Maynard High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Maynard, MA)

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14 THE SCREECH OWL national spy-leader. He won’t last long with us on his tail.” Silence as the night deepened. What are you doing so far out in the coun- try at a little town like Marquisville. ” the driver wanted to know. The hiker answered, The government’s building a big new ammunition dump near there and I’m one of the boys sent down to keep an eye on it. There’s been a hint that Heyd- rich wants it blown up. There’s nothin’ worse than a skunk like that.” They were nearing the outskirts of Marquis- ville now. There was a small scattering of houses which thickened as they went on. As they approached a corner with a light on it, the hiker leaned forward to stare at the figure of a woman who was standing in the light anxiously looking for someone. Let me out here,” was the request. The car stopped and Mike Reilly got out and walked over toward the woman. She hurried to him, relief on her face. They joined hands and turned to go when the driver of the car called, Goodbye, Mike Reilly!” The woman hurried to the car. Do you know him. ” she asked. The answer was, Yes, Mike has told me quite a bit about himself.” She smiled. Mike is really a good boy and he usually doesn’t stay out this late. I think he reads too many of those detective comics for a boy of twelve. Thank you for bringing him home safely.” Richard Trench, ’44. ♦ Home Is Where You Hang Your Hat Since Ooley had a way of digging into papers and eating up news, it wasn’t very amazing that before long he had learned that the Capitol was now the trysting place of the highly edu- cated and learned. Partly to be conventional, but mostly to satisfy his roving foot, he began to make plans (secretly, of course) to go. Se- cretly, because any deviation from family tradi- tions would only incite cries of protest, and from the origin of his genealogical tree to the present time the Ooley homestead had revolved about Twin Orchards (now playfully dubbed the Ooley Family Trees.”) Thus when Ezra, the elderly and only hired man, was making preparations to set out for the daily mail, Ooley climbed into the market wagon (patriotically substituted for the former station wagon) and crawled under the heap of tarpaulin which had been placed there for a protection against sudden cloudbursts. Per custom, Ezra left the wagon just beyond the depot in the empty lot and began his errands. Ooley’s withdrawal from under his covering was slow and deliberate because he believed that discovery at this point would almost mean anni- hilation and he most certainly did not want his plans stamped out. Hence, Ooley fairly oozed from under the covering and made his way hurriedly to the express train at the depot. As the conductor’s back was turned, he stowed away in the baggage car, for he had previously planned to save his resources for the future. There the possibility of discovery was slight, as it was simple to move from behind one piece of luggage to another in case of intrusion. When the train arrived in Washington the next day, Ooley managed to creep off unseen and thanked Providence that his trip had been fairly successful, with merely the usual number of baggage disposals. In his search for temporary residence, his experiences were varied. At one time a check- ered cab passed a hair’s breadth away and the crowd so jostled him that he wriggled closer to the sides of the buildings and continued his quest in his unobtrusive manner. His hunger was satisfied at the push carts, an apple here, a peach there, a plum, etc. Along the way he saw that all rooming- houses and hotels had signs to the effect that there were no empty rooms. But then in an out-of-the-way district he found an ideal home. It was in an empty alley, away from the danger

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THE SCREECH OWL 13 Finally the clerk came to me, looking ex- hausted after the ordeal. Cheer up, old man, I just want a pair of plain brown shoes in a size ten. I have been wearing that same style for twenty-five years. With a sigh of relief and thankfulness in his eyes, he left to get them. Marian Bell, ’ 45 . Hard-Boiled He made a forlorn figure standing there in the grey twilight. He paused wearily, looking back along the deserted road for signs of a car. His features lighted as the faint headlights of an approaching auto cut a golden swath into the fast-darkening night. Stepping into the road, he waved his thumb in the direction in which he had been walking . The car slid to a stop beside him and a voice asked, Going my way, bud. ” Yeah,” he answered, and in response to an invitation to hop in, he slid casually across the seat and slammed the door shut. The car started with a smooth whine of power and they rode in silence for about half a mile. The driver examined the expressionless face of his new-found companion in the light of the dash. He noted the worn garments, the shabby but clean shirt. He thought with amusement that somehow the hiker did not seem to wear his clothes but looked as though he were hiding in them, they were so large. A look at the face of the hitchhiker restrained him from men- tioning it. The driver decided to try another track. Where are you going. he asked. Marquisville. The hiker spoke without turning his head. Next town, isnt’ it. ” Yeah. Not very communicative, the driver thought. Have much trouble getting rides . The passenger turned and looked at him. Yeah. Most guys are kinda leary of pick- ing up hitchhikers. Scared they’ll get robbed. Something to that. I’m usually pretty care- ful, but you looked okay. Can’t tell by looks. Calmly. ’Course we usually pick out some guy with a swell buggy. In heaps like these there usually isn’t enough dough to make it worth while. Say, you sound like you go in for that sort of thing. I’m telling you now, I haven’t got enough cash on me to make it worth while. I’m just hardly getting along myself.” The hiker looked at him insolently. Take it easy, bud. Stickups aren’t my racket. The driver breathed somewhat easier again. Er — what is your racket. ’’ The calm blue eyes looked at him again. Questions like that ain’t exactly healthy, bud,” with accent on the next to the last word, but you look like a right guy, so I’ll tell you if you can keep your lip buttoned. Having been assured of this last statement, he went on. My name’s Reilly, Black Mike Reilly. I’m one of the Notlad boys. No.” The driver breathed his awe. I’ve heard of you.” Yes,” the hiker expanded, We’re the toughest mob east of Denver. We don ' t bother honest guys, though. We make our money from crooked politicians and racketeers who don’t dare squeal to the police.” Sort of like Robin Hood. ’’ the driver cut in. Robin Hood! That guy was a sap. Run- ning around with bows and arrows. Strictly small time. We’ve got a paralysis ray that’s quicker and easier. A paralysis ray, the driver said. Why, with that you could go in any bank. I said we don’t bother honest people. Right now we’re doing a little job with the F. B. I. We’re cleanin’ up sabatoors and spies. There’s a fifth columnist by the name of Curt Heyd- rich in Washington right now. He’s trying to overthrow the government. Masquerades as a big business man, but actually he’s an inter-

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THE SCREECH OWL 15 of traffic. It was red, and Ooley had a secret passion for red. There was no front door step, but then, who cares when one is searching for a room in the Capitol. Ooley immediately established squatter’s rights and burrowed his way to a bed-room. If some people,” he mumbled, can live on a shoestring, why can’t I live in an apple Everybody’s got to have a home — and a worm is no exception.” Ruth Pekkala, ’44. He Hs A Day of Drudgery Here are the seven phases of my school day: Arriving at school, I hang my coat in the hall and dash into my homeroom on the double without a minute to spare. When the bell rings I go to my first class by way of the lower corridor, which is like trying to get through Grand Central Station during the rush hour. In Pre-nursing I learn how to apply a splnit, revive a dead person, and mend a leg broken in fifteen places. After first period I return to the library, which is generally like a refrigerator, and pro- ceed to do the homework I should have done the night before. They claim the period is forty minutes long, but I have concluded that a gremlin pushes the hands around so that the forty minutes breaks down into fifteen, five of which I work and the rest of which I talk, or should I say converse? Third period I have a study also, and since there are only a few people in the room and no one is close enough so that I can carry on a conversation, I am able to settle down to work after five or six minutes of gaping around. Fourth period — ”Si, senorita.” You have guessed: I have Spanish. There are only a few in the class and therefore you just have to do your homework as you’re sure to be called on. At the end of the period the teacher allows me to get ready for the dash to the candy counter. With a nickel clutched tightly in my hand I leap with the rest of my starving com- panions toward the candy table. Finally, get- ting close to the counter, I reach out and grab something and give the nickel to the girl. Struggling, I turn this way and that to get out of the crowd, and when I finally do I dis- cover I have purchased a bar of Tasty Yeast, which is in the first place too small, second, not worth the effort, and third, just not tasty. I guess it will have to do, and with one gulp it’s gone. Then the bell rings and I go to fifth period. In Latin I say, Porto, portas, portat” until I nearly go mad and then the teacher an- nounces that we are about to begin a new and much more interesting phase of Latin. This new pleasure comes in the form of Duco, ducis, ducit,” and believe me it’s no pleasure. Then we are assigned our homework, which consists of ten oral sentences, twenty written ones, a reading lesson, two vocabularies, and a new declension. After this, anything would be a pleasure, anything but algebra. Math is so much fun if you can do it, but for poor unfortunates like me to whom X” doesn’t mean anything but what is put in at the end of a love letter, this class is a menace to human society. But with my knowledge I manage to struggle through forty minutes of x — 2x + 4=0. After algebra comes English, the final period of the day, and by this time I am so completely frazzled that I don’t know a noun from a verb. The time passes quickly and the bell rings at one o’clock, announcing the end of school. I return to my homeroom only to learn that I must come to school at a quarter to eight the next morning because I was two-sixtieths of a minute late this morning. So ends the day! Nancy Whitney, ’46.