Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD The Reformation of Walter Lord Walter Lord glanced savagely at his wrist-watch. Almost four o’clock! “How much longer before we reach Palm Beach?” he shot at the dusky, in- offensive porter, who was shuffling by his chair on the Pullman. “Pahm Beach?” “Yes, Palm Beach.” “We all gets to Pahm Beach in ’bout three hours naow.” Walter grunted and so the porter left him, gazing at the water-covered window! pane. It had been raining since before he had vacated his narrow berth early in the morning, and the blurred view did not show the Florida swamps to advantage. The rain evidently had dampened his disposition as well as the “Magic State.” He bought a popular magazine and en- deavored to read. Just as he was becom- ing interested in a story, “To be contin- ued,” greeted his eyes. He began a story which was rather “dry,” so he placed the periodical aside. He gazed absent mind- edly at the different occupants of the car, and then at the odd pattern of the sombre rug. He had left New York on the previous daw opposing his father’s wishes. His father, Arthur T. Lord, a figure of eminence on the “Exchange,” was opu- lent to such an extent that he owned a stately mansion on Riverside Drive, and a beautiful summer home on Long Island, with grounds many acres in extent. Walter’s mother had died eighteen years before when he was but an infant. His “old man,” as he called his father, had given him everything he desired, and the inevitable occurred. He had a yacht and two cars. His chief interests in life were to loaf, play golf and go yachting. He had left New York to see Florida, and his impressions thus far were not to his liking. But even the longest three hours must pass, and these three were no exception, as was proved when an cbony-hued “Sony of the Jungle” announced, “Pahm Beach” with the usual southern drawl. When Walter alighted, everything was dripping from the recent rain which had ceased by this time. Taking one of his two grips in either hand and his golf sticks under his arm, he stepped into the “Ponce de Leon” bus. As the bus drew away from the curb he noticed the wide, smooth, palm-bordered avenues, and the low, Spanish type residences with pic- turesque, vari-colored tile roofs. The houses were now illuminated as it was after half past seven. How different from New York! How much more peaceful! When he finally arrived at the hotel it was all aglow with luxuriant splendor. The polite clerk at the huge marble desk assigned Walter to a large room on the third floor for thirty dollars a day. After paying in advance for a week, a “bellhop” took the luggage and led him to room 337. As Walter leisurely crossed the spa- cious lobby on his way to the dining room later that night, he brushed by a well- dressed man who deftly obtained the leather wallet from Walter’s pocket. At the conclusion of an expensive sup- per, the waiter handed him the bill. Wal- ter calmly placed his hand in his back pocket, but no wallet. A frantic search through all his pockets, then another and slower search, and finally the unwelcome realization that he had been “fleeced.” “I’ve been robbed!” he exclaimed wildly. The next day he pawned his watch, with the proceeds of which he paid for supper the previous evening, and sent many urgent telegrams to his father ask- ing for money. Mr. Lord, Sr., was busy in his office at three o’clock that afternoon looking at some reports when his well-paid office boy entered with an envelope in his hand. “Telegram from Western Union.” “Bring it here.” Arthur Lord opened it and read: “Arthur T. Lord 43 Wall Street N. Y., N. Y. Have been robbed. Need two thou- sand dollars at once. Send to me care

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The Morning Marathon Human nature’s a funny thing. I come to this conclusion about 8.00 A. M. every morning. I’ve seen Nurmi and DeMar, the Quincy High cross-country team, and many other track men, but give me my morning marathon to which no other can be compared. I refer to the daily race at 7.55. From my hall window I can sur- vey both up and down Hancock street, and also across this broad and noble thoroughfare to the stretch of concrete walk lying between Dimmock and Savillc streets. Upon this walk I rest my eye at 7.53 sharp each morning and wait, but then I do not have to wait very long. Oh no, inside of two minutes my race begins. I hear the long blast from the whistle of the 7.55 at Quincy Adams, and then I look towards Dimmock street. What is this I see comir.g down Adams street? Oh yes, yes, I know who it is. May I introduce you to Mr. Snow, drum major of my marathon. As you see, Mr. Snow is young, wiry, and lithe, and does not give me much pleasure as he is a grace- ful runner. But who follows him? No one but Annie White, the fat girl. Puff- ing and wheezing up the course, she shows that she holds her own against the ever-gaining weight. She labors in some drug store in the big city. As she waddles stationwards one cannot help but think that Annie must work on a counter, as she’d surely overcrowd a change booth. Aha, here they come. Old Mr. MacFar- lane has the lead this morning. He’s running better than usual. Fie must have had grapefruit for breakfast. And prim Miss Green warms a path down Dimmock street. I wonder who’ll reach the side- walk first. Go it, Miss Green, you’ve got my best wishes. Oh, who might that be crossing the street with the child as bal- last? Some housekeeper heading for the sale on Ivory soap at Flovey’s, most likely, Well, I’ll let her go if she keeps out of my race. I perceive that Mr. Jenkins is doing the hop, skip, and jump over his fence on Adams street. He’s very late. He’s due for third place, I’m afraid. Say, do you notice Miss Green’s stride ? nd Mr. MacFarlanc is right behind her. Now if that shopper will only keep out of the path! Oh, I knew it! If Junior had blown his nose before he started he wouldn’t have had to have his mother do it now. As she stops, Miss Green is cata- pulted over both of them to the amaze- ment of all three, and Mr. MacFarlanc takes the lead across the auto park. He wins today. Look at them come now! There arc about twenty of them coming out of all the side streets. There is going to be a smash! There is! I see Mr. Perry attempting to rescue himself from the passionate embraces of Mother Earth. That slim girl in the slicker weaving her way in and out of the competitors is Maizie White, and she is certainly show- ing a muddy pair of rubbers to the rest of them. The train is at the station. They’re going like mad! They round the corner! They’ve made it! The train is starting and who’s this lover of good living com- ing into view? None other than Bill Jones. Late again this morning, but Bill vies with Lancelot in not being like the rest of men. You sec, Bill carries 285 pounds with him wherever he goes, and that dis- qualifies Bill. But his method is sensible. He waits for the 7.59 while the others get heart trouble trailing the 7.55. Say, but isn’t human nature a funny thing? Paul Reardon.

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of Hotel Ponce de Leon. THE GOLDEN-ROD 11 Walter.” He took out his pen to write a check, but he paused for a moment and chuckled, put his pen and check-book away and thought, “This will be a good lesson for him.” During the week Walter pawned his golf clubs, a suit case, and sold all his possessions except the few clothes he wore. Each day he had visited the hotel to sec if any word had come from his father, but always, “no.” He wondered why he had not heard from his parent. Perhaps the telegrams did not reach him? But there were so many that he must have received one. This thought prevail- ing in his mind, and hunger prevailing in his stomach combined, almost drove him mad. On Sunday of the next week he was sit- ting disconsolately in the park with his eves glued to the ground as though look- ing for something, and was hardly con- scious to the fact that someone had taken a seat beside him. “Whatsamatter, bo?” asked the tawdry looking man who had seated himself next to Walter. “Pm starved.” “I got four bits,” the stranger said, and held a piece of silver before Walter’s eyes. “That’s two bits each,” he said after a lengthy mental calculation. Walter eagerly followed this good Sa- maritan, and was soon enjoying a cup of coffee and dish of beans, as only one who has not eaten for two or three days can delight in masticating victuals. While thus engaged, the stranger heard the other’s story and said, “Why don’t you work your way home? You’ll get home quicker that way than if you hang around here waiting for something to happen.” Walter asked him for his name and address, and then said that he would take his advice. Then began the real education of Wal- ter. He learned to sleep in barns, and like it. He walked from Palm Beach to Jacksonville, sleeping anywhere, chopping wood, and doing odd jobs to earn his meals. He took advantage of a freight train going to Richmond, Va., and rode leisurely in a freight car behind some boxes of crackers, which served for food as well as to hide him. He remained in Richmond just as long as working in a restaurant would permit him to buy a new suit, shoes, hat and procure a shave. He now looked respect- able, and his life in the open had given him a wonderful physique. He hitch- hiked to New York, and arrived there just eight months to a day from the time he had left. How happy he was to arrive home among his traffic cops, elevated trains, subways, and the seething multi- tudes that comprise the world’s largest and greatest “melting pot.” Arthur Lord had begun to feel worried about his son, and had sent a description of him to the Florida State Police, who were of no assistance. He had advertised in the papers to no avail, and was angry with himself for not sending his son the money when he had received the flock of telegrams. Almost every other day he forgot his business for the moment and wondered what had become of his son. It was while he was meditating thus one afternoon, that the office boy glee- fully announced that a man wanted to see him. Mr. Lord Sr., said, “Show him in.” The boy withdrew and in walked Walter. “Son!” cried his father, who was across the room in two bounds and shaking Wal- ter’s hand until their arms were numb. When the young man had told his story Arthur Lord sent the tawdry looking in- dividual of Palm Beach a check for five thousand dollars. Herbert Hambro, J. ’27.