Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD his eyes before he spoke. There was no complaining or whining in his tone. He spoke as though it was an understood fact. “I’ve tried always, and I’m not quitting now.” I spoke reassuringly, “You’ll get your chance soon, and you’ll get ahead.” But I knew I had lied. He was too slow, too trusting, too dumb (to put it in Casey’s words) to gain fame and recognition in this hard world. It was all so plain. A tinkling crash startled us. The re- mains of a shattered pane of glass lay on the sidewalk, and from a window high above a cloud of smoke billowed forth and slid along the dingy brick front. I thought of the alarm, but he thought of the lives of those trapped in the building. I sprinted for the box, but he entered the burning building to save others. I don’t remember very clearly now what hap- pened. It came so suddenly that I am still rather surprised. It seemed ages before the engines came and ran their hose and ladders up to fight the blaze. By that time, the place was burning like tinder and belching huge clouds of smoke, which billowed and clustered over the blazing building. Fire lines were drawn up, and I was shoved roughly back behind the ropes. Shadowy forms passed in and out of the door, but I did not see the Kid, and an icy hand seemed to grip my heart as I saw the fiames gaining. A sharp order was given, and the ladders came away from the walls; a crack wormed its way across the front of the building. The wall was going to fall. As a gasp ran through the crowd, I raised my eyes from the door to the wall above. At each floor an ornamental iron balcony protruded, and there high above on one of these appeared the figure of an elderly man and at the same time on the balcony above appeared the Kid. One net was spread below. The old man was dizzy. Fie tottered and toppled across the railing insensible. The broken tele- phone wire dangled from the balcony on which the Kid stood and fell to that on which the old man lay. The crack still crept slowly across below them and fiames reached hungry hands to grasp them. The Kid hesitated and saw the man below and the dangling wire; he swiftly reeled it in and looped the end below into a noose. Again I thought of Casey’s words. He was the picture of calmness. He dropped the stiff lariat through the grating and encircled the head and shoulders of the man as they protruded over the railing; and standing amid the coil of surplus wire he strained to raise the body over the railing. The senseless form swung out and then dropped like a plummet as the Kid loosed his hold. The length of wire around the Kid’s feet came too, and there was a sud- den jerk as the body halted its flight to the net below. But only for an instant. The wire snapped, and the upper half remained dangling. I saw what had happened. The wire around the Kid’s feet had snarled, and the weight of the falling body had drawn the Kid’s leg out be- tween the posts of the wrought iron rail- ing; the thickness of his knee prevented its withdrawal. The firemen below retreated with their helpless burden. The Kid struggled wildly for an instant and then, realizing the hopelessness of it all, remained kneel- ing on one knee while the other hung limply outward. Then his eyes caught my attention. He must have been suffering terrible agony, but there was no hint of it in his face. With his elbows crossed and leaning on the railing, he awaited the end. I saw his face as the crumbling wall toppled in- ward and as he fell into that blazing inferno. There was no anger or worry there. His eyes looked upward, wide and starry, into the sky like those of a little child seeking recognition of a deed well done. I know now why Casey had been moved by those eyes, and there came to me the words of that little, red-haired Sergeant. “He tried. God knows, he tried.”

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 hand while the other shook beneath my nose. “Do you think he’d have lasted with me, if I hadn’t thought he was try- ing? My men are all doing their part. He’s one of my men, and he’ll come through. He’ll come through. D’y’ hear?” This outburst took me by surprise, but I followed his words eagerly, and I could not help admiring the little note of pride which crept into his voice at the end. His change of mind puzzled me, and I re- minded him gently of his former state- ments. Casey was on his feet now with his hands thrust deeply into his belt. I was primed for another outburst as I spoke my rebuke, but the little Sergeant once more took me by surprise. He lowered his head so that his chin rested on his chest, and he teetered on his toes thoughtfully. “I really didn’t mean to call him a quitter,” he said. “I just can’t understand him. I didn’t mean for you to get that impression.” I said nothing. What could I say: He was right. How could a fiery, little, bull-voiced man such as he was under- stand the quiet, soft-spoken, wide-eyed Kid? In my thinking I lowered my head, and, when I raised it, the little Sergeant was gone. I caught a last glimpse of him as he passed by the dirty window, and I’ll swear that I saw a tear run down his cheek. That sobered me. and I rushed to the door to call an apology after him for my indiscretion. He was nowhere in sight. That was the last time I ever saw him. He got his out on the cold, dead fields of No-Man’s- Land while leading his men on to a glori- ous charge. I never knew the story, but somehow or other there comes to my mind, when I read the old clipping an- nouncing his death, the picture of a little, red-haired Sergeant with a grimv tear trickling down one cheek and with his men massed behind with their silverv- bhie bavonets gleaming in the sun as he leads them through a tangled mass of wires, knee-high, onward toward a sparkling line of rifles which spit fire at his every step. I turned back into the room, and there sat Sherman; his usually smiling face was rather sober, and I seemed tc feel a lump in my throat. There is something that strikes your heart and brings it into your throat at the sight of a man crying. Sherman spoke hesitatingly, but to the point, voicing the thought that had been at the back of my brain. “You shouldn’t have forced him. He’s an emotional sort of fellow, and he’s stood a lot of ragging about the Kid. And besides—,” he stopped. “It was none of my affair,” I finished. “That’s right,” he said slowly, nodding his head and clasping his hands tightly behind him. “It was none of your busi- ness, and I guess he felt rather bad about your mentioning it. You, especially, because he’s never had a real friend, to my knowledge. You knew him the most intimately of us all. He treasured your acquaintance. You were hard on him, old top.” I nodded my head slowly; he was right. I wanted to seek Casey and ask his pardon, but some foolish pride checked me. And Casey went on out there, and he never came back. I met the Kid about a year after I re- turned to America. I was in the poorer part of the city, where five and six-story tenements reared their dingy fronts sky- ward. The Kid was swinging along un- consciously in snappy, military style, but his deep blue eyes were troubled and a frown creased his brow. He forced a smile and slowed his gait, and I felt that he wanted to talk. I was right. I knew what his story would be, and the answer which he gave to my playful, “How’s tricks?” was as lengthy as I expected. It was the same story. He had tried hard enough to succeed, but some foolish mis- take had earned him his discharge. I do not even remember his exact words, but I read all this in those marvellously ex- pressive eyes. Their subtle charm had gripped me at his first words, and I stood transfixed reading the story in his eyes and heeding not his voice. But suddenly I snapped out of my trance. I read it in

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 A LETTER FROM THE STAFF Dear Students of Q. H. S.: What can the matter be: For there is something wrong. We ask for Golden Rod material and get only a little. We know that most of you like to write and that you would surely enjoy the thrill of seeing your work in print. But when it comes to handing your story, poem or whatever it may be, to one of us or to a teacher, what do you think? Perhaps you say, “They’ll only laugh at this because it isn’t perfect.” Or you might think, “If this gets in the magazine, won’t I feel funny with everybody laughing at me.” Or else, “They’ll throw this out for sure, so what is the use?” But let us tell you this is never so. We never laugh when some one tries to help us. We’ll always try to help you, and if your work is not the best, we’ll try to help you make it better. Undoubtedly, there is nothing that would please us more than to have each one of you write a letter, telling what you think we might do to make the Golden Rod the best of all High School magazines. We will accept your criticisms because this maga- zine is for the students, of the students, and by the students. We want to know what you think. We want to read your stories, your poems, and your jokes. So pass them in, no matter what they are, and always remember, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” The Staff, K. N. A. DALLAS LORE SHARP Not long ago it was our pleasure to hear a very remarkable person give a most remarkable speech on English com- position. This person is one you have probably all heard of, for you may have read some of his works. His name is Professor Sharp. His speech was given informally and contained matter which actually set us thinking, as we are sure it did everyone present. Though it was a serious subject, his talk was well sprinkled with humor which added to, rather than detracted from, the force of his speech. He advocated writing com- position not for a mere mark, but for someone (consider that us), a group (consider that your class), a magazine (of course, the Golden Rod) or a news- paper (illustrated by the Quincy Patriot Ledger). In Professor Sharp’s classes at college, he assigned a certain number of compositions, not for himself alone, but also for publication in some newspaper or magazine. For all compositions accepted by a publisher, a grade of one hundred was placed in his books for the lucky person. With an end in view for our work, he thinks we should do better writing and be more willing to write. As to subject matter, he absolutely disagrees with anyone who believes a list of subjects should be named by our teacher for every theme. He advocates writing on your own subject and paying no attention whatever to punctuation or spelling in the first draft. Put all atten-