Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 The Doctor’s Dilemma Ina Walls, J’28 That hot July day had been a hard one. Business had not been good and the in- spection of bills payable and bills receiv- able is very taxing, especially with the thermometer at 90 degrees. That night Dr. Frederick T. Johnson slept very lightly. His bedroom was directly off the dining-room, where, as was his custom, he kept a light burning, a single low- power bulb. Careless, as he always was in the ab- sence of his wife, he had strewn his clothing all over the furniture, and, upon the table in the center of the room, had left his leather billfold containing be- tween twenty-five and thirty dollars. He had slept for nearly an hour and a half when something awakened him. Fie hardly had time to open his eyes when there broke upon the stillness a series of violent sneezes from the adjoining room, accompanied by a clang of metal striking cn the hardwood floor. The now thoroughly awakened doctor leaped from the bed and scrambled for the gun which evidently had slipped out of the man’s hand. The intruder stood there, helpless in a paroxysm of sneezing. Keeping a tight grip on the captured weapon. Dr. Johnson ran around to the other side of the oblong table, thus put- ting himself between the burglar and an open unscreened window. His caller was a thin, nervous-looking man and did not have the appearance of a hardened, desperate criminal. All at once, doubtless to the burglar’s astonishment, Dr. Johnson began to laugh heartily. He had caught a glimpse of the figures reflected in the buffet mirror—a fat, pudgy doctor in striped pajamas pointing an unsteady pistol at a burglar just about to sneeze. Finally, remembering the seriousness of the situation, the doctor stopped laughing and asked soberly: “How long have you been at this risky sort of business, my good man.5” The doctor’s laugh had cleared the at- mosphere and there was no trace of nervousness in the man’s voice as he re- plied : “Not very long. Fact is, this is the first flat I ever tried to rob. Maybe you don’t believe me, but it’s so.” “I suppose you got out of work, were up against it and became desperate.” “You betcha I was up against it.” The doctor glanced at his billfold and scrutinized the other thoughtfully. “Now that I’ve caught you, what the deuce shall I do with you?” For the easy going, good natured and kind hearted doctor, this was a problem. As a law abiding citizen it was his duty to raise some sort of an alarm that would bring the police upon the scene. The fellow had broken into his apartment with intent to rob. He was silent for what, to the other, must have seemed an endless period of time, with his free hand drumming reflect- ively upon the surface of the table. There was the other side to this per- plexing business—the human side. After all, no real harm had been done. A police record is a handicap for a man. Fie had no doubt that this was the fellow’s first attempt and, perhaps he had learned his lesson. Dr. Frederick T. Johnson was a sympathetic man. Somewhere a clock struck one. “Guess I’d better be going.” The doctor looked relieved. Oddly enough he had not thought of that solu- tion. Fie came to a decision. “I don’t believe you’re really such a bad sort. I guess you were hard up to do it. It’s mighty hard not to have money. Wait here a minute.” Taking the billfold with him, likewise pocketing the revolver Dr. Johnson went back into the bedroom. He had no trouble in finding what he sought; he returned in an instant. In the hand he extended to the burglar was a

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14 THE GOLDEN-ROD and saw, rushing down upon him two veritable giants in the red and white colors of Georgetown. He was horrified! He forgot all about “Red!” He was not chasing! He was being chased! He once again quickened his pace. He was fairly flying. Everyone was hollering and shouting. They were glad that he was being chased. He knew that all hated him anyway. He was re- minded he had done before, or maybe it was something he had heard—yes, that was it. The crowd—a race—he recalled. Suddenly across his path he saw a tape stretched. Were they trying to trip him: He could not stop! It was too late to turn! He rushed headlong into the tape, and beyond that into the crowd. Then he collapsed! The crowd closed in around him. Eeryone was shaking his hand. He stood up. Someone was pumping his hand viciously. He turned. It was “Red!” Reginald drew back his other hand to strike him, but it was grasped by some- one else! Turning again he found himself looking into the faces of old Mr. Howes, Dr. Hills, and his father. “Great work, my boy!” Mr. Howes was saying. “You’ve won your race and the meet. We’re all proud of you.” “Talk about your ‘dark horses!’” put in Dr. Hills. “Oh—er—say, Mr. Howes—I wanted —er to ask you. Who was that man you were telling about at the rallv yester- day?” “Oh! Why—didn’t you know: Why that was your father, and the other man was Doctor Hills, here. 5. Reginald Theobald Portenheimer strode briskly down the street. Under his arm he carried his track suit, his dearly beloved track suit. On one side of him walked his father; on the other. Dr. Hills. What would this world amount to, if there was no school like Queensborough to run for; no fellow like dad for a pal; or no “Red” Kelly for a team-mate: Donald Gilman, J. ’28. iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiuiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii A PLEA TO MARCH O March, month we always look forward to with dread. When we think of your winds and your snow— What’s happened to you? Seems that winter has fled. And the light winds of summer now blow. Where are your north winds, your cold, cruel blasts? Where is your ice and your snow? Why do you fail us? While this weather lasts. We meet in a June sun’s warm glow. Such warm days as these make us lazy and slack: We don't do our work as we should. Spring Fever? I'll say! The bad penny’s back— And we all say it isn't so good. So, March, won’t you hear us and answer our plea ? Be yourself! Let your mad breezes blow. Just free us from this heat, and you'll surely see That we’ll ne'er again beg you to go. Betty Wells. SPRING-TIME Dainty Miss Spring has at last appeared Mailed with joy. and gladly cheered: Jack Frost has gone, and with him the snow. And so today, this much we know Spring is here! The clouds are soft, the sky is blue. Kach morning we wake, we find the dew: The trees are budding, the birds are singing. And well we know the message they’re bringing. Spring is here! Why do we dream all the day long: Why do we feel so full of song! Why do we always laugh and smile: Why are we happy all the while? Spring is here! Spring must come, and Spring must go. So while she’s here let's banish woe. Let’s not be sad. but let's be gay. And make the most of every day. Spring is here! Carolyn Cherrington.

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD small pasteboard box, wrapped in white paper. “Don't open it until you are ready to go to bed. It may bring you happy dreams. It's the best I’m in a position to do for you. Good night.” The uninvited visitor of Dr. Johnson put the box in his pocket and left the building, presumably in the same manner in which he had entered it. Henry Squire, besides being a pretty good actor, was a thief with imagination. As he hurried through the darkened streets, exciting ideas rushed through his mind. Perhaps in a certain pasteboard box carefully tucked away in his pocket was money—lots of money. The man had probably given him a good sized roll. Hadn’t he said “The best Tin in a position to do for you”: “Guess that poor simp really thought I was dead broke. Same old hard luck story—it always works.” He did not open the box until safe within the seclusion of his third floor flat. Then and there, upon unwrapping his treasure, he learned the full extent of Dr. Johnson’s benevolence. On the box was the following label: Dr. Johnson’s Sneeze Tablets Take two Each Hour The Singer’s Bracelet Josephine Brown Signora Costella, famous opera singer, lolled among the soft cushions of her car, well satisfied with herself. She had just got rid of a formidable rival, and that business of last week, when she had run over and killed a boy, had been satis- factorily cleared up. The car was driven deftly through the east side streets of Xew York. Her des- tination was the pawn shop of Master Diggs. She wondered, lazily, if he had got over his grudge against her yet. for that last time when she bought a valuable string of pearls for one-tenth his price, when his assistant was keeping the shop. As her over-dressed body entered the dark, little shop, a tiny figure looked up blinkingly. Ah—what a smile spread over its face! So, the grudge was for- gotten. “Signora Costella.” said Master Diggs, T have the very thing for you.” All the while he was talking, he was nervously- drawing on a pair of gloves. When from a box he drew out a bracelet. Xo wonder the Signora let out a sigh of rapture. It was an exquisitely chiseled article, with diamonds glowing in a price- less beauty, and rubies, and sapphires complementing them. A faster Diggs named a price. “Oh! it is robbery,” screamed the singer. And so they fought, until finally Signora Costella beat him down to a third of the original price by an unusually easy victory. “It was given to my daughter,” related the man, “by her husband before they were married. He got it in the Philip- pines. They went away today, bound for there and my daughter gave me the brace- let to sell.” More than ever pleased with herself was the Signora Costella as she was driven away in her luxurious car. It was a year later and two theater- goers were talking over the latest star. “My,” from the first one, “she certainly is better than Signora Costella. By the by, what happened to the Signora: She dropped from stardom so suddenly.” “Why, haven’t you heard:” asked the second one. “She was shipped to the leper colony in the Philippines.” “What!” gasped the first. “How? It is such a rare disease.”