always Sven this, Sven that, from early morning till late at night. Instead of finding in married life the love and companionship he had so long desired, he found only increased labor, less freedom, and a terrific strain on his modest income. As for his daughter, Greta, she did nothing but read cheap magazines, admire herself in front of the mirror, and make sport of her father; calling him stupid, narrow minded, and old fashioned. It was common gossip that Sven did not wear the pants in the family, and that Elsa ruled him with an iron hand. For twenty years he had taken this abuse without ever once raising his voice in protest. Then one day Elsa had forbidden him to smoke his pipe in the house. That was the last straw. Right then and there he had made up his mind to rid himself, once and for all. of these two witch women. The week of November 13. 1929. will long be remembered on the New England coast. Thousands of dollars worth of shipping was lost. Many staunch ships, caught in the teeth of the raging storm, had gone down with all hands aboard. His power dory making little or no headway in the high seas. Sven had all he could do to keep its nose pointed towards the cove. He had remained home for three ‘days seeing nothing but those distorted faces. Not being able to stand it another minute, he had put out in his kicker for the cove, determined to stay at the inn till better weather set in. Now he was cursing himself roundly for ever venturing out on this mad journey. As fast as he could bail it out, another wave would fill the bottom of the boat with water.

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THE LAWRENCIAN 7 A CASE OF FACTS by S. A. PEYSER It all happened in a German coal mining town in Pennsylvania during a strike. Alvin Blennerman, ring leader, had been murdered. Hermann Schmidt, owner of the mine, had been at the scene of the murder when it happened. Because Schmidt had been ruined by the strike, it was understood he had a plausible motive for the murder. The clerk droned the record of the case: “Alvin Blennerman murdered, March 2, 1922. Hermann Schmidt held. Sole witness, Leo Trachman.” The district attorney announced loudly, “Hermann Schmidt take the stand.' Schmidt was sworn in, and immediately the questioning began. “What is your name?” began the district attorney. “Hermann Schmidt.” “Are you married?” “Yes,” he said in a broken voice. He seemed to reflect. His happy family without a breadwinner. What would happen when he was taken away to prison or—to death. “Where were you at the time of the murder?” “I vass in der court house seeking an inchunction to stop der strike.” “I suppose you realize that the scene of murder was the court.” “Yes.” “You knew Blennerman?” “Certainly, he vass my foreman.” “You liked him?” “After der beginning of der strike I hated him.” “Did you—kill him?” There was a hush. The poor fellow! His world had crashed. He looked miserable. Still, there was only one witness against him, and he still had a little hope. The defense attorney almost protested against the nature of the question. As his assistant I wondered why he did not protest. I nudged him. He did not answer. He seemed to have a flick up his sleeve. At last Schmidt answered the question. He replied, with an effort, “No.” “You may step down. Leo Trachman take the stand.” This was the sole witness. He was a short, stout man with a solemn air of knowing all the facts, which was increased by the old German institution known as the “soup-strainer,” a huge walrus mustache. The clerk swore him in and he took the stand. The spectators in the little court began to whistle and cat-call because they knew and disliked the miner. He became livid. The judge rapped for order, and the court became quiet. The attorney for the defense began cross-examination. “What is your name?”