Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 18 text:

16 THE GOLDEN-ROD lege and for me at the University of California The day of the big meet had finally arrived, the day when Scrap Iron was to show his metal. At three o’clock the meet was well under way with Penn State sev- eral points behind. Scrappy was getting the final rubdown when a welcome cry came floating into the dressing room, ‘‘all runners out for the mile.” As he dashed to his place, he caught a glimpse of that same chattering group of girls he had encountered the previous year. Now was the chance to show them “what eastern runners were made of.” As the runners made ready for the start. Scrap Iron glanced at the three sturdy men of Penn State and picked out the veterans, Mark Moulton and “Flask” Smith, the two crack milers with whom he and his two teammates had to battle. The starter stepped behind the six runners. It was then that Scrappy thought of Marion Meredith and her parting words. “On your mark!—Get set!”—Bang!— At the crack of the revolver Scrap Iron jumped into the lead to the great sur- prise of all, especially of “Flask” Smith, who usually lead his opponents at the start. But the race was far from over. At the four-forty mark Scrappy still held the lead with the two stars of Penn State at his very heels. It was a few seconds later that the relentless Moulton wrenched the lead from Scrappy, determining to tire the man from California University. The pace that Moulton set was a killing one, but he could not shake the runner who had failed to give him any trouble the previous year. At the half-way mark Mark Moulton decided to slacken his pace which was killing him rather than his opponent. But, as the mighty Moul- ton cut down on his pace, Scrap Iron slipped into the lead and surged ahead. While the race was going on, it was evident that the crowd was anything but quiet. As Scrappy swung into the lead his feat was met with much applause; but Scrappy did not forget that Moulton and “Flask” Smith were worthy oppon- ents. At the three-quarter mark the Penn State “Flask” became completely upset over the outcome of the race and decided it was high time for him to take the lead. “Flask” surged past his team- mates and gave all that was left in him in an effort to overtake Scrap Iron; but this effort cost “Flask” Smith a place in the event and he dropped out crestfallen and thoroughly licked, leaving Scrappy, Moulton, and the three other runners, who were far behind, to battle it out. Scrap Iron had proved himself a hard taskmaster. Three hundred yards from the finish Scrappy made ready for his old-time fin- ish. He called upon the remainder of his giant supply of energy and, as he did so, he heard the hurried, faltering steps of Mark Moulton trying to cut the for- mer’s lead. Two hundred yards from the finish Mark Moulton made a plucky effort to catch Scrappy, but it was of no use; for, those cold nights of hard train- ing had taught the latter to withstand severe punishment, and now stood him in good stead. Shortly after, Scrap Iron broke the tape not knowing that the mighty Moulton had all but stumbled in a futile effort to overtake him. However, the plucky Penn State man pulled him- self together in time to defeat “Lonesome Al” Rich of California University at the finish. Scrap Iron, the man from “out of the east,” had defeated the mighty Moulton and “Flask” Smith. It is useless to say that Scrappy’s performance was cheered loud and long, but Scrappy’s thoughts were centered on a certain girl of his home town,—Marion Meredith. He had won for her and for his college. When he entered his dormitory par- lor an hour later, he all but walked into the girl he thought he had left in the cast. Evidently she .had journeyed to California and watched his performance. Again it is needless to say that for his hard day’s work Scrap Iron received a shower of -----, well, you can imagine the rest, and anyway, that’s another story. Herbert Card, Feb. ’26.

Page 17 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 Scrap Iron Robert Wilson witnessed a dark and stormy June night as he gazed out of one of his dormitory Windows, but his thoughts were not of the weather but of something—or rather, someone else. It is well at this point of the story that the reader should know a little of Robert Wilson. To begin with, this young man of twenty-one years was better known as Scrap Iron or Scrappy. lie had re- ceived this name and prized it because it signified his wonderful physique. His build was that of a well-trained athlete, strong-looking and well filled out. In harmony with his well-proportioned fig- ure, Scrappy was somewhat of a good looker. Scrappy’s home was in the east, but he was now attending the University of California. When Scrap Iron had left his home town high school, he had gained the distinction of being the fastest miler of the neighboring schools; but when he arrived at California University he found his ability as a runner gone. Somehow he had lost control of his winning stride, of his lightning start, and of his whirl- wind finish. Maybe it was because of the change in climate or because of the multitudes of people who watched him perform. Whatever it was, Scrappy didn’t know. His first three years at this college were disastrous, as far as his running was concerned. It was only because of his never-failing nerve and the shortage of milers that Scrap Iron was kept on the squad. However, he decided that, after the last meet of his third year at the University he would leave running for- ever. But as Scrappy was trotting to his locker room after having run his usual ragged race in that last meet, he came face to face with a chattering mob of young girls from a neighboring college. He was about to make a dash for the dressing room when he was confronted with this remark from one of the girls, “So that’s the sort of runners they make in the east.” Scrap' Iron turned in his tracks and the blood rushed to his face, but he said nothing and passed on. As he dressed, he muttered to himself, “I guess I won’t quit.” When Scrap Iron returned to the Uni- versity after his summer vacation, the first thing he did was to mark off a mile course. As the out-door track season did not open until the first of April, he had seven months in which to train him- self for that event. Every other night Scrappy pulled himself over that mile course, and throughout those seven months he trained hard and relentlessly. It was during those cold, crisp nights of December, January and February that lie learned to take the punishment that every good miler is forced to withstand. Although Scrap Iron was wise enough not to overdo himself, he began to feel the old-time lightning start, the winning stride, the whirlwind finish, and, most of all, the old-time confidence in his running ability. With the opening track meet on the nineteenth of April, he amazed the head coach and many of the students of the University by “nosing out” Lefty Dun- can, a miler of considerable fame, in a spirited race. Scrap Iron had staged a real “come-back.” To get back to the real story, the read- er left Scrappy in a thoughtful mood. First and foremost in his thoughts was the big meet of the season of California with Penn State, which was now only three days away. The second, but prob- ably the most brooded over of his thoughts, were those of a certain girl of his home town whom Scrappy knew very well. Who was this girl? It was Marion Meredith, Scrappy’s sweetheart, — the “flower of the east” he called her. Marion was a real sport and an exceptionally good-looking girl; even Scrappy admitted it. When he had visited her during his vacation, she had said to him on one of their many moonlight strolls, “Scrappy, when we were at high school together you would win whenever I wanted you to,—I wonder if you would win for your col-

Page 19 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 John Harvard’s Holiday Mutt and Jeff, as they were called by their friends, returned to their rooms in the Y.,.M. C. A. on Huntington Ave- nue, Boston. They had just been dis- missed from Harvard for the Christmas vacation, and because of the fact that they lived so far away, were not planning to go home for the holidays. Their real names were not Mutt and Jeff, of course, but they were called that by their friends because of the great difference in height between the two young men. John Watkins, alias Mutt, was six feet two inches in his stocking feet. He was dark-complexioned and always dressed in dark clothes. He did not dress that way because he was in mourning, but merely because he was of a retiring na- ture, and did not like to attract atten- tion. Despite his clothes, he was always playing jokes on some one, and in turn could appreciate one, even on himself. His friend, Morris Stoughton alias Jeff, was different from Mutt in every respect, except that he too, was forever playing jokes. He stood barely five feet four, with his shoes on. His hair was a bright red and his complexion nearly matched it. Instead of dressing like his friend, he assumed the loudest clothes imaginable and was, therefore, aped by all the “cake-eaters” who came in con- tact with him. However, Mutt and Jeff were the best of friends, and in Jeff’s room at the Y they were both occupied with their own thoughts. Finally Jeff broke the silence with, “Say, Mutt, let’s think of a way to get back at old Skeezicks, who bawled me out for putting a little glue in his ink yesterday.” Skeezicks was none other than Profes- sor Hopkins, the Greek instructor at the college. “Yes, and I would like to give him a Christmas present that isn’t all honey, too,” replied his friend. “Listen,” continued Mutt, “YVe will both think of a way to get back at him.” So for a few minutes they both thought, and then they compared ideas. Mutt told his plan, which was at once picked apart by Jeff. “Well, if you think that you are so clever, let’s hear yours,” said the dis- gusted Mutt. Jeff then unfolded hjs plan, and although it hurt to do so, Mutt had to admit that it sounded good. The two friends then went to eat, after which they went down town to buy some things which were necessary to carry out Jeff’s plan. They came back to their rooms carrying a long coffin- like box, which would have been in- spected by the police at any other time except Christmas. For the next five days they were continually plotting in whispers, and laughing whenever their eyes fell upon Jeff’s closed closet where the mysterious bundle was hidden. f inally Christmas evening came, and the two friends dressed up in the oldest clothes they could find and, taking their bundles, started in the direction of the campus. Next morning Professor Hopkins awoke with a start. He had heard four shots directly beneath his window. Jump- ing out of bed, his feet striking the ice- cold floor, he uttered a howl of agony. Just as he started back for bed he heard two more shots, so, overcoming his de- sire for the warm bed, he rushed to the window. To his dismay it was frosted tight and he could not see through it. Just then three more shots sounded, and the professor, thinking that someone was being murdered on his door step, rushed down a flight of cold stairs to the front door. He then stuck his night-capped head cautiously out of the front door. Upon seeing nothing dangerous he came outside and looked around. At first he saw nothing, but then advancing farther, his near-sighted eyes saw John Plarvard, the founder of the University, drinking from a bottle, while in his other hand he carried an old blunderbuss. The pro- fessor, as he approached ankle-deep in the snow, was a most curious sight. His