Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 8 The Quality of Mercy Tlie whispering in the court-room ceased. The prisoner leaned eagerly forward. His chum, Tom Arnold, was going to the witness stand. How proud he was of this tall, good-looking man, who had been his friend, ever since their college days in the East. Young and full of ambition, they had come west in search of ad- venture and a fortune. In their wanderings they had met Harry Lane, a young widower, with an eight year old son named Bob. The four of them had settled in this little mining town and lived happily here for four years. Then Tom and Harry had quarreled. How well he remembered the night he had discovered Harry lying dead and how the authorities had found him bending over his friend’s body. Through all the long weeks, while he lay in prison, waiting for his trial, lie had never doubted Tom. Tom, he thought, would prove them both innocent, and they would take Bob with them far away from this place. He started up from his reverv. Tom was answering the attorney’s questions. “Are you acquainted with Arthur Stockton, tin prisoner?” Yes. “Were you living with him at the time of Harry Lane’s murder?” “Yes.” “Tell everything you know about the affair.” “I entered the house about dusk and saw Lane and Stockton struggling in the middle of the room. Before I could interfere, Stockton drew a knife and stabbed Lane.” The prisoner heard no more. One after anoth- er, thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind. His trust in Tom had turned to hatred. Tom, whom he had thought so faithful, had com- mitted this crime and was blaming him. The trial was soon over. The jury sentenced him to life imprisonment. II Several months later. Arthur Stockton es- caped from prison and hid for a long time in the woods. When he next went among people, he wore a long beard, walked in a shuffling man- ner, and kept his slouch hat pulled down over his face. Unknown and unrecognized, he lived in the midst of his former acquaintances. Tom, he learned, had taken Bob and gone away, but no one seemed to know where. When he should find him, he was going to kill him, to make him suffer what he had suffered, when he had been put into prison, falsely accused of killing his friend. Ill It was Christmas Eve. The moon shed its bright rays over the snow covered hill. The stars smiled down at the heavy pines silhout- ted against the white and at the little cottage, nestled in their midst. Outside the window a man stood, his face pressed against the pane, listening intently to what the two occupants were saying. They were seated before the fire, the man holding the boy on his knee. The light from the dancing flames showed to the eavesdropper his face covered with lines, which had never been there in the old days—lines, which told of sleepless nights, of a troubled conscience, and of untold suffering. lie was reading to the boy from a book which he had always loved, Shakes- peare's plays. The words faintly reached the ears of the man at the window. “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis----’ ” “The quality of mercy—. Arthur Stockton looked at the careworn face of his former friend and at the little boy, the one thing left for him to love. Could he, an escaped convict, hunted by the law, take the place of the man, whom this boy loved, whom everyone honored and respect- ed? He had nothing left in the world. Tom had Bob. His conscience fought a fierce battle with hatred,—and won. Cone was his mad de- sire for revenge; gone his hatred and his bitter- ness. In his soul, there remained a great pity for this man, to whom he was showing mercv. He decided to go back to prison, to spend the

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 by his comrades, to whom he was giving words of hope and encouragement. The stadium buzzed with suppressed excite- ment as the teams took their positions for the last struggle. Rows of ardent rooters leaned forward with rigid muscles, watching every move of the game. The whistle blew and the two forces rushed together, like hostile armies upon a field of battle. For what seemed hours to the spectators, the two teams swayed back and forth, neither making much headway. The min- utes were flying. There were but four more left and the score was still unchanged. Rob Whiting pulled himself together. “This must end,” he thought and with a firm resolu- tion to win or die in the attempt, he took his po- sition in line. Just then feeling his eyes drawn by some magnetic influence to the grand stand close at hand, lie gazed into a pair of deep brown eyes, in which admiration and scorn were min- gled. The owner leaned far over the railing and with hands clasped tightly before her. stared breathlessly at the big fellow, whom she secret- ly hoped and felt would win the game. He, meanwhile, for one long second looked into the eyes before him,—the eyes of a girl and a pretty girl, whom, by the red roses at her belt and the red banner in her hand, he knew for a sympa- thizer. He had never done such a thing before and the sensation was rather pleasant. But that one second was a second too much. The signals had been given and he had not heard. lie felt the ball passed into his hands but still seemed dazed. Then a sickening feeling surged over him, he had not the slightest idea what to do or where to go. But remembering the look in those brown eyes, he made a wild dash through an opening he saw and rushed madly on. Suddenly a blue figure leaped before him, and held him in a cruel grip. With a fierce jerk, however, he freed himself and dashed on. The spectators were tense with excitement. Not a sound could be heard but the mad rushing of the boys. , Bob sped on for what seemed ages to him, then something twined around his legs with cruel strength. He staggered and fell. A mad cry rose into the air—a cry of rage and disappoint- ment. Bob lay motionless for a moment, a dull pain throbbing within him. The game was lost, be- cause of him. Because he, the renowned woman hater, had gazed at a girl for one short second. He hated himself, he hated her and the world in general. If he only could die. Suddenly a hand grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him up. “Come on. Bob. Don’t give up yet. There are two more minutes.” Bob straightened up. The game was not over yet. lie still had a chance to redeem himself. Conscious of but this one thought he took his place. Not, however, without casting a glance of scorn at a little brown figure leaning far over the railing. “I will win!” he cried to himself. The whistle blew. The signals were given and the ball again passed into his hands. He felt himself pushed by his comrades through a struggling mass, he himself fighting this way and that; first an open place, then a mass of blue, now he was down. A cry again rose into the air.—a cry of joy not rage,— mad delight, not disappointment. Bob heard nothing but this cry. A cry from the enemy, he thought, at his defeat. With this ringing in his cars and a pair of brown eyes gazing into his, he fell into a stupor, in which he lay for many hours. • As the first waves of consciousness swept over him, he showed no signs of life, for indeed he had no desire to live. But when he heard the words of his friend, “Some water, boys, he’s coming to,” a sickening knowledge of the whole thing swept over him, and he groaned aloud. “Oh, come on. Cheer up. Gee! if I was the hero of hundreds of people, I wouldn’t lie around groaning!” cried his comrade jovially. “What?” cried Bob, “I. a hero? A fool, you mean.” “A fool nothing. Didn’t you just win a game which we have fought for for years? Some peo- ple don’t know when they’re well off.” “I won the game,” Bob repeated dreamily. “Oh”-----he added and turned over to dream of brown eyes and curly hair. Katherine P. Reed, ’ll.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 rest of his now useless life in serving his sen- tence. As he turned to go down the hill, he heard in the distance the village clock strike midnight. It was Christmas morning. In his heart there was peace and good-will toward men. IV A few days later, he rode into the prison yard on a tired horse. He was half frozen, hut his eyes glowed as brightly as the fire in the little cottage had burned on Christmas Eve. Two guards lifted him from his saddle. “What’s that lie’s raving about? one asked. “I don’t know. Something about mercy and heaven. Viola Jackson, 1914. Christmas in an Alley Christmas Eve was almost here. That was plainly evident from the Christmas greens, the crowds of shoppers, and especially the familiar figure of Santa Claus standing outside Mason’s, X--------’s largest department store. Tom Kelly, in regulation whiskers, smile, and red coat, was exhibiting a choice collection of toys and en- couraging the artless youngsters to confide both their desires and their addresses to a sym- pathetic ear. The kind parent would then be in- formed that Mason’s had just what Billy want- ed; the firm found this a very effective adver- tisement. That job had been a great stroke of luck for Tom. Good-natured but inclined to be shiftless, be had drifted along for some time without work and without a prospect of any. lie had always had a soft spot in his heart for children and so he was a great success as Santa Claus; even the little ragged ones were not afraid of him. Early, one particularly cold morning when the largest crowds had not yet appeared, Santa Claus, who was looking in the store and wish- ing he was there, was startled by a hoarse voice behind him. lie turned and saw a shapeless bundle which appeared to be a man’s cast off coat from which a grimy face and purple hands emerged. “Well, my little man. what can T do for you?” asked Santa Claus with his habitual, encourag- ing smile and gentle manner. “Say,honest, does youse bring kids what dcy wants?” asked the urchin. “Certainly, if you are a good little boy,” re- plied Santa Claus, using his carefully prepared stock phrases from habit. “What do you want me to bring you?” For answer the boy pointed to the nearby win- dow. A placard announced an unprecedented bargain sale of campers’ outfits. A prominent position was held by various sizes of sleeping bags. “See that little one; that’d be just right for Jim and me. You see Jim ain’t used to the cold like me. Course I don’t mind it but he’s only a little feller.” “Fer the love of Mike, and where do you live then when you’re wanting a sleeping bag?” de- manded Tom, no longer as Santa Claus. “Don’t tell nobody. The cop mightn’t like it. Back in a corner of------alley we’ve got a bar- rel and a big box. It ain’t very cold neither. I sure was in luck to find it. And say,” he rat- tled on, “I’m in the boot blacking business an’ anytime you want yer shoes shined come to me. I’ll do it fer nothin’. Look at that there shine!” and he stuck out one foot. lie had on a ladies’ cloth topped shoe but with the bottom brilliantly polished. “I have to keep ’em that way fer an advertisement. I’ve got to be going now to tend to my business, he added importantly. “But say,” he turned back once more, “I think Jim, he’s such a kid. would like somethin’ kind of Christmasv, like striped candy or one of them white woolly dogs.” And he darted away before Tom Kelly could answer him. “Say, what do you know about that?” asked Tom. “Gee whiz!, it’d be a shame to disappoint that kid, but what can I do, dog-gone it. On Christmas Eve as Tom entered the store he was met by the manager. “Your time’s up.