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

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THE OAK, LILY A ND IVY. 23 “Curly” Ogden was also getting ready to go to North Bend and he was telling his wife how sorrowful John must be, for his son was barely pass¬ ing and couldn’t win even one scholarship his whole four years. But “Curly’s” son was valedictorian of his class, had won all the scholastic prizes, and had showed up John’s son to perfection. That night two trains were bound for North Bend, one from New York, the other from Chicago, and within each, a middle-aged man was happy and content. William Murray, Jr., ’32. FREDDIE GETS THE BREAKS. Freddie leaned over to unbuckle the straps of his snowshoes. Straight up the mountain the long line of poles climbed toward the sky. Somewhere ahead lay the trouble Fred was to find and repair. Fred was the “trouble shooter” in block three of the telephone line. His block extended fifteen miles east and west from “Pleasant Grove,” as he had named his shack. In the winter the snow lay deep in the lonely mountains, and he had to walk the distance on snowshoes. Fred had faced disappointment, and up to this time the breaks had all been against him. He had hoped to get enough money to complete his ath¬ letic training. He leaned his snowshoes against the test pole and shook the snow from the spikes of his climbers. At the top of the pole, he unstrapped his safety belt, passed it around the pole, made it fast, setting the spikes of his climbers firmly into the soft wood. Connecting the test set, a light portable telephone, he rang. He recognized the answering voice as that of George Perkins, the wire chief. “What are you doing on the line?” Fred demanded. “I’m trying to get the test board.” “I’ve got an eagle eye on you!” “Eagle eye!” Fred hooted into the frost covered mouthpiece. “You central office guys ought to get out and get some fresh air.” “Say, Fred!” Perkins’ voice grew serious. “I’ve got a message for you. The coach from college was in here Saturday, and he says if you can enter the second semester, you’ll still be eligible to make the baseball team.” “That’s white of him,” replied Fred; “but I can’t make it. Financial depression. I’d have to have at least five hundred dollars more than I can save out of my salary as a rusty wire twister.” “Wish I had the money, Fred. I’d see you through. You’ve got a radio at your shack. Did you hear that talk last night on ‘Getting the Breaks’? Keep trying. Maybe something will break . . .” “Keep still or something’ll break that you’re not looking for!” Fred interrupted. “I’ve been trying to forget it all day. Get off the line and let me call the test board before I freeze to death.” There was a click as Perkins broke the connection. Fred rang again and the long distance operator, seventy-five miles away, answered. “Test board, please!” was his request. “Test board!” sounded the mechanically toned voice of the test board operator.

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. John eyed him keenly. “Curly” was always like that, shifting the praise to some one else. He noticed that “Curly” was none the worse for that terrific game he had played that afternoon, and he looked the athlete that he was. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and in splendid condition. His chocolate-colored hair was curly, while his eyes were blue. His face was tanned and in a way, good-looking. But it was his hair that caught your eye. With one hand he pushed it back from his forehead, as if from habit, and then leaned back comfortably in his chair and closed his tired eyes in contentment; but his hair stubbornly refused to stay back and re¬ sumed the same position as before. “Too bad you couldn’t make the trip,” continued “Curly.” “There were 110,000 people at the game.” “Yes, I know,” answered John quietly. “I listened in, but I couldn’t have made the game on time because I had that Math exam at one o’clock.” “Curly” nodded and said, “I forgot about that exam and I expected to see you between the halves. Anyway, the game’s over now, and it doesn’t matter.” With these words he rose and approached the window, hiding behind the curtain so no one could see him. “So the whole college won’t come up,” he explained as John smiled. “The boys are sure cutting up tonight,” continued “Curly,” “but I am kind of tired and I think I’ll hit the hay. Good night, John.” “Good night,” John replied. “I think I’ll go out for a while.” He slammed the door and “Curly” heard his familiar footsteps resounding down the hall; then another door slammed and all was quiet. “Curly,” after the excitement of the day, found it difficult to sleep. The image of John Hadley with his horn-rimmed glasses seemed to keep him awake. Yes, John was a queer fellow, there was no denying that; but John was his friend. Ever since that day four years ago when they were thrown together by accident into the same room, they had been friends. But when he began to think of John, he realized how little he knew of him, except as the class grind. “Curly” himself had managed to keep well up in the middle of the class in studies, but could not compete with John. He knew this, and, in spite of his athletic prowess, was not altogether satisfied. However, what could he do about it? Reaching the point of mental, as well as physical exhaustion, he fell asleep. The following June they both were graduated. At commencement it was the same old story to both of them. John, capturing all the scholastic prizes, remained alone, while “Curly,” winning all the applause, was always sur¬ rounded by a group of admirers of both sexes. Yet both were dissatisfied, and as usual said nothing of it to each other. Twenty-five years later, John Hadley was a successful writer of New York, was married and had one boy and a girl. The boy was a Senior at Mid-Western. “Curly” Ogden was a successful architect at Chicago. He also was married and had two girls and one boy. The boy was a Senior at Mid- Western, too. In fact, the boys roomed together just as their fathers had done before them. It was nearing June, and both fathers meant to be present at gradua- tion. In New York, John Hadley was telling his wife how surprised and hurt ‘ Curly” must be because his, John Hadley’s, son was president of his class. Phi Beta Kappa man, and the most popular all-American athlete in college, while “Curly’s” son couldn’t even make the football team.

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24 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. “Trouble shooter talking on pole 4639,’ ' Fred reported, “Your trouble measures eighty-three miles from here, and you have about five miles to go. Can you make it before dark?” “Yes, but I’ll have to go home after dark. You office guys have a nice warm snap. How’d you like to be roosting on a pole up here in the hills with the mercury around zero and going down?” “I’d rather have a job that takes brains—like this one.” “Says you? How come you get it?” With this Freddie loosened the safety belt, and descended the pole. He retrieved his snowshoes and buckled the binding straps that held them across his ankles. A mile further he stopped to examine some tracks in the snow. “If those aren’t wolf tracks, you can fan me with a brick! Too big for coyotes. Fresh tracks too. I’m mighty glad they’re in front of me and going the same way I am, and I hope they keep traveling fast.” At the next pole he rechecked with Perkins, who gave him the news that Williams, trouble shooter in an adjoining block, had seen wolf tracks the day before. Fred replied that he had followed their trail about a mile, and much to his relief found it veered off up a canyon, but that he had his gun if they did come back. Fred soon was on the trail again and towards five o’clock he was within view of the mountain top where he was to detect the trouble. As he drew closer to his destination, suddenly he stopped. On the trail under the telephone wires were several black specks moving slowly up the mountain toward him. He guessed that they were wolves and as he watched them, a long low howl verified his opinion—the hungry cry he judged it to be, from talk he’d heard from hunters and trappers regarding wolves and their habits. Between him and the pack was the crossed-out pair of wires, six poles down the line from where he stood. The pack was twelve or thirteen poles beyond the trouble. Another bad break,” he muttered, stooping at the foot of the nearest pole to unloosen the straps of his snowshoes. The wolves had not seen him, and if he remained quietly hugging the cross arms, there was every chance that they would pass beneath him. and never see him. But at the leisurely gait at which they were travelling, stopping to make little excursions of investigation off the trail, it might be an hour before they passed beyond view of him over the mountain. “No!” he muttered, jerking the buckle tight and straightening it. “That trouble’s got to be cleared, and by the time they’re gone, it’ll be too dark to see it. Im going to fix it first!” He ran towards the pole whef e he was to repair the trouble. The leader of the pack caught sight of him and gave utterance to a joyous howl, the others joining the chorus, and with great leaps and bounds they came pouring down the trail toward Fred, who, with snowshoes on, raced headlong towards the wolves. Which would reach the pole first— the wolves sensing supper for their slavering jaws, or Fred, to whom it meant the discharge of his duty at the risk of a fearful death? He set his teeth tighter as he realized what would happen if he could not remove his snowshoes before the wolves reached him. He thanked his lucky stars that he made a practice of wearing his climbers while walking his block, and equally was he grateful for the resilient muscles and splendid wind his hard training in athletic sports had developed. With one dive he reached the pole as the nearest wolf floundered in the snow, thirty feet from where Freddie’s swift but careful fingers worked with