Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 sides, he did not know which way the train was coming. It was too far to run in so short a time, anyway. He wondered if the dark-colored suit he wore would show up against the smoky walls of the tunnel. The only thing he could do was to trust to luck that the engineer would see him. He held onto a post on the wall and was ready to lie down flat on the ground where the smoke would be the thinnest, and where he could hold on to the post to try to keep from being sucked under the train. All this happened in about twelve sec- onds, but it seemed three minutes to Tom. He could hardly keep himself from starting to run out as hard as he could, but he knew it would be a crazy thing to do. So he stood there while the roar of the locomotive became louder. There was the glare from the head- light! The great engine lurched around a curve, straightened out, and with the cars rumbling after it started toward Tom. When it had covered about fifty yards— clank! There was a terrific jar which knocked the rear wheels of the locomotive a foot in the air, and—but that was all Tom saw, for the jar had disconnected the headlight, and the locomotive was fly- ing towards him in the dark! Instantly he whipped out his flashlight and waved it frantically in the air. There was a deafening hissing as the air brakes were thrown on. The train stopped about nine yards in front of Tom. He ran up to the engineers cab. “What’s this?” demanded the engineer savagely. “That’s what I’d like to know,” said Tom. Then Tom told of his experience, and the engineer calmed down. The engineer said that this was a special train, hired by some business men who were putting through a big deal for a gold mine. He also said: “If my headlight had been on, I could not have seen you, because your brown suit wouldn’t have shown up against these dark walls. And as I had orders not to stop for anything, I would have gone right ahead without my headlight if you hadn’t flashed that light of yours.” They went back to the place where the train had been shaken up. Through the thickening smoke they saw that a tie at the joining of two rails had been under- mined by a small underground stream, and as there was nothing to support the rail, the engine had been thrown forward for a second or two. While Tom and the engineer were look- ing at the track, the fireman came up and, looking at Tom’s dark-colored suit and the smoky walls of the tunnel, then at the engine with its dead headlight and at Tom’s flashlight, he said to Tom: “Boy, I guess it’s a good thing for you that tie was washed out.” “It certainly was,” agreed Tom. Eliot Weil, Sept., ’24. JOKES On an examination paper: Pilgrim’s Progress was a book written by Benjamin Franklin about the pilgrims who came over here in 1620. A diller, a dollar, a nine o’clock scholar, Why did you not make haste? Sorry, sir, the pupil said, but there’s a girl in the case. White: Jerry, what’s a good remedy for a headache? Golden: Stick you head through a window and the pane will be gone. Cole’s Bad Breaks Cole: I saw a negro funeral today and behind the hearse walked a number of mourners with pails. Listener: Why the pails? Cole: Going blackburying. Listman was lying quite still after being jumped on by five of the opposing team and when Mitchell came up and said, “He’s unconscious,” Listman moved slightly and replied, “No, I ain’t, either.” “Shut up,” said Cole, “Mitchell knows best.”

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 8 TUNNELL 17 I “I’ll go.” It was Tom Jackson who spoke these words firmly as he reached for his cap and walked toward the door. Tom and the other members of the Jack- son family were spending the summer in their cottage at Pinecliff, in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. That evening Tom’s ten-year-old brother, Frank, had fallen off a ledge of rock and broken his leg. There was no doctor nearer than El- dorado, four miles away. The shortest way there was to follow the railroad track. It hugged the sides of the mountains above deep canyons, ran through long, dark tunnels, pierced through the very hearts of massive moun- tains, and crept cautiously over tall, thin trestles, built at dizzy heights over roar- ing mountain streams. “My! I hate to see you go, Tom, but it’s hurting him so badly, and now that you’re sixteen years old, I guess you can take care of yourself,” said Tom’s mother. “Good luck, Tom,” called Mr. Jackson. With his flashlight, Tom picked his way down the hillside to the railroad track and started for Eldorado. There were seven tunnels on the road between Pinecliff and Eldorado; some long, some short, some straight, some crooked, but the one that was considered the most dangerous on the whole railroad was Tunnel 17, the last one before reaching Eldorado. Under ordinary circumstances, Tom would not have gone through the tunnels, for if a person is caught in a tunnel when a fast train comes through, he will prob- ably be sucked under the wheels, and whether the train is fast or slow, he will be suffocated by the smoke. However, Tom had to get a doctor, and get him quickly, and it would take most of the night to get to Eldorado, if he climbed over every mountain through which there was a tunnel. Besides, there was no train until morning, according to the schedule, so Tom felt pretty safe. He walked the first mile and a half using his flashlight most of the way, be- cause the moon had not yet risen. The first tunnel was short and straight. Just as he came out, he heard footsteps far ahead of him, and, as they came nearer, Tom could hear the steady crunch-crunch- crunch of hobnailed boots in the gravel I and cinders between the tracks. Was it a tramp? Was it a train bandit? Was it some wild Mexican? After about five minutes of this nerve-trying suspense, Tom made out the figure of a large man a few feet in front of him. The man said pleasantly, “How d’ y’ do, stranger?” Tom answered, and with a sigh of relief went on. As he came out of the second tunnel, the moon peeked over the crest of a low mountain. It shone through the rarified atmosphere so brightly that the night seemed almost as light as day. A night hawk swooped down not more than five feet in front of Tom, and in the distance a lone coyote let out a most doleful howl. Tom could hear the roaring of the stream in the canyon below him, and once in a while, between the trees, he would get a glimpse of the dashing waters. He was used to these natural sounds, and so they did not bother him. Tom kept on. In about an hour he had gone through the sixth tunnel, and less than a quarter of a mile ahead was 17. As he approached it, he looked at the spot of black darkness that marked the mouth of the treacherous tunnel. He looked up at the mountain towering above him, with the pines on its sides outlined against the rich, dark blue, star-sprinkled sky. Then he thought of his small brother suffering with his broken leg. He must go through the tunnel. He entered and walked along a straight stretch. Then there was a curve for about one hundred yards. Tom had just turned onto a stretch of straight track about two hundred yards in length when Toot-Toot- T’toot! A train was coming! The thoughts that swirled through Tom’s mind were something like this: “’S coming from that way! No, that side! Which? Dunno—maybe—” The echo of the whistle was thrown back and forth from cliff to cliff and mountain to mountain, now on this side, now on that, as if mocking him in his predicament. He knew that if he tried to run out he might trip, fall, and break a limb. Be-

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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD JACK Dear Reader: I am writing this introductory note to give you an idea of what the following letters are about. The members of English E 1A had been reading “Adrift on an Ice-Pan ’ by Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, and we had been very much interested in his dogs, espe- cially in his little retriever, Jack. When we finished the story we wondered if Jack was alive or dead, and so all of us wrote letters to ask Dr. Grenfell about him. The best letter, which was written by Louise Roberge, was chosen and sent to Dr. Grenfell. Her letter and his reply are printed here. Sophie Kaufman, English Division E 1A, Room 12. Quincy High School, Quincy, Mass., December 19, 1921. Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, Grenfell Association, 156 Fifth Avenue, New York. Dear Sir: You don’t know who I am, but I have heard a great deal about your work. I am just a Freshman at Quincy High School. We are reading your thrilling story, “Adrift on an Ice-Pan,” and I assure you that the whole class is very much inter- ested in it. The other day a question came up in class as to whether your dog Jack is still alive. As no member of the class could answer it, our teacher suggested that we write a letter asking about it. Everybody is trying hard. If you answer my letter, do you mind if we submit it to our school paper, “The Golden Rod”? If you ever come to Quincy and have any spare time, we cordially invite you to visit our school. Hoping to hear from you soon, I am, Yours very truly, Louise Roberge, English Division E 1A, Room 12. 20 Beacon Street, Boston 9, December 20, 1920. Dear Miss Roberge: Yes, Jack is very much alive still, but it is only in the realms of memory and in- spiration that he lives. His poor, affec- tionate little body lies sleeping in the frozen North, but whenever I hear his name he seems to speak to me to be true and loving and unselfish and brave as he Was; so, you see, he lives still, and that is why I hope all die children want to live so that they will never die, but always live on in inspiration to those who come after them. And so with the next generation in the Quincy High School when those that are there today are in the realms where I believe Jack is—the place that is reserved for all that is beautiful and noble and unselfish. You certainly can do anything you like with what I write to you. If I cannot get time to come to speak to the school my- self, there are a number of friends here who know all about our work, and, I am sure, would be glad to come and give a little talk to the school about Labrador and its people. Sincerely yours, Wilfred Grenfell. REAL OBJECTION OF CATULLUS (As Seen by a Junior) 0 Cicero! with speech of world above, Irresistible in argument, immovable in debate, Man of parts, of wisdom, with patriot’s zeal, If in you there is the slightest love Of fellow man — leave Catiline’s hate, Leave your tale of woe for the public weal. Actions speak louder than words, And deeds are reckoned more Than speech; wherefore, cease to weary The helpless schoolboy and the men of forum; Would not the allies welcome you, as if Pompey, If you come to subdue the enemy? Is not a praetor of the Roman people Worthier of better deeds Than idle speech? That is breach of precedent, That is neglect of the interests of the Roman people, To waste the ballot of your countrymen. Abraham Pactovis, ’23.