Loyola University Maryland - Evergreen / Green and Gray Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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to the side, and he was free again. But as he sprang to safety his foot caught in a straggling root, and he pitched for- ward heavily, his head hitting the trunk of a sturdy oak as he fell. A dull pain enveloped his system, and then all was still. Fifteen minutes later he came to in the accident ward of the town hospital. A short distance away from his bed a white- capped nurse stood talking to a big policeman; close beside him Morton fidgeted nervously, his face white and anxious. “Thank goodness you’ve come to,” exclaimed his room- mate. “You’ve given us an awful scare. What were you trying to do, anyhow — break all speed limits?’ “It’s all up with me now,” moaned Jim. “No happy Com- mencement Day for mine.” “Why, what’s the matter?” said Charley. “You’re lucky you have a head on your shoulders after the fall you got. Why won’t you get a diploma?” “The Dean told me last night that the next scrape I got into I’d be fired. And here I am — arrested. That’s worse than any of my previous stunts.” You idiot, you’re not arrested! That cop is as much at sea about your actions as I am. All he wanted you for was to complete a coroner’s jury to pass on a poor fellow who was run over on Cedar street this morning. He was greatly wor- ried over your accident. Said if he had known you were as anxious as that to be let off, he would not have asked you to serve. Why didn’t you ask him to let you off?” But Jim answered not. Under his breath he was giving vent to his outraged feelings in explosive style. He didn’t dare open his mouth — such language would never do for a respectable hospital. August J. Bourbon, ’14. (28)

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from Jim, as he dashed from his shelter into the street, gave them warning. Instantly they gave up their endeavors and sought safety in flight, scattering to all points of the compass. But Conry heeded them not. He was running to save his diploma; and never in all his career as a sprinter had he made better time than he did that evening. On and on he went, dodging through streets and by-streets, his breath coming in painful gasps. And it was not until he stumbled into his room in the senior hallway, ten minutes later, that he ’dared to look around. Luckily, the coast was clear. He had gotten safely away. In bold type on the front page of the Daily Gazette the story of the attempted capture confronted him next morning. According to the account, only two of the crowd had been gotten by the police, but it was known that all the others were members of the same class as these two, and the guardians of the law had hopes of picking up more of them during the day.” “That lets me out,” thought Jim, gleefully. “No one saw me at close range, and there ' s absolutely no reason for my being suspected of participation in the affair. For once in my life I’ve been lucky.” And he looked the world fearlessly in the eye as he fared forth to the dining hall. Two hours later, returning from a trip down town, he elected to pass by the Opera House, to review the scene of the row that had almost been his undoing. Across the street he saw his roommate, Charley Morton, and he hastened to catch up with him. But just as he was about to cross the narrow roadway a steady hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, turn- ing, he looked into the calm grey eyes of a burly bluecoat. “Come with me. You’re wanted around the corner here,” he said. Visions of a diploma vanishing on the wings of the air flitted through Jim’s excited imagination. “Not on your life,” he responded. “You don’t get me,” and with a violent twist of his shoulder he was off, galloping across the street at a ten- second clip. The roar of the astonished policeman awoke the neighborhood; and as the fleeing student cleared the gutter on the opposite side he saw, all too late, that another guar- dian of the law blocked his way there. A desperate lunge (27)

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“ullfp oialp of a Irukptt (Earwr.” I F, by any chance, O kind reader, you may be a sufferer from melancholia, then, I earnestly implore you, drop this epistle as though it were a burning brand. Read it not; it may bring on a severe attack of that dread affliction. For this is a sad, sad story written by a disgraced, despairing man. It tells of a successful career cruelly wrecked at its highest pinnacle of glory. Have you a weak heart? Do you suffer ill-effects from depressing stories? If not, then take heed to my woeful tale. I started my career following the profession of my fore- fathers. Now it happens my fathers before me were, above all, gentlemen — also, as a sort of side line, they were ex- perts in that art vulgarly named by some as “thievery.” Indeed, it was a matter of pride that no one of my ancestors was ever known to sully the nam,e of his people by perform- ing any labor or in any manner making money by working for it. So, as the last of my line and to uphold the honor of my people, I also must needs be a thief and a first-class crook. Yet I hasten to disillusion you as to my noble profession. I was not a low, every-day crook — one of the common garden variety, as it were. No, never! As I have noted before, I was, above all, a gentleman. The very thought of my robbing a grocery till or snatching a widow’s pocketbook would have filled my soul with an intense disgust. I was strictly a gen- tleman thief also. I operated in only select society circles. Indeed, I was as well known and as popular in society as was