Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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THE ENTERPRISE ’2 3 broke away, kicking the Colonel over as he did so. The Colonel ruefully pointed out the bruises even now. So he had a good reason to be careful. “It is not anything hard this time, Colonel, jest to hold as stakes Pete’s and my week’s wages, till Blacky beats Finnegan all to pieces.” answered Hal. “No, until Finnegan wins, Colonel, ’till Finnegan wins,” inter¬ rupted Pete angrily. “Surely, I’ll hold them for you. What did you say the stakes was! Your week’s wages ' ?” asked the obliging Colonel. “No, they’re not,” came a sudden voice fom the doorway, and Pete hesitatingly said, ”Er, Bridget I, I’ll win an’ you’ll be able to have a new dress fer Sunday. Come Bridget, come now” wheedlingly. But Bridget spoke up uncompromisingly, ‘‘Ye’ll do nothing of the kind while I have anything to say about it.” ‘‘Nor will you, either, Hal Rooney,” added Martha. The sight of the two portly women, sleeves rolled above their arms, hands on hips and good natured faces set in lines of determination, quite discomfited the luckless husbands. ‘‘Well, maybe we could bet somethin’ else. I’ll bet ye my pocket knife that Finnegan can beat Blacky. Does that suit you, Bridget?” asked Pete, looking at his wife helplessly. So the bargain was cinched, pocket knife for pocket knife, and the men wandered off to make their plans. How they looked forward to that fight and surely they were not disappointed in the start. The cheering and shouting of the men only served to excite the birds all the more, and flapping their wings and fly¬ ing) jumping, pecking and rushing, the fight continued thick and fast. Back in Matha’s kitchen, the two women plotted some way to stop the fight, and fate came to their aid. Pal, the Colonel’s big playful collie jumped right into the ring and teased those roosters until they deserted their own fight and joined forces, against a common enemy. Then Pete and Hal joined in the fight, but Pal only grew the more play¬ ful, the more mischievous and would not be stopped. Finally between cocks, men and sticks, he was caught and taken away in disgrace. Once freed of Pal, Finnegan and Blackey started at each other again, though panting and tired. Then Bridget had an ideal, a great idea. She sent word to Pete that his cow was in the sheriff’s corn, Pete gabbed Finnegan and ran for home. That ended the fight but Pete told Hal, ‘‘Wait until the next time Hal Rooney.” Once in the barn yard, Pete put down Finnegan and turned to care for Prince. The lust of battle was still on Finnegan’s brain and he instantly flew wildly at Pete several times and at last gave him a sharp vicious peck on the hand. With a roar of rage and pain, Pete grabbed the axe and brought it down on the cocks handsome head. — 26 —

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THE ENTERPRISE ’2 3 “No mum, that wouldn’t do, mum. He protects the flock and warns them when the hawks come, mum,” and so he won that point. But not so with Bridget. She would accept no compromise and almost daily demanded that lie he killed. “I’d do it myself, but he’d kill me first,” she would declare. So in the house, Pete had no pleasure. He had to stand the oppos¬ ition of the whole family, but n the barnyard he was happy, enjoying the company of his pet all the more because of the opposition against him. It was Pete who taught Finnegan to fight by teasing him with his foot. All his spare time he spent teaching tricks and, at two years of age, Finnegan was as thoroughly a fighting cock as Pete’s patience could make him. Next to caring for Finnegan, Pete loved to boast of his prowess to Hal Rooney, his croney, who claimed that Blacky, his black, Minorca, could fight any rooster living. Together they crowed over tlieir respect¬ ive cocks as they sat in the doorway of Hal’s house. “I tell you, Blacky is the best rooster living. Yer Finnegan don’t stand a show with him,” boasted Hal, one quiet sultry day, as they leaned back their chairs and smoked their pipes. “Now I tell yer, yer all wrong, Hal,” broke in Pete, “and this is why. Did you ever see an Irishman give out! No. Well, Finnegan’s Irish all over. His name’s Irish and his color, red, takes the place of an Irishman’s red hair, and, above all, lie’s got an Irish temper. Oh yes, he’ll fight like an Irishman and win. “You’re jest imaginin’ that, Pete,” answered Hal, testily. “Blacky may be black, but lie’s Irish at heart, and that’s what counts.” “You’re all wrong, Finnegan’s the best.” “Blacky’s the best, I tell ye. Yer old cock’s just full of bluff and show. I wouldn’t have him fer a million,” replied Hal hotly. “You, you,” Pete fairly choked with rage. “Listen here. I bet you all my next week’s wages Finnegan can beat that fool Blacky to death, and I hope he kills him.” “All right, if yer want ter lose yer wages, all right, I can spend a little more. Here comes the colonel. Let’s get him to hold stakes. Then watch yer old Finnegan get beat,” crowed Hal. As these two friends sat wrangling and quarreling, old Colonel Simpson, veteran G. A. R. man, came limping down the street. At the call of, “Hey, Colonel,” he turned, and stumped toward the Rooney cot¬ tage and called, “Wliat do you two hot headed fools want this time?” The colonel could well be cautious as to what he joined in with Hal and Pete, for he could remember his former experiences. It had not been very long ago when they had hauled him from his bed at midnight to accompany them in an exploration of a haunted house, because he was not afraid of ghosts and would frighten away the spirits. And the last time was worse than that. The two had an argument over the size of a half tamed horse’s hoof and they asked the Colonel to hold him while they made an examination. The horse did not like that meddling and — 25 —

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THE ENTERPRISE ’2 3 “There, ye’ll cause me no more trouble or pain, 1 bad enough and I won’t stand it,” and with the rooster slung over bis shoulder be tramped into the kitchen, flung it down on the table and growled, “Here’s something for dinner to-morrow, ain’t supper ready yet?” And the whole family breathed a sigh of relief. HUBERT KELLY, ’24. The Speeder Long years ago, in days of old, When speeders were considered bold, A boy who still was young and green Could burn up lots of gasoline. He did not fear, so folks aver, To speed through town at sixty per. He was so clever for a time He was not fined a single dime. But times have changed without a doubt Though other boys still speed about. But here’s the difference — note it well; There is another tale to tell; The Speed Cop waits at every turn For him who has much gas to burn. The boy who shows how good he feels By turning corners on two wheels, Will find as sure as he is born The judge will give him cause to mourn. If you can’t tell just “where you’re at” Until you mash some fellow flat, You’d better price your boat for sale, Than spend at least ten days in jail. The moral is — now get it straight — If you go speeding soon or late, You’d better learn before you pass, 4 6 Step on the brake and not the gas!” HAROLD WAY. — 27 —