Mansfield High School - Hornet / Green Years Yearbook (Mansfield, MA)

Page 32 text:

science; Gladys, aesthetic dancing and archery. “Mary Abreu and Annie DeSarro have won the acclaim of thousands of students by organizing a movement to abolish Shakespeare from the high school curriculum. “Lois Van Hoesen and Catherine Chandler are now co-managers of Boston’s largest department store. “Philo Ragno, whose high school edu- cation carried her a long way, was traced to Central Africa, where she is teaching Pigmies Hog Latin. “Two of our most modest girls, Dena Amici and Carmella Signoriello, were found in the Chicago underworld, where they were leading a crusade against bad English. “For quite some time now I have been hunting for Audrey La Har and Dorothy Andrews but have been unable to find either.” “Why, I know where Audrey is,” exclaimed Dorothy; “she’s a torch singer. [hey say Eleanor Wright, her publicity manager, is partly responsible for her rapid rise to fame.” “As for Dorothy Andrews,” blurted out Cleo, “I feel sorry for her, poor girl. According to Edith Robinson, our WBZ reporter, she will soon be tied down by the bonds of matrimony.” “Have you heard anything in regard to Orlando Souza?” I asked Bob. “Yes, he’s an authority on etiquette. I’ve just finished reading his latest work. It’s rapidly supplanting Emily Post’s well-known book on that subject. “Tt is Tommy Branigan, who is my chief worry,” stated Bob with a frown. “T’m handing the job of finding the elusive Tom to your bureau.” “Fine,” said Cleo. “Baxter and God- dard will do it.” The party broke up and George and I hurried away to get some sleep before tackling the difficult task ahead. The only clue we had to work on was an unconfirmed report by Ruthe Sheehan, the feminine Walter Winchell, stating that Tom was last seen in New York. Working on this tip, we set off early the next morning to catch the Flying Eagle, a train designed, built, and driven by Edrick Smith. It made me 28 think back ‘to the time when he tried so hard to repair our experimental steam locomotive at school. He certainly put the finishing touches on that. We had no sooner boarded the train than we heard a familiar voice behind us. Looking up we could see Alfred DiGiampietro, as he came proudly stalking down the aisle in a conductor’s uniform. He was so glad to see us that he almost forgot his work. With great pride he displayed the autographs of two well known figures of the sporting world—Chester Haskeli, slugger for the Cincinnati Reds, and John Robertson, now famous football coach at Wheaton College. When we pulled into the Grand Central Station, a commotion taking place on the next platform attracted our attention. As McGinn’s National Band struck up ‘‘All Hail, Miss America,” off the train stepped lovely Jean LaRoe, accompanied by her able manager, William Maurer. The famed reporter Edmund Hooger- zeil could be seen fighting frantically through the crowd in the hope of ob- taining the first interview. Behind him was Pearl Gordon, her press card tight- ly clasped in her hand, late as usual. Although Goddard once had crashed the Barnstable eleven, he did not feel equal to attacking this mob of enthusiastic ad- mirers. As bench-warming had been more in my line than tackling, we postponed the pleasure of meeting our classmates. It was only after a fierce struggle that we finally reached the street. “The Plaza,” I said, as a taxi, driven by Ray Engler, pulled up to the curb with a flourish. Despite Ray’s propen- sity for reckless driving, we reached the hotel safely. The tall, handsome door- man who greeted us proved to be George McCoy. At the desk we found Clara Boynton giving orders to Philip Slayton, one of the bell-boys. That evening we met Mildred Greene, who was in charge of the personnel. From her we learned that two other classmates were employed at the Plaza—Lillian Chace, as housekeeper, and Dena DeSantis as hostess. We were informed by Clara that only

Page 31 text:

Prophecy By WILLIAM BAXTER The telephone gave a loud ring. Again I picked up the receiver. “Ts this the government bureau for locating missing persons?” inquired a shrill feminine voice. Eager to be of help, I replied that this was the office of the newly organ- ized service of Uncle Sam. “Will you please try to find my dar- ling Rudolph? He’s such a sweet little dog!” For the tenth time that day I ex- plained that we were interested in find- ing people only and settled down to re- sume my nap. No sooner had I closed my eyes than an abrupt, once-familiar little cough caused me to look up. “Will!” “Bob!” I cried, as I looked in amaze- ment at the face of my old classmate Robert Sherman. At the same moment my secretary, glancing up from her work, gave a startled scream and collapsed. Bob, always equal to the occasion, rushed to her aid and began to shake her vigor- ously. “Why, it’s Dorothy Wellman,” he exclaimed, as she opened her eyes and stared at him blankly. “Tt can’t be Bob Sherman. It can’t be,” she mumbled. Before any explanations could be made, the door opened and in stamped our chief, Cleo Griswold, followed by my assistant, George Goddard. “What’s the cause of all the—why, if it isn’t Bob Sherman!” Cleo gasped. “We never expected to see you again,’ said Dorothy, not yet fully re- covered from her shock. ‘Why just two weeks ago, we read that Robert Sherman and James Armfield of the United States Marines, had lost their lives in a brave attempt to save a fellow marine from drowning.” “Well, you know you mustn’t believe all you read,” admonished Bob laugh- 27 ingly, as he gave each of us one of his old-time, bone-crushing handshakes. “Do tell us what really happened,” pleaded Goddard, impatient as ever to get to the heart of any mystery. “Tt is all very simple,” said Bob; “just a case of mistaken identity. Ac- tually James and I were three thousand miles from the scene of the accident.” “Well, that Gee Gee Bo Bo never does get anything straight,’ remarked Dorothy disgustedly. “I told Yolanda DiMonte and Rose Santucci six months ago that they ought to get a new editor, some one like Lila Thurber.” “Oh, by the way, what’s Lila doing now?” queried Bob. “She’s teaching journalism at Har- vard,” Dot replied. “Let me write that down,” said Bob, drawing a notebook from his pocket. Then he explained the purpose of his visit to my office. It seems that Bob was planning a reunion of the Class of 1940. Having difficulty in rounding up some of the members, he had finally de- cided to appeal to the government for help. Bob’s suggestion that he reveal to us the information that he had al- ready gathered met with hearty ap- proval. “Donald McKillop,” he began, “a prominent millionaire, is treasurer of the First National Bank in Mansfield. “Francis DeVine is a famous artist. I traced him through one of his great paintings which was on exhibition in a gallery, Rogues’ Gallery, to be exact. “Betty Dean, after successfully using her old high school tactics on Carl Gross, the producer, is completing a picture in Hollywood. “Viola Fornaciari is now a member of the teaching staff of the Mansfield High School, under the well-beloved principal, Anna Tretakoff. “Margaret Jones and Gladys Wil- liams are both instructors in Foxboro High School. Margaret teaches domestic

Page 33 text:

two weeks ago Branigan had been a guest there, but had been forced to leave when he refused to part with a few of his harmless pet skunks. A hot tip given us by George McCoy raised our hopes. According to him Tommy was a doctor of some sort employed at the City Hospital. The next morning found us at that institution. We were met at the door by twin nurses, Pat and Virginia Ballou, who had achieved world fame by suc- cessfully bringing up a family of sextuplets. As they escorted us down the broad corridor, we noticed two signs. One of these read: ‘“‘Dietitians— Mabel Lowe, Georgia Milson’”; the other: “Laboratory Technicians—Helen Wondergem, Edwina MacDonald.” Our attention was suddenly diverted as a door burst open and out stamped one of the patients, followed by Dr. Dorothy Cruser. Dr. Cruser was vain- ly trying to explain that it wasn’t her fault that John Colella, the hospital chemist, had made the mistake of putting sulphur into her sugar pills. No wonder the patient was burning up! Farther down the corridor we met Dr. Warren Griffin and his secretary, Rachel Swett. Although Warren was on his way to perform an operation, he stopped long enough to answer our in- quiry about Tom. So far as he knew, there was no Dr. Branigan connected with that hospital, or any other in the city. Reluctantly we bade Pat and Virginia good-bye and returned to our hotel. Hardly had we settled down for a little rest, when we were interrupted by the receipt of a telegram, which read: “Important. Proceed to South America immediately. Branigan believed run- ning animal farm.” In less than forty minutes we had reached the Municipal Airport and were on our way. We had a very comfort- able trip, thanks to the kindly attention of the hostess, Blanche Manson, and to the fact that Stuart Sweet, who had designed the plane, had incorporated into the arrangements everything from a bathtub to a hot-dog stand. Our minds were at ease concerning the worthiness of the ship when we learned 29 that the engine had been designed by that inventive genius Robert St. John. In the course of our conversation Blanche informed us that Wilfred Cardin was pilot of the Alaska Clipper, and that Rita Thibault was hostess on the same ship. A request from a thirsty passenger sent Blanche hurrying away. After a few moments of silence I leaned over to see what article in the paper he was reading could be of such absorbing interest to my companion. With a blush he pointed to the column “Advice to the Lovelorn,’ by Marie Collamer, generally known as Miss June Morning. “Thought perhaps we might find a clue about Tom,” said Goddard, as he quickly turned the page in an effort to hide his confusion. The name Richard Steele caught my eye. Chuckling with delight, I read his famous comic strip ‘““Men of Iron.” Although styles were of no interest to us, we couldn’t help noticing the chic costumes designed by Alice Piasecki and Philo Palladino. In the section devoted to music we read that Kenneth Morse would play his ‘Concerto A La Hotcha” at Swing- um Hall, that evening. “That should be good for the patients next door,’ said Goddard. “Music hath power to soothe the troubled mind,’ you know. He referred to the rest home which Harriett Phillips, Alice Conrad, and Irene Durkee had established for persons suffering from nervous breakdown. On the opposite page I read the fol- lowing: ‘Attention, Men! Ladies like you well groomed. Be fitted at Louis Syat and William Capek’s tailor shop.” Just then the plane swooped down- ward and I threw my paper aside. “Tighten your belts, please,’ sang out Blanche just before the plane made a nerfect three-point landing. We said farewell to our classmate and set out to renew our search. For three weeks we visited animal farms but without success. The one bright spot in all that time was our visit with Ruth King, Virginia Dustin, and Ethel Macomber, whom we found in a little mission school, twenty miles from no-