Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 7 text:

The Golden - Rod 3 THE RED DEVIL, NO. 7. Part I. In the darkened living-room at 65 Kemp- ton Road, Pleasant Valley, N. Y.,a boy sat motionless, with his head on his hands, listening dully to the monotonous ticking of the clock on the mantle-piece. With heavy strokes, it struck the hour of seven. The noise penetrated through the silent rooms, and into the brain of the stooping figure on the chair. A moan escaped him as he raised his head. Mechanically, he moved across the room, and reached for the matches as if in a dream. He struck a flame, and touched the wick of the student lamp on the table. As the flame burned higher, it threw its shadow fantastically across the boy’s countenance. It lighted up a mass of brown, curly hair, thrown back in a pompadour, but now sadly disarranged. The deep set eyes, matching the color of his hair, looked sunken and haunted. The well shaped lips were compressed in a straight line above a de- termined jaw. His whole appearance was one of utter despair, as indeed it might be, for a great sorrow had come to seventeen year old Roy Gordon. But five days pre- vious he had received a telegram from a town in New Jersey, saying that his parents had been killed in a railroad wreck, on their way home from Florida. Poor Roy, he had re- lated the sad facts by telephone to his near- est relatives, an aunt and an uncle. They had come on at once to take charge of the funeral and to assist Roy. It was now even- ing on the day of the funeral, and they had left for their home, to arrange for the moving of their goods to Pleasant Valley. Roy, left alone, thought deeply. Only the day before the arrival of the fatal telegram, he had been intensely interested in the news- paper accounts of an automobile race. He had always had a mania for speed, and had been interested in races, auto races especially. An idea suddenly same to him, a stupendous idea. He cared nothing for school, or play, or home any more, now his parents were gone. He would be through the high school in a year anyway. Yes, he would do it. He would go to Indianapolis, where the drivers were quartered, and become the pupil of one of the racers, but which one? The boy pondered. “Yes,” he mused aloud, “the very one. Old Jack Winston is the cream of them all. He knows more about autos and auto racing than any one out there. I ’ll be his pupil—if he’ll have me. I’ll slip out tonight, leave the door unlocked, and write a note to Aunt. But the money; I can’t get mine from the bank till I’m of age. Where can I get it?” Then he recalled the visit of one of his father’s tenants that day. He had left thirty-five dollars as his monthly rent. His parents would never need it, he sadly reflected, and added to five of his own, would be just forty dollars to carry him to Indianapolis. He would be economical, and find work as soon as he got there. With Roy, to think was to act, and at once he hurried to his room, took from his drawer fresh underwear, shirts, collars, and ties, and hastily packed them, together with his toilet accessories, in his suit case. He then procured the money, and after considerable thought, wrote the following note: Dear Aunt, Much as I would like to live with you and Uncle Jim, I cannot remain where old memories would constantly come before me, so have gone West., Don’t try to find me, for I shall change my name, and find work somewhere. Your loving nephew, Roy. He then went down the front stairs, and out the door, leaving it unlocked. He took a final look at his home, and turned his face toward the station and the West. About eleven o’clock that night, a very stiff and tired boy slowly walked toward the

Page 6 text:

2 The Golden-Rod vicinity, and it is hardly ever used. Mr. Thompson has followed the track game for years and knows the game from start to finish. Mr. Paulson also knows the game and is willing to give his services. If the boys do not respond, these men cannot show their coaching abilities. More spirit is needed, and when the call for candidates for the inter-class meet comes, let everybody respond. Robert Davis, To. I wonder how many girls have seen the. last editorial in one of our latest exchanges, the February “Tripod. How many of you read the editorials carefully anyway? How many gain something from them? Again, I will ask:—How many girls have read this editorial? It asks why the girls of that school do not start an athletic association like the boys. Now, why can’t we start an as- sociation among ourselves? It is true that we have played a few basket ball games this season, but how many showed up to practise or to cheer? The Sophomore 1st team is the only one that has practised and played faithfully. The Senior girls evidently thought it wasn’t worth while to represent their class. Only about three of them turned up, not enough, anyway, to make a complete team, so some of the Juniors were thrust into the background that these Seniors could play. Is this fair? “It is never too late to mend,” so when Miss Anderson calls for candidates to make up Field-Hockey teams, as she in- tends to do, let us have enough girls to make it worth her time, for I know that she will be more ready to help if she finds that we are interested in athletic sports. You can try to be eligible at least. Now, remember, girls! Gymmie, T7. APRIL. What month is it when just a touch of green On every bush and shade tree can be seen? It’s April. When May-flowers scent the woodland air And brooks flow along without any care? It’s April! —D. Brown and M. Atwood. The birds begin to return from the South, the trees begin to bud, the grass grows green, the little brooks begin to flow, and the sea and the sky try to out-blue each other, in the beautiful month of April. —Bernice Stoddard. JUST SPRING. I love the emerald pastures And I love the budding trees; I love the flitting bluebirds And I love the springtime breeze. I love the brilliant crocus And I love the balmy air; But, oh, I hate the heavy, Itchy, winter underwear! —Frances Horton, T7. LIFE. Life is a joke. All things show it; Look at the Freshman, Then you’ll know it —Frances Horton, T7.

Page 8 text:

4 The Golden-Rod exit of the Grand Central Station in New York. A short distance off, Roy beheld the large electric sign on the Manhattan Hotel, and to it he made his way. He walked up to the desk and asked for a room. “Front,” called the clerk, “room 328 for this gentleman.” Roy could not help smiling at the title, as he followed the bell-boy up to the top floor. Once in the room, Roy lost no time in get- ting between the covers, and soon was dream- ing of great races, with himself the winner. He arose at seven and paid his bill, decid- ing to breakfast at a restaurant on account of the difference in price. At quarter of eight he had finished his meal, and was speed- ing toward the Pennsylvania Terminal in a bus, from whence he would go to Chicago. Thirty minutes later, at the same time that Roy was being carried farther and farther away from his home, his uncle and aunt were mounting the steps at 65 Kempton Road. No one came in response to several vigorous pulls at the door bell. “Maybe lie’s gone out and left the door un- locked,” suggested Mrs. Brewster, and she tried the door. It opened, and with a strange presentiment she entered. The note was at once discovered, and Mrs. Brewster sank white-faced into a chair. “Oh, Jim!” she gasped, “that poor boy- going West all alone. What shall we do?” “Brace up, Mary,” he said kindly. “I’ll go to the police at once.” He caught up his hat, and left the house. In a little while he was back. “I’ve done all I can,” he said. “The police have notified the papers, and have wired the largest cities in the middle-west to be on the lookout for him.” The long New York train slowly came to a stop. Through the crowd, Roy made his way to the street, and began to walk leisurely- past the store windows, pausing now and then to gaze at some particular one that struck his fancy. It would be an hour yet, before the final leg of his journey (from Chicago to Indianapolis) would commence. Several hours later, a very nervous and excited boy stood in the corridor before room 73, which the hotel register showed to be occupied by one John Winston. In response to his knock, a cheery voice bade him enter. In a leather arm-chair by' the window, sat a man who appeared to be about forty-five. A pair of piercing gray' eyes looked up from under heavy black brows. They held a look of interested curiosity, and Roy- got right down to business. “My name is Roy Gordon,” he began. “I’ve come from the East. My parents have just died—.” He paused a moment, and then went on. “I have always been in- terested in everything pertaining to autos, especially racing. I didn’t care to stay in my old home any longer, so I came here, with the intention of becoming your pupil, of learning the racing game from you, meaning of course to pay for my lessons. I know this isn’t in your line.” he went on quickly, “but I thought—well may be—perhaps you could take me.” Roy paused for breath, and stood twisting his cap. “Sit down, boy,” said Winston kindly. “Now let see me if I get you straight. Your parents being dead, you came West for a change of scene and to satisfy your hobby. You want me to teach you auto racing.” “That’s it,” Roy assented. Then Winston questioned Roy closely. “Ever had any experience with autos?” “Yes, I drove my father’s once in awhile.” “Racing’s a dangerous game.” “I know it. That’s partly why I like it.” “Sort of reckless for one your age, ain’t you? How old are you anyway?” “Seventeen.” “How about relatives; do they approve?” Roy was silent for a minute. Finally: “They don’t know.” “Oh, run away?” exclaimed Winston, eye- ing Roy keenly. Roy had the grace to blush. “Near relatives?” persisted Winston. “My aunt and uncle are the nearest, replied Roy. They didn’t want to take