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

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 26 Philip Vernon, Jr. rose from the g’reen plush pullman chair and stretched his six feet two in a manner ungentlemanly for a three-day alumnus of Harvard. He walked out on to the Grenville platform and engaged the only taxi that was on hand. When he arrived home, he found that only his mother and grandfather were there to greet him. His father would be back in time for dinner. Philip visualized the arguing that he would have to do in order to accept that position, but he would do it if it were his last act on earth. How could anyone be content to bury himself in a town like this for the rest of his life! Mr. Vernon came in and greeted his son warmly. “Junior,” his mother began at the dinner table, “it’s so nice to know that you are home for good. I’ve missed you so much. But now I’m very glad that you will be with us all the time,” she finished with a contented smile. Yes, it certainly is nice to have you home,” his grandfather put in, “and now that I’m getting old, you’ll be taking my place in the business.” “Oh, it is coming,” Philip thought. I’ll be hanged before I’ll spend the rest of my life here.” His flow of thoughts v ere cut short by his father’s voice. “I’d like to see you in the library. Junior.” Well, Junior, ’ he began after he had settled back in his chair in the libraiy. It ouve done good work in college but not once have you men¬ tioned what you intended to do. Haven’t you anything in mind?’’ Philip’s mind became a whirlwind. Here was the time to tell him! Don’t give him a chance to object! But he failed—all that he could say was. Well, Dad, I have a position in mind with the United Cigar Company, but I’d have to go to Havana.” He waited for the objections, but instead his father smiled. “Well, I’m no mind reader. Junior, but I thought that a smart boy like you must have something in mind. I think that will be great. Just leave your mother and grandfather to me.” Philip jumped from his chair and grasped his father’s hands. “Oh Dad, I never thought you’d understand. You living here all your life and never going anywhere. I thought it was understood that I was going into the business.” Mr. Vernon made no reply but merely gave his son a smile that puzzled him. Louise Cenedella, ’31. THE SCOOP. (A Short Story.) In a room on the third story of an apartment house in foggy London, Cyrus Braggdon, highly esteemed radio lecturer on capital punishment, lay on the floor with a dagger through his heart. He left the studio at 9.45 that fatal Monday evening. Fifteen minutes later he was dead. I managed to slip in to his rooms by means of my card from the Daily Tribune. Detective Sergeant Rice looked at me coldly. “Well?” he grunted. “Reporter, sir,” I answered, offering my card.

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24 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. THE HAND OF A FATHER. (A Short Story.) Philip Vernon rose from the green plush pullman chair, stretched his six feet two in an undignified manner for a Harvard alumnus of three days’ standing, and walked to the platform of the Grenville station. “Philip, dear!” his mother cried in sheer joy. He embraced her warmly and then shook hands with his father in a more reserved way. As the three rounded the corner of the station, Philip stopped in amazement. “Why, father, you’ve bought a new span of horses and carriage.” “Yes, Philip,” his father answered. “We bought them for you.” “Now that you’re home for good, Philip dear, we want you to have everything and be just as happy as any boy in this town,” said his mother. Philip shrank within himself. How could he tell them of the offer to go to India with the United Coffee Company? But he must do it before the night was over or he would never be able to tell them. “We’ve invited a few of your old friends in to-night,” Mrs. Vernon told her son as they arose from the dinner table. “And Mary Randolph will be with them,” his father added with a sly smile, but before you meet them, I want to see you alone in the library.” After Mr. Vernon had settled back in his chair behind the beautiful antique mahogany desk in his library, the bomb-shell came—as Philip felt that it would—although he had no idea of what it would be. “Philip,” his father began in a very serious and determined voice. “I am pi cud of you. You have proved yourself to be the boy that I’ve always wanted you to be.” He paused. “And for that reason I am going to take you into the business. We will form a partnership.” Philip stared. For a full minute the room was deadly silent. Then he began. “But, Father—.” “Now, no ‘but father’ about it.” “I knew you’d take it this way. Don’t tell me that you don’t deserve it and all that sort of bosh. It’s settled. You are now a member of the firm and you will soon learn the business. Even X A, j. n . l noAv you do. Say no more about now but tell your friends to-night, and tomorrow we will go to Lawyer Parker’s office and have the papers drawn up.” With this he walked from the room. How long Philip sat there he did not know. Life itself seemed to slip from him. The things that he had dreamed of were never to be fulfilled he thought with bitterness, and he could see nothing but a drab existence in Grenville for the rest of his life. He rose and went to his room. He took some stationerv from his drawer. He sat down at his desk and wrote: Grenville, Tenn. Mr. J. H. Mason United Coffee Co. New York City Dear Sir: June 19, 1900. I am very sorry to inform you that I shall be unable to accept the you offered me. An unforeseen happening makes it position in India that utterly impossible for me to accept. Very truly yours, Philip Vernon.

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26 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. I learned that a man from Number 14 had put in a call for help at the downstairs switchboard. The operator put the call through to Scotland Yard, and shortly after, the room was filled with its representatives. They found no clues. Nothing. The coroner ex amined the body. When he finished he said to Sergeant Rice, “The body is ' in an unnatural position. The leg, horribly twisted, has been broken. I perceive no signs of any struggle. He’s stabbed three inches through the heart. The dagger was evidently used as an envelope opener, for there is a tiny scrap of paper stuck to the hilt.” “Then,” put in Rice, “why wouldn’t it go through the opposite side of the envelope? The dagger is fully five inches long; an ordinary envelope is only four at the most.” “You misunderstand me,” he said coolly. “I didn’t mention the num¬ ber of times it was used; I merely said it had been used.” He handed the Sergeant the large square envelope he had picked up off the table. “Here, Sergeant. Five inches, approximately.” Rice was about to open it when the Inspector entered. Rice submitted the envelope to him. The coroner explained the situation, when he finished, Richard King, the fingerprint expert, announced that he had found no fing¬ erprints other than Braggdon’s. “How do you know they’re Braggdon’s?” said Inspector Darney. “Because I have already compared them with the prints of the de¬ ceased.” “You knew him?” “Yes.” “Hm!” mused the Inspector. “Anything else?” “Well, there’s a deep scratch on the leg of the table.” “Perhaps Mr. Braggdon tripped over it and broke his leg,” I remarked. “Sorry,” King eyed me with amusement. “Mr. Braggdon never wore leather heels and this scratch couldn’t possibly have been made by rubber ones.” I relapsed into silence. “There are no fingerprints on the dagger, or anywhere else. I have examined everything quite thoroughly,” King went on. “As for enemies—” “Yes, of course,” said Darney. “His vehement speeches against the criminals have made many.” The inspector opened the envelope. “Queer,” muttered Darney. “It’s dated ‘April fifth.’ This is the twenty-ninth. Why should he just be opening it now? Otherwise, it’s only a fan letter.” He evidently judged it unimportant for he threw it on the table. I made a copy of it. It read as follows: “April 5, 1930. “My dear Mr. Braggdon, “I appreciate your speeches but warn myself quite sternly, as you re¬ ceive many, many letters, not to expect an answer to this humble one. “You speak very, very well. On Monday I enjoyed your speech. I am sure you will do your utmost to kill criminology in the underworld. If it’s in your power you will, I am sure, do so. “Respectfully, “J. G.” I was about to throw it down again when it occurred to me that it was strange that he should bring this letter home when doubtless he received