Pekin High School - Pekinian Yearbook (Pekin, IL)

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iMIli li!l!li!l!l!ll!IIIIHI!illlll!lll!ll!lilllllllllli:i!llll!llll!lllll!lllll!ll!!!llllllllllllllll|l| I was now so used to his surprises that I did not change color at this one, but inquired casually the maiden name of John’s helpmate. Harley replied, just as casually, “Kate Rollins.” “And Kate did so love ice-cream,” I ruminated, “I marvel at her changed ideas. Speaking of Kate, makes me think of Lois Velde. What of her?” “O, Lois poses for the labels of the canned goods the lobster factory puts out,” Harley explained. And who owns this lobster factory?” I demanded. It isn't a lobster factory,” corrected Harley. It is a canned lobster factory.” “That changes the situation a trifle,” 1 acknowledged, “but come. I’ll bet it’s another class mate.” “So the story goes, and so it is. Miss Christina Petri, after making a careful study of all degrees of lobsters; and Miss Sadie Van Osdol, after making a careful study of how to do them up so as to satisfy the palate, have gone into the canning business and are making a success of it, too.” “Good,” I cried, “and how do they make their sales?” “O,” he informed me, “Amelia Hoffert has donated her services to the cause and is, at this time, illustrating an advertising pamphlet which they send to all parts of the U. S. Besides illustrating for this publication, Miss Hoffert does some notable work in ‘Shade’s Monthly', now published weekly.” “Ah, yes,” I responded, “and who writes the ‘ads’ for this canned lobster factory?” “O, that is done by Louise Ricketts,” explained Harley. “It is all done in poetry. Miss Ricketts has attained great fame as a poetess. She wrote the famous ‘Ode to Fried Eggs’.” “Indeed,” I replied. “Well, I must give her credit here. She is one person of verse that writes on a subject of which she knows something about.” “Yes,” remarked Harley, “and indeed, she knows a great deal about them. Her husband is so fond of them, you know.” “And her husband is —” I began. “Richard Allen,” he finished. “And to think after all of Dick’s planning to be a doctor, he has ended in becoming a movie star.” “That was naught more than a natural thing to do. Who is it, whose mind the thot never enters these days,” I said, “and who does he play opposite in his greater roles?” “Why, Elsie Waltmire, mostly,” replied the well-informed Harley, “but Elsie feels that she must withdraw from the cinema drama for her housework keeps her so busy.” “And her husband,” I ventured, fearful that I was tiring my patient conversationalist. “Why, Carl Soldwedel,” he replied, all alert and never letting me know how bad he needed nerve cure. “Carl,” he continued, “bought out Hyer’s and is running the pop-corn stand with great success. He has added Ginger-ale to his attractions, and, since Pekin has gone dry, you must know he does remarkable business along this line. One of his best customers is Walter Meyer.” “And Walter’s other occupation?” I suggested. “Is aeroplane agent,” supplied Harley. “How interesting,” I remarked. “And has Walter never thought of marriage?” “Well,” Harley answered, “altho’ Walter is not launched on the sea of matrimony, the fact remains that he has tried to leave shore more than once. He has proposed not less than five times to Vanita Schleder. Now Vanita has refused him with only one sole cause and that is she feels her duty toward humanity, and tours the country lecturing on ‘Lettuce as a Digestible Food’.”

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 aiiiPfffsewaj I congratulated him and rang a bell for tea and when it was served, we jj resumed the subject of old class mates. “Let’s see. Now there was Bill Nordhoff,” I hinted. “Yes, yes,” rejoined Harley, “Bill is chief grave-digger in the prosperous community of Sand Prairie.” “But Harley,” I remonstrated. “Bill was always of such a jocular turn of mind, and to think that he—” “Ha, Ha,” laughed Harley, “Maybe you’d sober down too if you lent some one a million and the person invested it in a munition factory which blew up the next day.” “Perhaps,” 1 answered. “But whom did he lend his precious million to?” To Roscoe Weaver.” continued Harley, “and that makes the seventh million Roscoe has gone thro'. “Poor Roscoe,” 1 whimpered. “Poor Roscoe’s wife, I’d say,” he laughed. What,” I gasped, “and whom, pray tell, did Roscoe Weaver ever decide to be good enough for him?” “Perhaps you remember Helen Glunz,” inquired Harley. “Well, she is Roscoe's chosen mate.” “indeed.” I mused. “Well, well! And who owned this munition factory g which blew up?” “Why. Clarence Heckman, responded Harley. “What! and did Hecky blow up with the factory and Roscoe's seventh million?” “Fortunately not,” this from Harley. “He was out of town at the time, paying a call to Miss Amelia Kraeger. “Great Scott,” 1 ejaculated, aren't they married yet?” “Not yet, but soon. he replied. “You see Hecky was ready long ago, but he lias been waiting for Amelia to finish her seventh domestic science course.” “Her seventh, I pondered. And where is Amelia studying now?” “She is in Chicago,” replied Harley, “and is staying at the Hill Hotel. Opie is proprietor of that, you know. He has made considerable money, but would be still richer were it not for a circumstance. “What is the circumstance?” I asked. “His wife,” returned Harley. “And who may Oscar’s spendthrift wife be?” I inquired tensely. “He married Dorothy Bailey of the Ziegfield Follies,” he remarked. Will surprises never end?” I questioned. “I don't know,” he returned. “I’m sure I thought not when I heard about our old friend, John Steinmetz.” “I am almost afraid to ask,” I said. “Is—is he dead?” “Well, I should say not—far from it. He is a great reformer. Why, he has even abolished the Saratoga from the streets of our old home town— Pekin.” That is a real surprise,” I admitted. “And what has become of the Saratoga?” “Why,” continued Harley, “He has changed it into Salvation Army headquarters.” ■ “Really!” I giggled. “I should not laugh at such a noble act, but to think that Baldy should think of that.” “Well, I should explain farther,” replied Harley. “You see, it was his wife who drilled these ideas of abolishing all places of amusement, even down to the ice-cream parlors, into his head.”

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“And have you ever attended any of her lectures?” I asked. “O, yes. She gave one in S. Bartonville about a month ago. and Frances Williams, who is a teacher of voice and harmonics in that vicinity, gave a lew selections to help along.” “And do any of our other old class mates patronize these educational lectures of Vanita?” I questioned. “I was over-joyed to find a number at this one,” Harley said. “Agnes Smith came over from East Peoria, where she is a police woman; Luella Carver drove her Ford all the way from S. Pekin, where she left a flourishing ice-cream parlor; Louise Helffenstein managed to cancel several social engagements and came over from Grove Siding—and it is at this place where she reigns society Queen—and Gladys Byram sacrificed a half-day from her work as Joke Editor for the Tremont Morning Blast; then, too, Julia Maurer came down from Peoria, where she was filling an engagement at the Orphing-ton Amusement Company as rag time singer. I think that was all.” “They certainly show spirit, I admitted. “And speaking of Julia's §§ stage success, are there any others on the legitimate?” “Indirectly, he said, “I read in the paper that Helen Soechtig had gone to Russia to learn toe-dancing. In the same column was an article stating that Martha Lauterbach wrote home, saying that she was enjoying her mission as war nurse in Africa. As I was there at the hotel reading, in came Irene Ripper, who immediately began a notable demonstration of the superior quality of Faust’s Macaroni. She prepared a dish before us all. after first assuring us that there was nothing hidden in her coat sleeves.” “A macaroni demonstrator! I gurgled. “And does she travel alone? “O, no,” he continued. “Immediately after she had exhibited her tact, Ruth Evans, her travelling companion, opened a neat little case and began a detailed oration, wherein she outlined the beauty values of her ‘Ruby Lip arid Cheek Rouges.’ O, it was interesting!” “I do not remember Ruth to have been interested along that line, particularly, but I do hope her sales are good.” “Yes, and they are,” he said. “Nellie Allyn, then in town for a visit, purchased some. Nellie is down in Florida raising cane, that is, sugar.” “And was she her only patron?” I asked. “One other,” he remarked, and his head was drooping low, “Irene Stumm. You have, no doubt, read Irene’s articles in the ‘Saturday Evening Roast.’ She writes the famous ‘Memoirs of a Bachelor Girl.” “O, Harley, we have named them all,” I cried joyfully. “W’a’s dat you say?” “I say, ‘we have named them all'.” “What you mean; de new kittens? Sure, we done named dem one week ago.” How ridiculous he was beginning to talk! No, it was not Harley, sensible little (I mean big) Harley, for my negress servant had entered into my conversation while I was talking aloud in my sleep. As I turned my sleepladen eyes toward her, she gave me a quizzical look, and after making a desperate attempt to suppress a titter, took enormous strides in the direction of quitting my company. By this time I had fully “come-to”, so before the || last inch of red bandanna disappeared, I called to her saying, “Becky, prepare luncheon for one more to-morrow. We are going to have a guest. It is Mr. Hecketsweiler, who was my History teacher when I was a Senior. He has quit the profession of Pedagogy and is now head-salesman of the Spearmint Gum Company. Of course, all this doesn’t interest you. Becky, but as he will be in the city tomorrow, I feel as if we ought to have him.” “Sho ’nough,” affirmed the faithful Becky, “Mistah—O. I can't reco- g member de name—but de Spearmint Gum man am welcome.” “And, Becky,” I continued, “won't you bring in some fuel? The hearth fire died out, and I'm nearly frozen—but happy,” I added. iiniiiiiiiiiHiiiiiMiiiiiiJU .....