Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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6 The Golden-Rod “We’ll see who’s right, me or him,” he soliloquized, chuckling with satisfaction. The garments were crammed into a suit-case and shoved under the bed. That night at supper George timidly asked, “Pop, can I go over to Jimmy Nichol’s house to spend the rest of the week? His mother says she don’t care if ! come.” “Go ahead,” was the answer. “You’d go anyway, so I might as well say yes.” Supper over, he made hasty preparations. So, after his mother had seen that he had several essential articles and had drilled him on manners, he departed. Bright and early next morning while the Roydens were at breakfast, the front door bell began to jangle violently. “Confound it!” exclaimed Mr. Royden, rising from the table. “Who’s out this early?” He opened the door and there on the steps stood an unexpected spectacle. The vision was a uniform of vivacious red with big sparkling brass buttons. The uniform was filled by a person with the blackest face, broadest grin, and whitest teeth he had ever seen. “Am yo’ lookin’ foil a first-class butlah?” questioned the sight. “Yes, but why?” asked the bewildered Mr. Royden, not comprehending the situation. “I’m him,”said the black person, grinning even more broadly while he pointed at his flashy breast with a long, bony finger. “Come in. Come in, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” The butler stepped inside and stood twirl- ing his hat on his finger while he shifted from one foot to the other. After a whispered conference, they decided to give him a trial. Mrs. Royden showed him his room. “You will begin right off,” she explained, “as I see you’re all ready. But where’s your suit-case?” “Nevah had one ob dem things.” “Is that all you have?” she asked, point- ing to his uniform. “Dasall.” “Well, come and I’ll show you where to begin.j, He followed obediently. The day quickly sped. Aside from trip- ping over the rugs and placing the white sheet last in the bed the day was very success- ful for Rastus. (That was the name he had given, adding that people “call me mos’ anythin.” When Mr. Royden came home from his office that night, Rastus met him in the hall. He took his hat and coat and hung them up with great dignity. Rastus also brought him the evening paper, lighted his cigar, and procured his slippers. He created quite an impression on Mr. Royden. At supper that night Rastus’ luck took a decided change. First, he tripped over the rug at every trip between the kitchen and dining room. Also, he put salt in the sugar bowl when requested to refill it. These things made Mr. Royden sputter wrathfully. Things reached a climax, however, when Rastus spilled the cream all over the table. “Confound it, you black rascal! Have you got any brains at all?” roared Mr. Royden. “Don’ know. ’Spects I have,” Rastus answered rather reproachfully. Things quieted down somewhat until Mrs. Royden noticed black spots all over her clean linen table cloth. “Rastus! Rastus! come here quick!” she called, rising from her seat. “Comin, Missus,” sang his voice among the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. “Whah’s mattah?” he asked as he shuffled into the room. “Let me see your hands,” she said, pre- emptorily. “Wha’ foh? Der’s nothin’ de mattah wid dem.” Nevertheless he reluctantly produced them. Straight to the sink she led him and soon plenty of water and soap was administered. A dirty white began to appear. Mrs. Roy- den gasped. “Leggo! Leggo o’ me!” wailed a voice with which she was familiar. The scrub- bing continued with added vigor. That night George sneaked into the library,

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The Golden-Rod 5 care of me. They don’t want children, boys in particular. Thet never had much to do with me till my parents died.” “Were you planning to change your name?” continued the racer. “Yes,” said Roy. “I’ve changed it al- ready.” Winston smiled. “You’re prompt,” he said. “What do you call yourself?” “Billy Irving,” was the quick reply. “Well, Billy,” said Winston rising, “as you say, it isn’t in my line, but I ’ve got reasons of my own. How about terms?” “How much do you charge?” Winston mused reflectively. “I guess fifty cents a lesson will be all right.” he said. “When do I start?” queried Roy thereafter Billy) quickly. “Well,” said Winston, “You go out and find a hotel, and if you’re ready to begin to- morrow morning, report here at ten o’clock.” Billy did not trust himself to speak, but nodded briefly and went out. As the big clock was striking ten the next day, Billy entered Winston’s room. “Everything all right?” queried his teacher. “Yes,” replied Billy, “I’m staying at the American House.” “Then,” said Winston, “we want to get down to business.” He led the way to the garage where the cars of the racers were housed. Over in the corner was a long, low racer, tapering to a point at front and back, with long, tentacle-like ex- haust pipes at the side. In front of the low seat was a wind-shield, attached so as to offer the least resistance to the wind. On the red back was painted the number, 7. Billy gazed upon it in admiration. He rubbed his hand caressingly over the slick body. Then Winston climbed in at the wheel, and motioned Billy to the place beside him. Winston headed out into the country, and Billy’s first lesson was begun. (to be concluded.) Brayton Blake, ’17. RASTUS. George Royden sat curled up in his father’s arm-chair absorbed in a book spread before him. When George took such a position he was lost to the world. Suddenly a strong hand took a firm hold on his wiry neck and began to shake him. “Leggo! Leggo my neck!” he managed to gurgle between the violent bobs of his head. The hand relaxed and the stern voice of his father boomed like a Krupp Gun as he stooped to pick up the book. “What kind of a dime novel are you reading now? Huh, “How to be a Detective.” More trash.” “’Taint trash. You told me to read in- structive stuff that would help me in life,” answered the boy, all the time keeping an eye on the door and calculating if he could make it in three jumps. “And it tells how to disguise yourself,” he went on. “Huh, listen! The idea! Why, you couldn’t make yourself look different if you turned in- side out. Get out!” George made a hasty exit, marching double time as he knew he was persona non grata. He went directly to his room, as he always did when he was angry. There a sudden thought smote his brain. Bright thoughts rarely did so or his brain would have long since been wrecked. He would show his father that he could disguise! Accordingly he quietly left his room, and. after a hurried reconnoitering, entered that used by the servant. It was, at present, not occupied, for Sam, the butler, chamber maid, cook, etc., had been discharged the day be- fore. The reason was that Sam had taken too much liberty with Mr. Royden’s cigars. George opened the closet door and began flinging garments into the room. After picking out the required attire, he returned to his den.

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T h e Golden - Rod 7 where he found his father seated in the arm- chair, taking luxurious puffs at a big cigar. “Pop,” he exclaimed, exultantly “who said I can’t disguise myself?” “Huh, you better get out before I lick you again,” answered Mr. Royden, chuckling to himself. —Russell C. Johnson, ’17. SCARABAEUS MUMMY. (Continued) “Such a long and dreary night,” moans the captive as he nervously watches the ascend- ing moon. The chanting and evening songs of the Bedoins have ceased and all is wrapped in deathly silence, broken only by the melan- choly notes of a turtle dove perched on a dwarf olive snag growing among a pile of crumbling rocks in view of the prison window. Slowly the moon ascends, casting its misty purple shadows on the cold, solitary prison. It has at last reached its zenith, and;the captive with a triumphant jump springs to the door, inserts the key, gives it a twist, and the massive door swings noiselessly open. Cleopatra sits mounted on a small white Arabian horse among the rustling palm trees like an immovable statue. The breeze gently parts the veils about her face, exposing a countenance of rare beauty. It is this picture that is disclosed to Von Hohenlohe as he trudges over the sand in the direction of the oasis. His heart leaps with joy as he nears her. Pointing coldly to a horse, she motions to him to mount and, without uttering a word, silently leads the way down the palm-girt path and out into the open desert. Suddenly shouts and cries that the prisoner has escaped fill the air and the camp that they have left behind them is all astir. The escape of Von Hohenlohe was undoubtedly discovered by one who was set on guard and has spread the news among the sleeping Bedoins. The chief soon appears and orders his men to mount as quickly as possible and follow him. Leaping into the saddle and digging the spurs into the Hanks of his horse, he dashes down the path through which, only a few moments l e- fore, Cleopatra and Von Hohenlohe had van- ished. The moon gives insufficient light to dis- till guish anything a great distance away, but reasoning out which path they have prob- ably taken, with a few hurried orders to his men, he plunges forward with ten or twelve of their number following him, their sabres clashing against their stirrups and their turbans flying in the air. Steadily they cover ground, rising and sinking into the dunes. “We are discovered! They are closely following us!”gasps Cleopatra as the heavy panting of their horses and the thud of the footfalls reaches her ears. “Spur your horse, we have yet some chance of out-running them.” The pursuers are now on the rise of a dune and the pursued in the trough. “Oh, Allah, forgive me!” Cleopatra cries when she sees that their capture is inevitable. “I should rather die and my bones whiten on these vast deserts unknown than be discovered thus by my father.” At the close of this simple Egyptian speech she draws a small pearl handled dagger from the folds of her silken garment and muttering “My escape depends upon you alone,” thrusts its sharp point into her heart, burying it to the very hilt. She falls face downward, pale and limp, upon the neck of her terrified horse and still firm in the saddle is borne by it into the sight of Von Hohenlohe, who dazedly clutches his forehead, unable to collect his thoughts, he is so astounded and horrified at the suicidal actions of the one who has set him free. But! What is that, that glistens upon her exposed arm? It is a band of beaten