Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 25 with a heavy loss—an unwise investment in the West—and I wanted time to think it over and decide how to act.” “I see,” answered the clerk, respectfully, for Stark’s word led him to think that his guest was a man of wealth. “Do you think it would pay me to go West?” he added “I do, if you know some one out there.” “But I don’t know anyone.” “You know me,” said Stark. “Do you think you could help me to a place, Mr. Stark?” “I think I could. A month from now write to me, Col. Philip Stark, at Denver, Colorado, and 1 will see if I can find an opening for you.” “You are very kind, Mr.—I mean Col. Stark,” said the clerk, gratefully. “By the way, I am sorry that I shall probably have to leave you to-mor¬ row.” “So soon?” “Yes. It’s this tiresome business. I shouldn’t wonder if I might lose ten thousand dollars through the folly of my agent. I shall probably have to go out to right things.” “Lord, I couldn’t afford to lose so great a sum of money,” said the young man, regarding the capitalist before him with astonishment. “No, I expect not. At your age I wasn’t worth ten thousand cents. But that’s neither here nor there. Give me a light, please, and I shall go up to bed. The young man had noticed with some curiosity the rather oddly shaped bundle which Stark carried under his arm but forebore to ask any questions about it. It seemed queer that Stark should have it with him walking. He remembered seeing him go out in the early evening, and he was quite confident that at the time he had no bundle with him. Plowever, he was influenced only by a spirit of idle curiosity. He had no idea that the bundle was of any im¬ portance or value. Phil Stark went up to his room, and setting the lamp on the bureau, first carefully locked the door, and then removed the paper from the tin box. He looked at it lovingly, and tried one by one the keys he had in his pocket, but none fitted. As he was experimenting, he thought with a smile of the night clerk from whom he had just parted. He took out his wallet, and counted seven dollars and thirty-eight cents. “That can hardly be said to compose wealth,” he thought, “but it is all I have over and above the contents of this box. That makes all the difference. Gib¬ bon is of the opinion that there are four or five thousand dollars in bonds, and he expects me to give him half. He must think I am crazy. I 11 give him fifteen hundred and keep the rest for myself. To-morrow I must clear out from Mil¬ ford, and give it a wide berth in the future. I suppose there will be a great hue and cry about the robbery of the safe.” Phil Stark, or Col. Stark had a large supply of keys, but none of them seemed to fit the tin box. The evening had been rather an exciting one, but the excitement was a pleasurable one, for he had succeeded in the plan which he and the book¬ keeper had so ingeniously formed and carried out, and here within reach was a rich reward for which they had struggled. In a short time Staik fell asleep and slept until morning. It seemed to him that he awoke rather suddenly from his slumber, and saw Gibbon leaving the room with the tin box under his arm. What a dreadful thing to have happened!

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24 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. prison, and felt the cool breezes as they swept in from the sea. He approached the bridge railing and peered over as countless others had done before him. Slowly the desire to plunge into the deep black water crept over him, and as this feeling numbed his mind, things that might have happened suggested themselves. Why hadn’t that old fogy of a musical director at home retired? What did he want with more money? Oughtn’t he give someone else a chance? Even these questions brought back the idea of returning home to the old job and Peg, who had so earnestly pleaded with him not to leave. Would he ever forget her as she was the night before he left? Her creamy skin silhouetted against the dark mahogany of the piano, her slender legs swing¬ ing back and forth, and her lips parted in a smile that together with her eyes reflected the affectionate interest she had in him. With all his love, would his haughty pride allow him to return to her a failure? No! A thousand times, No! But why waste time considering these silly questions? Why not end it all now? And this, it seemed to his distorted mind, was the easiest way. Could that impene¬ trable void have any more trials and cares than his present existence? As this feeling began to dominate him, a counter response arose and he was conscious of a desire, of a need, to return to the rooming house. Something seemed to be drawing him there. Finally giving in, he wended his way over the bridge onto the main walk. But that something seemed to impel him to greater speed and his ambling gait changed to a steady, brisk walk. As he neared familiar streets, this feeling grew and he found himself in a frenzied sweat, turning from his now half trot to a panting run, as his house loomed into view. He ran up the stairs and into the hall. Groping for his mail slot, he sensed a gnawing doubt. Perhaps this impulse had been nothing but the result of a distraught mind, but as his fingers closed on an envelope, all uncertainty fled. As he fumbled for a match it seemed ages before the soft gas light filled the room. He gazed at the telegram. Tearing open the yellow envelope, he read aloud: “New theatre finished Thursday. You have been appointed musical director. Come at once.”—Peg. As the paper fluttered to the floor, Joyce Tramway realized that a kind and watchful God had once more assumed the directorship of his affairs. Lyman P. Callery, ’27. THE TIN BOX. Philip Stark went back to his hotel with a tin box under his arm. He would like to have entered the hotel without being observed, but this was impossible, for the land-lord’s nephew was just closing up. Though not late for a city, it was very late for the country, and he looked surprised when Stark came in. “I am out late,” said Stark, with a smile. “Yes.” “That is late for Milford. In the city I never go to bed before midnight.” “Have you been out walking?” “Yes.” “You couldn’t have found the walk a pleasant one.” “You are right, my friend, but I didn’t walk for pleasure. The fact is, I am rather worried about a business matter. I have learned that I am threatened

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26 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. He awoke with beads of perspiration upon his brow, awoke to see by the sun streaming in at his window that the morning was well along, and the tin box was still safe. “Thank Heaven, it was only a dream,” he murmured. “I must try again to open the box.” He took from his pocket a button hook, and after a little tiresome experi¬ menting opened the lock. He lifted the lid eagerly, and prepared to gaze upon the stolen bonds. But over his face came a startling change. An ashy look of disappointment followed the glowing, hopeful look. He grabbed at one of the folded, silver looking pieces of paper and opened it to find nothing but mere waste paper. Overwhelmed, he sank into a chair in a hopeless posture. John C. Lynch, Jr. THE WOODEN BRIDGE. The Major paced up and down the room, his hands tightly clasped behind him. “The lad’s so young,” he thought. “I wonder if I dare trust him. But then, if he had courage enough to volunteer to go down there and get the papers, I think he must be trustworthy. He seemed to want to prove to me that he could do it.” “Jameson,” he called as he stopped in the middle of the bare unfurnished room. A door opened, and a man dressed in the uniform of a Colonial Whig entered. “Yes, Sir,” he said saluting. “Go and get Daniel Webb.” The door closed softly as Jameson left. The Major continued his pacing until a tall young lad appeared on the threshold. “Yes, sir,” he asked, his keen brown eyes flashing and his face illuminated with the spirit of adventure. The Major motioned to him to be seated at the only table in the room, and drawing a map from his pocket, he placed it before them. “I hope you understand fully the danger and seriousness of this errand which you plan to undertake. To-night at half past eleven you are to be at this wooden bridge which crosses the river about here.” He placed his finger on the map. “Here you will find a messenger waiting for you and you will be given these papers which are so very important to us. Take every precaution that is necessary, for you are going on a dangerous errand. The pass word is ‘son of liberty.’ ” He rose and Webb turned to go. “Good luck to you,” he said as they parted, “and may the Lord be with you!” The figure of Jameson crouched back into the shadows of the dark passage as Webb passed down the hall. He laughed triumphantly, “The Lord be with you! Humph, I guess He’ll need to be with you, and the sign is ‘son of liberty,’ ” he mused. “Ha-ha, Major Wayne,” he whisperd with a sneer, “you didn’t know that your dear Jameson was a British spy!” At eleven o’clock that night a lone rider was galloping swiftly along the river road in the cold and heavy rain. But soon another rider appeared quite a distance behind him. The first figure turned with a start in the saddle. A shot