Lyman Hall High school - Singer Chronicle Yearbook (Wallingford, CT)

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THE CHRONICLE 13 But you really can’t do that.” “And why can’t I?” Because I’ve got your good shoes on. The gravel road won’t do them any good. Oh no, you haven’t my shoes,” Dick laughed back. “I thought you’d borrow them; so I borrowed a pair for you. You’re wearing Professor Lowry’s Sunday best, and you know how fussy he is about his clothes. When he finds those shoes gone and you in them oh boy! You'd better thumb a ride and get them back quick. Are you sure I can’t lend you a thumb?” Dick's loud laughter and the hum of the motor made Dave’s shouts inaudible, and the car drove swiftly down the road, leaving behind in the middle of the road a lone figure waving madly. Josephine Gallagher, ’37 What’s in a Name? Chauncey Percival Gillingsworth was lonely so lonely; in fact he had already packed his bag and was prepared to leave Brighton Academy. After all,” he thought, I can’t go on like this. I’m about the most undesirable person in the whole school.” Chauncey walked over to the mirror and gazed into it. What he saw only made him all the gloomier. He saw in his reflection a thin little fellow about five feet, six, wearing immense horn-rimmed glasses and having a very studious expression. Once again he thought, Why do I have to be so darned smart? Everyone seems to hold it against me.” As a matter of fact everyone did. In the first place what was a person with a name like Chauncey Percival Gillingsworth doing at a school like Brighton? Also why was he so smart? Nobody came to Brighton to learn anything. Everyone came to play football and major in athletics. Thus because Chauncey had the hard luck to be gifted with brains instead of brawn, he was an outcast. Only the other day Chauncey overheard two students discussing him. One couldn't seem to understand how Chauncey could possibly study so much. They agreed that he had never given the incorrect answer to a question in all their classes. The second of the two boys didn’t see why he had to give the appearance of a bookworm. One look at those hornrimmed glasses would convince anyone that he didn’t even know the shape of a football. So now as Chauncey gazed into the mirror, a feeling of despair came over him. He wanted to get away, to hide himself, to do anything rather than have people criticize him all the time. As he was about to leave, there was a knock on the door. Quickly hiding his suitcase, he opened the door.

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12 THE CHRONICLE A few minutes later, he heard Dave calling him under the window. Throwing it open, he called down impatiently, “Well, what is it now?” “Oh, I just wanted to tell you that you won’t be needing the car. I’m taking Mary to the dance. Bye, bye, pal. Thanks for the car and the girl.” The car had disappeared around the corner before Dick could recover sufficiently to voice his seething thoughts. “The sneaking double crosser,” he breathed angrily, as he slammed the window down. “He can’t get away with this.” After a few minutes of hard thinking, with an exultant yell he reached for the telephone. Having secured his number, he said, “Hello, Police Headquarters? This is Richard Malone calling from the college. A fellow just stole my car. It’s a green roadster, license plates R 625. You’ll pick him up on Layton’s Highway. Call me when you get him.” About fifteen minutes later, Dick was escorted by a burly policeman to Dave’s cell. The latter jumped to his feet when he saw him coming and said pleadingly, “Aw gee, Dick, can’t you take a joke? Get me out of here quick. If the dean ever heard of it “That’s what I was thinking,” Dick said with a gloating smile. In fact I think he should, but, however, I’ll keep your criminal career a secret on one condition.” “Anything you say,” the prisoner exclaimed in anguish. “Only get me out.” “Be calm, sonny. Just sign this paper by which you promise never to borrow from me again, and your freedom’s yours.” Dave grasped the paper eagerly. However, after a rapid search through his pockets, he looked sheepishly at Dick, but the latter, guessing what he wanted, handed him his pen with a sigh. As they were about to leave the yard of the jail, an officer called them back, saying to Dick, “Say, young fellow, you owe me some money for gas. I picked him up buying gas. He’d charged it to you, but the man wouldn’t put it on the cuff; so I paid it, as long as you were coming soon.” Striving to keep calm, Dick reached into his pocket, saying, “How much was it, officer?” “It came to two dollars and eighteen cents,” was the reply. When they were alone again, Dick opened the car door and violently pushed Dave out. “Hey, what are you doing?” Dave demanded from his seat on the roadside. ‘ Letting you walk back, parasite.”

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14 THE CHRONICLE “Er — hello, BiflT he said after a moment of hesitation. “Won’t you come in?” He was a bit shaky about allowing him in. The last time he had done so he had been carried by Biff to the campus goldfish pool. “Eve got to see you about a very important matter, Chauncey,” said Biff. “Sure you don’t want to feed me to the goldfish again?” “No, the truth is that I want you to help me.” “What? Me help you?” “You sec it’s like this,” explained Biff. “The dean won’t allow me to play in the big game unless my grades are made up. I was wondering if you’d help me.” Chauncey thought quickly. Biff was Brighton’s best football player. The whole team was built around him. If he helped Biff, he would be doing his part toward assisting Brighton win the major game. “All right, it’s a deal,” agreed Chauncey. i With all thoughts of leaving gone, Chauncey drilled Biff during every spare moment, day and night, for a solid week. At the end of the week after his grades were all made up, the great football hero came to Chauncey and uttered in his most grateful tone of voice, “Chauncey, that was swell of you after the way we all treated you. The team wants to show their gratitude and appreciation by appointing you mascot.” After this Chauncey never thought of leaving Brighton, where after graduation he remained as an instructor. Viola Lendler, ’38 Snow Reward “I might as well sit down,” she thought wearily. “I’ve been down that track about thirty times already.” She shook herself, trying to remove some of the soft, flaky snow- from her suit. A rustic bench had been placed conveniently at the bottom of the ski track, and after brushing the snow from it, she sank down with a sigh. “If there were only a moon, I could at least imagine a Lochinvar coming out of the North on snow shoes, but the only Lochinvar I could ever have now would be Santa Claus. I’ll bet my cousin has every male in New England up there teaching her how to ski. Oh gosh, why couldn’t I have been beautiful and dumb instead of just dumb?” Finding a smooth spot on the white ground, she began to draw characters with her pole, when suddenly she heard the crunching sound of skis on the track above her. She looked up; a lone skier was speeding towards her. As he neared the bottom of the hill, he lost his balance, and, falling on the slippery track, slid the remaining distance to the bench.