Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN- ROD want ter get rich, don’t try ter be honest. Gentle- men look at me. I came ter this ’ere city barefooted and ragged, now look at my good clothes ! ” They consisted of a pair of his father’s trousers, cut down, and a patched shirt, while his bare toes stuck through a pair of ragged shoes. “I didn’t get them by being honest, I was so poor, then, feller citizens, that I hadn’t a cent in my pocket, now its full of ’em.” Here he jingled a half a pint of coppers. “ But I didn’t come honestly by them —no-sir-ee, I got ’em government contracting. I say, feller citizens, I was so poor that I lived on one cracker a day; now I dine on turtle soup at the Parker House.” When he said that, they tipped over the barrel and he spoiled his good clothes by falling into the mud. There was more truth than fancy in poor Mike’s story on one cracker a day, for once, when his mother, who was never strong, was too sick to work, the family were reduced to one cracker apiece. If the newsboys had thought there was any truth in it, they would never have called their friend “ Crackers,” but would sooner have made up a purse for him on the spot. As soon as he had sold out to Spider for two cents, he started on the run for home—if the dark musty den in a miserable alley off Salem street, could be called a home. His mother, who was sick with a headache, had her head tied up. “ Here is some money, Mike, just tell the grocer to send me two ounces of the best tay, and some bread and a little sugar.” “ Take away yer money,” replied Crackers, “ haven’t I a pocket full of the same, as a man should have that has a family to support? ” The boy threw down a large handful of cents on the table. “ Don’t touch ’em, Pat, you rogue,” as his young brother made a dash at the pile, “ here’s one, a bright one I’ll give ye, and I’ll take ye along to buy a stick o’candy. Hold on, me boy, let’s have another look at it,—Gold, by cracker! ” he cried. “ Indade it is that, Mike,” said his mother, ex- amining it. “ Five dollars. Hooray! Let’s all go up to Copeland’s to ice cream and oysters. Come on, Pat.” “ But where did you get it, Mike ? ” said his mother. “ How should I know who ’tis that throws gold bits round in such a fashion? Somebody gave it to me for a cent, just as I did to Pat. What? I saw the old feller give me a new cent, with a watch chain as big as yer finger and a white vest. lie won’t miss it.” “ Well, if you keep it, you will grow up to be a thief. You should carry it around in your vest pocket, and when ye see the man again, just ask him has he missed a pocket-piece.” Mike was earning money bravely now, and many comforts found the way into their house through his hands, but he and his mother said little about the schooling that he was missing and about which he felt badly. About a week after the discovery of the gold piece, somewhat to his disappointment, he saw the “ Old Fatty ” coming down the street. “ Have a paper, sir, Journal, Traveler and Herald?” He shook his head. “ I bought one of you the other day, I dare say, but I just bought one up the street,” said the man. “ I think there was some mistake about the change. Did you miss a gold piece ?” “ Why, yes, Nelly’s five dollar gold piece, that her uncle sent her from California. I went to the jeweler’s the very next day to have a pin made of it, and no gold piece was to be found.—Just my luck ! I must have given it away to some rascal for a cent,” said the old gentleman. “Well I guess not, mister, you gave it to a gentleman, and that’s me, sir, and here it is. Here’s yer evenin’ Herald, Journal and Traveler.” “ Look here, youngster,” said he, walking around to him to attract his attention, “ What shall I give you for your honesty?” “ Nothing at all. I don’t ask a cent for being a thief. It’s your luck you fell in my way, sir. Next time you throw round yer gold pieces, see that yer among honest fellers, like me.” “ What can I do for you?” replied the old man. . “ Well, if you insist upon it, give me your card, sir, and I will sell you a paper at your office, if it’s, on my beat, sir.” “ Confound the little rascal,” thought Mr. Wales, for that was his name, “ how does he know I have an office instead of a store. Call about five o’clock tomorrow, at----Tremont street,” he said to Mike. “ All right sir, have a paper? ” The Old South clock was striking five when Crackers entered Mr. Wales’ office the next day with his papers. “ Journal? ” said he. “How much money can you make a day? What is your name?” asked Mr. Wales.

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THE GOLDEN - ROD smaller a good deal thau the boys had caught from the bank. “ Well, if this is the size we are going to get for all our trouble ’ said Tom, “ I wish we’d either stayed at home, or left the boat and fished from the bank. But then, we’ve only just begun, and we’ve got plenty of time yet. It isn’t twelve, but I begin to feel hungry already. This boat isn’t any too dry, either. Oh, I put our lunch under the seat, and if the water has reached that, our dinner will be pretty well spoiled.”. “ Well, you better find out quick,” said Leo, disgustedly. “ We’ll have to go without our dinner if it has.” Imagine their disgust to find the box floating around in the water and almost everything in it soaked. One sandwich on top had not been touched, but what was that for two hungry boys ? They were both pretty well discouraged. “ I say, let’s go ashore and rest for awhile, and then fish from the bank; I’m sick of this,” said Leo. Tom began to wind in his line, when the pole almost bent double, and the reel began to buzz at a rate that threatened to break the line. Tom lost his balance and almost fell out of the boat. This time it really was a pickerel, for both boys saw him when he jumped, and he was a beauty. Tom played him for awhile, and in a few minutes more the fish gave up and was pulled into the boat. “ Isn’t he a dandy ?” said Leo, as the fish lay gasping and flopping in the boat. “ He’ll weigh at least three pounds, and he’s as fat as a butter-ball. That’s the kind we came here for. I knew there were big ones here if we could catch them. There are so many little herring in the pond that I guess the pickerel have about all they want to eat. Our lunch is spoiled, but I’ll tell you what we can do, we can go ashore and make a fire and cook the small pickerel. It won’t be very much, but it will be something, and he’s almost too small to take home.” They rowed ashore, and Leo collected wood for the fire, while Tom cleaned the fish. The boys were so busy that they did not notice that the sun had gone behind the clouds and the sky was dark. But just as they had started the fire nicely, and the pickerel was about half done, it begau to sprinkle, and in a few minutes it poured in tor- rents. They had just time to grab the fish and run for the old mill to escape a drenching. The fish was hardly worth eating, but the boys ate it with a relish, and with that and the sandwich that had not been spoiled, they had to be content. The storm passed in an hour, leaving the boat and everything in it extremely wet. “I think I’ve had enough of this kind of fishing,” said Leo. “ It’s almost two o’clock now, and with the muddy roads, it will take us a long time to get home. I say let’s quit and start home.” The roads were so muddy that it was very hard pushing, and it was almost five o’clock before the boys got home, and pretty tired boys they were, too. “ I don’t think the day has turned out quite as well as we expected,” said Leo, as he left, but we had some fun, anyway, even if we did have to work for it.” v Crackers’ Luck A STORY OF A BOSTON NEWSBOY. By Clifford Bean, '07. “ Here’s yer evenin’ Herald, five o’clock, full account of the great railroad accident. Herald sir?’ “ Give me a Journal, boy.” “All sold out, here’s the Herald; lastest in.” This man was a stout gentleman, with a heavy gold watch chain and a white vest. He dropped a couple of coins in the hand of the newsboy, who put them into his pocket, while he repeated his cry. The sound was re-echoed at every street corner as far as you could see. “ Most all sold out, Crackers ? ” called out a new boy from the opposite side of the street. “ All but two. Buy me out, Spider, I want to go home this minute. “ Going to the great auction sale on Beacon street, to buy that house, I suppose,” said Spider, coming half-way over to buy the two papers. “No, sir, going the other way. My agent is out of town, and I must make some heavy purchases on Salem street,” which meant that he must go home and buy a loaf of bread at the baker’s, and two cents worth of milk at the corner grocery. The real name of our young friend was not Crackers, but Mike Mulloney. But almost all the newsboys had nicknames, and Crackers got his one day in the newsboys’ alley, while they were wait- ing for the last edition of the Herald. Spider was so-called from his long, awkward legs and arras. He had just sung the latest popular song per- formed in the negro minstrels, with immense ap- plause, when Mike Mulloney mounted an empty beer barrel, and said: “ Feller citizens, if you

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THE GOLDEN - ROD “ Michael Mulloney, Crackers for short—I can make all the way from fifty cents to two dollars ” “And go to the theatres, and treat your chums to oyster stews when work is brisk? ” questioned Mr. Wales. “Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t,” said Crackers, advancing toward the door. “Good evening, sir.” “Wait a moment, my boy.,r Mr. Wales scratched away on a sheet of paper. “ Take this note to your mother.” He fumbled in his desk while he sealed it. Crackers gave the letter a shove down into the bottom of his pocket, and went out crying “ papers,” down the street. “ Here, Mother,” he said, “Fatty sent you a letter. I guess there’s fifty cents in it for my honesty.” Mrs. Mulloney opened it, and a hundred dollar note fell out. She gave a startled cry of delight, and gasped with surprise. Never in all her life had Mrs. Mulloney seen or had in her possession a one hundred dollar note. She could supply all her wants and put the remainder in the bank for her boy and send him to school the next week, and Mr. Wales would come around and see that she was all right. Crackers did not want to have Spider know it, but he found it out, as he was missed on his beat. He and his mother moved into light and airy rooms and a sewing machine took the place of wash-tubs. Crackers sat in the new home and studied his books. Crackers graduated from the High school; and after a four years’ course at college, he entered business. Some months ago he married the only daughter of Mr. Wales, and eventually he wil] share with his wife, the immense fortune of the old gentleman. - Crackers still clings to the motto: “Honesty is always the best policy.” j Did you ever have the feeling that you were a sort of wild animal on exhibition? No? Well then tell me how you feel when you come down stairs about one o’clock and see all the freshmen of the afternoon session lined up in the corridor watching you. The Palace By Marion E. Lewis. “ Then where shall we live this winter? ” cried Elizabeth as the curtain went down after the fourth act. “ You will not even consider a flat. Very well, I absolutely refuse to spend another week in that boarding house.” This was the end of a long controversy made possible by the intolerable dullness of the play,—a discussion in which the only point where we agreed was that it was a mistake to try to econo- mize by spending nine-tenths of our time in a most uninteresting and dismal boarding house, in order that we might show ourselves in good society with an occasional burst of extravagance. “ I’m sick and tired of being poor,” she said at last. “ I’d like to live in a great house full of servants, and soft lights, and velvet silence, with a large library and music room. I know that I would not be bored and restless, like those pale-faced crea- tures who usually live in such magnificence.” This outburst was cut short by the rising of the curtain. When leaving the theatre, we met Mrs. St. Clair, one of what I generally called Elizabeth’s “ high-life friends.” As she was about to step iuto her carriage she called back to my wife, “Come and see us tomorrow without fail. I have a suggestion to make.” “ Probably some old charity affair,” remarked Elizabeth as we dismally climbed to the Sixth Avenue Elevated. “ Perhaps she is going to give us her house in town,” I added imaginatively. “You were right,” Elizabeth fairly shouted when I returned the next evening to our forlorn little rooms. “ She wants us to have it, to go and live in her Fifth Avenue Palace for the winter, while she and her husband are in Venice ; servants and horses all at our disposal. Just imagine ! ” The dinner bell interrupted here, and we post- poned our debate over the situation until evening. Naturally enough it did not take us long to decide to accept the invitation. The next few days were spent in preparation and anticipation of our new pleasure, and at last we were really settled in Mrs. St. Clair’s home. Our first dinner was served amid much grand and stately stiffness, butlers stauding around like iron dogs, a footman breathing on the backs of our necks, and such hushed and reverent air that we scarcely dared talk aloud.