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Page 42 text:
I Dorothy Rohrs, will my artistic ability to Mr. Wayne Alvord in order that his classes won't suffer so when he tries to draw an illustration on the blackboard.
I, Mary Alice Renfer, will my famous smile to Vivian Puterbaugh.
I, Beef Sturm, do hereby bequeath my excellent scholarship, high I. Q., and regular appearance on the honor roll to Leonard Olt.
After relinquishing these, our most beloved possessions, we do hereby hope that we will remain in the highest esteem of the students and faculty at PCHS and that they will profit by their newly-acquired talents. We do hereby sign and seal this, our last will and testament, on this------th day of May in the
year of our Lord, 1942.
Signed: The Senior Class of 1942
Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde
You say you have a desire to write for the Pekinois, to be a reporter and roam the halls of PCHS pounding your story out from the history that is being made within the walls of your good old immature Alma Mammy. You want to write about the guys and gals and about that certain cut-up in your fifth hour class and a dirt column with all the up to date dirt about your fellow students. You may even get an inspiration and write a sob story about your favorite teacher or maybe a feature responding the praise of the basketball or football team, to the very rafters after a killer-diller of a game. The polished key to the halls of journalism lies in English 7A, where you will first enjoy the privilege of being a very green cub reporter. As the first fundamentals are taught to you and you sit soaking up information of what to do and not to do, you have a swelling premonition that you are really going to town in the class and write a couple of pages of news in no time. Then comes the ultimatum; three stories a week or else. Or
else what? Or else you have three the next week. Oh, that'll be easy to sit down and run off three stories, but the editor seems to have different ideas than you, because she rejects those stories you were sure would go over with a bang. Dejected and entirely deflated, you try and try again, and are at last rewarded with a corner on the sports page or with a spot on the editorial page for that feature story
about the team. Success comes steadiyl after that, and you may rate a by-line every week, but you will never be prouder than when your first story was printed in the Pekinois.
Without pictures, a newspaper or a senior issue would be as dull and uninteresting to high school subscribers as a Congressional bulletin would be to a grade school child. Advertising, the movies, in fact every means of written comunication is based on the theory that illustrations catch the public eye faster than any two-inch headline could. Because of their importance on a newspaper staff, the photographers should receive much of the praise due the publication itself. Richard Waltmire, Miss Jean Trowbridge, Mr. Paul Chronic, and Argel Allen have, throughout the past year, been the mainstay photographers for The Pekinois. A great amount of the wide-felt appreciation for this year's paper has been due to the persistent hard work of these camera enthusiasts.
Page 41 text:
With the help of El Haren and Martino, we have been able to look into the future and make a few predickshuns of things to come. We shall look into the goings on of some of our fine seniors 20 years from now. So take a time capsule and come along.
Our first stop is the “Last Stand" saloon, deep in the heart of Dry Gulch, Arizona, owned and operated by “Black Bill' Gasper, the only remaining member of the famous Piro gang who is not serving time. Things are going full swing as we step thru the batwing doors and come face to face with celebrities galore. Thru the door leading to the Casino, we spot Rich Rapp, the last of the famous Jackson Hole gang, playing the roulette wheel, surrounded by his bodyguards, consisting of Warren “Ace" Ferguson, the noted six-gun artist; Bruce Brisendine, Ace's right-hand muscle man, and Kenny “Brass Knucs" Miller, a torpedo from the Bowery. At another table, we find Paul “Moose" Folgiano, ex-pug, sharing his winnings with "Red" Cramer, one time moll and night club blues-singer, while Amil Massa, Chicago aristocrat and author of “Man's Job at Home," current best seller, looks timidly on. Suddenly a side door flys open and out swaggers Jack “Rocks" Rogers, blowing blood off his knuckles and dragging a very unconscious Charles Q. Meyers behind him. Seems like they caught Meyers, local W. P. A. chief, slugging the gum machine. Sitting in a far corner, your roving reporter spots Bob Herget, Tammany Hail boss, sitting with a couple of his ward heelers, mainly Walter Cannon, ex-subordinate of the Kelly-Nash machine, and Dominick Ingolia, racketeer and one-time bootlegger. Directly across from them, “Hank" Vanderheyden and his fiancee. Miss Jean Rogers, sooper-dooper film celebrity, are drinking a toast to celebrate “Hank's" promotion from a yard bird to a buck private in the Lost Creek dawn patrol. Bob Haas, oil magnate and playboy, is seen chatting with J. P. Hackler, the financier, while M ss Mary Galbraith, millionaire spinstress, and Miss Hattie Martens, soda jerker from the local five and ten, look on delightedly. The lights are dimmed as the 9:00 o'clock floor show begins. On the bandstand we find thot popular bandleader. King Carroll Runkle and his seven slaves, playing a popular rendition of that old favorite, "You Can't Brush Mo Off the Relief," with the vocal being taken by that ever lovely baritone.
Alphonse O'Hara. That select dance team of Johnny "Scat" Skaggs and Jean Powers
swing into a rhumba while George "Jim Jam" Glassford pounds out the tempo on the skins. We leave this popular rendezvous, frequented by the upper 401 of Dry Gulch's society, and moke our way amid a hail of flying bullets, ,resulting from a pitch gun fight between Bob Trumpy, South Pekin's new mayor, and Bill "Brains" Sevier (mouth-piece of Phil Luff's desperate Hash Knife gang) to our rocket ship, from which we head for "Shanty" Dick Flynn's dive on the banks of the Little Mackinaw. We stop down town long enough to have a new bank of rockets installed in the ship and to buy a late edition of Superman comics, and then we continue on to the Little Mackinaw. Outside the door leading to the inside of Flynn's newly-opened dance hall and shooting gallery, we encounter Bernard "Benny" Lampitt, chief of police of Dry Gulch, selling life insurance, while inside a brawl is in full progress. Fritz "Blacker-Than-I-Am" Joestings, swamper and head bar-fly, has taken one glass of water too many and is manfully trying to clean out the place (with the help of a broom and a bucket of water). At this moment, the chatter of machine gun fire breaks the peaceful silence and with a crash, the lights go out, ending our little visit into the future.
We, the graduating seniors of PCHS, feel that we should leave some of our most cherished possessions with the students remaining here for them to remember us by. We have looked into their most urgent needs, and do hereby will and bequeath those things which we feel will be the most beneficial to them during the remainder of their time at PCHS.
I, John Houston, will my ability for missing my entrances in band to the fortunate Ted Johnson.
I, Jack Hockler, bequeath my seat in penalty hall to Walter Fluegal. I trust he will find it comfortable throughout the coming year.
I, George Glasford, will my technique in getting white slips for admittance to cats to Fritz Joestings. We trust that Dean Grigsby reads this in the proper light.
I, Lois Jean Arnold, will my red curls to llene Ozella.
I, Ned Hough, will give anything but Vera Pearl.
I, Kenneth Miller, do hereby bequeath
my many feminine admirers to the popular man-about-town John Sommer.
I, Jean Powers, will my graceful dancing ability to Jo Ann Heckman.
I, Warren Ferguson, do bequeath my speaking ability (with gestures) to Roland Petrie.
I, Howard Freidrich, leave my much-respected position in FFA to Bab Heisel. May he have more good luck with little calves.
I, Adeline McDaniels, will my afterschool life in Mr. Hall's cubbyhole to some girl who hates the wide-open spaces and oxygen.
I, Howard Schappaugh, will my ability to blush without a cause to Kenneth Bailey.
I, Bob Stallings, leave my noon walk up All Eliza with Donna Jean Snyder and Helen Hayes to anyone going that way.
I, Virg’nia Leitch, leave my bewitching freckles to Don Winkel, the Winkel Orchestra heir.
I, Margaret Lutz, do hereby bequeath all the accumulated waste paper in my locker to Bill Sevier, paper committee expert.
I, Paul Sudberry, will my graceful skating form to the Tibbs' swins — both of them.
I, Mickey McClain, leave my ability for getting letters from men in the army to Betty Brees.
I, Toar Grant, leave my managership of the a'hletic teams to Johnny Widby, who knows what a swell job it is.
I, Coleen Poeble, will leave my horse to Mary Hansen in exchange for a couple of good, still-treaded tires.
I, Kenneth Wade, will my energetic, a!ways-in-a-hurry manner to Shirley Janssen.
I, Walt Mohr, will my first-aid bandages and Red Cross kit to Boy Scout Richard Leiby.
I, Marie Shutters, will my loud mouth and over-enthusiastic chatter to Jackie Jenkins.
I, Russell Woodmancy, leave my strong-arm tactics and wrestling ability to Joe Schaller.
I, Mary Galbra'th, leave my "ughs" to Helen Cannon who loves to sit in study hall (after sk'pp'ng breakfast) and small meals cooking in the foods room. UGH.
I, Gold e Whtimore, leave my refined and cultured ways to dignified Virginia Hagney.
I, Dick Seogar, will my trusty tennis racket to Bill DeVault, who probably never saw one.
I, Edie Simoncini, will my dark locks to Hermine Groen.
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