Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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 We kept up the stately ceremony for a week, without a let-down, till Sunday afternoon when I met Elizabeth in the reception hall, dressed for the street. “ Where are you going? ” I asked. “ For a walk, I guess.” “ Why don’t you drive? ” said I rather reprov- ingly. She regarded me with a curious expression and then said, “I can’t ride alone in that big carriage. I feel as though everybody were examining my last winter’s hat which I still wear. I much pre- fer to walk. You’d better walk with me.” “ No, I was coming down from the pool room this afternoon and got lost in the conservatory. I’m completely tired out.” After supper that evening we sal quietly in the library, a room tastefully arranged with leather hangings and massive furniture of black walnut, with rich oriental rugs in deep crimson laid over a highly polished floor. “ It’s a bit gloomy in here,” I said, “ let’s go into the drawing room.” “Oh, no! It’s so stiff and slippery in there,” replied Elizabeth. “ We’d better stay right here,” she continued quietly, and then with a burst of frankness, “ I’ve tried every room in the house, and I don’t seem to fit a single one. Don’t you wish we could find a little cosy room, where we might escape from this graudeur for a breathing spell, once in a while? ” We had had just eight weeks of it, when one night Elizabeth came in to dinner, her face full of joy. “ Oh, I know what you’ve been doing,” she cried, “ I saw you on the other side of the street as I was going into the flat.” “ Yes, I’ve been making arrangements to rent it,” I added with as much of an off-hand manner as I could assume. “ We’ve got to live somewhere when the St. Clairs come back, and I thought I might as well give in to you.” “ But isn’t this a bit early to be renting it? ” Elizabeth persisted. I glanced at her face as she spoke, and we both burst into shouts of rather shame-faced laughter, to the great horror of two rigid footmen who rightly regarded The Palace as a place sacred to gloom and grandeur. “ I can’t live in this tomb another week,” I con- fessed when we had got out of range of the foot- man’s ears. “ Can’t we arrange it some way?” “Let’s steal away tomorrow and leave the key under the mat,” giggled Elizabeth. “ IIow about the Sr. Clairs? ” I asked hesitating- ly, with some slight twinges of conscience. Elizabeth picked up a letter from the table and flourished it triumphantly. “ They have changed their plans,” she shrieked, and will be back Friday.” I think that when we thanked Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair for solving the “ house problem” for us, they didn’t fully understand what it meant. j Zhc StrenuosftE of School Xife It was about half-past three of a certain Monday afternoon in the middle of March. The janitor was peacefully reclining in his Morris Chair (?) in his sumptuous apartment in the basement, regaling himself with a piece of classic literature. Sud- denly sounds and outcries from the upper story reached his ears. After a moment’s serious con- templation, he arose from his bed of leisure, and stood listening. The sounds increased in volume and intensity, and our valiant kuight of the coal- hod no longer hesitated, but arming himself with a poker and a jack-knife he stealthily commenced to wend his way skyward. At the second floor he stopped to listen. Over his head the mysterious noises redoubled in power. Lightly and grace- fully our noble hero surmounted the last flight of stairs and breathed a sigh of relief as l c neared the scene of conflict. Now came his strong de- tective instincts; murderous cries, and the scuttle of many feet might have had a tendency to confuse a less able man, but without hesitation or fear our gallant swain betook himself straightway to the door of Room 12 the Chemical labratory. Seizing the knob of the door he gave a mighty pull. The frail barrier yielded to his persuasive powers, and he entered. What a scene of carnage and deso- lation met his eyes! Back he fell through the door in a faint overcome by his exertions. The scene presented to his eager eyes was this : four charming young senior girls of the cooking class playing hand-ball up against the black-board with cream of tartar biscuits. “ All the great men are dyiug and I don’t feel very well myself.” B—ltz—er, ’05.