Red Bank High School - Log Yearbook (Red Bank, NJ)

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12 THE ROUND TABLE against the door for support, and I saw that his face and arms were black- ened from smoke. “What is it, Tom?” I asked anxious- ly He paused a moment for breath, then—“a forest fire, headed for Caan- an Creek. Come quick. We need all the help—we—can get.” I filled a glass with water and held it to his lips. He drank it gratefully, then seizing my hand he ran with me down the road. All the boys were beating feverishly at the brush, unmindful of the blinding smoke, and the terrible heat. Doro was the busiest of all. He was every- where at once. It was a terrible sight —the smoke rolling up in great clouds, the flames licking the trunks of the tall firs. Once in a while one would fall with a crash, and the merciless fire would run on through the dry needles on the ground. Once one of these trees came hurtling down behind me, and only for the quick wit of Doro who snatched me away from danger at just the right moment, I should have been killed. I could not suppress a thought of admiration as I viewed him, his face and hands blackened, and the perspiration rolling down his face in streams. Suddenly I saw him turn and drop the branch he was holding. “You—’’ he cried, (he never would call me Jean) “where is Mrs. Larsen?” In horror I realized that I had left her sleeping under a tree above Caanan Creek. And the fire was rushing head- long in that direction! In terror at the thought of my beloved “Sole Mio” in danger I reeled, and Doro caught me roughly by the shoulder. “Quick!” he said. Between sobs I told him. “You left her there—alone?” he roared, “alone?” “Doro,” I begged, “Doro, don’t look at me like that.” “If she’s hurt—” he began—then looking at me with narrowed eyes— “I’ll kill you!” With that he turned and made a dash headlong into the flames. I had not realized how very near the creek we were, but now I saw the outline of the trees by it, through the smoke, and I knew that once we reached it the fire would be checked. But Ruth—and Doro? In a frenzy of fear I watched, and the next mo- ment a blackened form that I scarcely could recognize as Doro, stumbled out with Ruth in his arms. He laid her on the ground and I turned to him; “Oh Doro, you’re hurt—” He interrupted me with a glance of scorn, “Take care of her and stop talking like a fool. I’m not hurt.” But even as he said it, a shudder ran through his body and he pitched for- ward at my feet. Tom came running, and to him I en- trusted Doro. As for myself I gathered the unconscious form of Sole Mio in my arms and carried her to the bun- galow. She was not much hurt, only hysterical from fright. Immediate rest was all she needed. Luckily there was a powder in the first aid kit, and I gave it to her. She fell asleep, but I did not dare leave her. Ruth’s husband had gone to Patchoque for a doctor and in fear we waited for him to come. Why fear? Because Doro was dying. As yet he had not opened his eyes and I dreaded the moment when Ruth would wake and ask for him. Doro —gold. The doctor came at last, and set about removing the tatters that were once clothes from the little blackened

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THE ROUND TABLE 11 the hill to the lake just as he was com- ing up, and in my haste I knocked him back against a tree. Of course I apologized, I was really sorry, but he did not let me finish—he had me by the shoulders and was shaking me vici- ously, and his eyes were blazing. “You —you,” he gasped, “you tried to knock me down. I’ll show you—I”!! ft “Doro,” I begged, “Ruth sent me down to—” He gave a start, and his arms drop- ped limply to his side. “Go,” he interrupted, “Go back to her.” He turned from me and ran into the woods. Frightened and shaken, I turned back and sought out Ruth. I found her sitting by the door, a book in her hand, and I slipped down beside her and buried my head in her lap. I did not cry—I was too scared for tears, but I shook like a leaf. “Platt, what is it?” she asked anxi- ously, putting her arms about me. “Doro, again, sole mio,” I replied, “I hate him.” I told her what had hap- pened. When I had finished she look- ed at me and smiled, “But he didn’t harm you, and he won’t either. It’s just that he sees you dislike him. He is not bad at heart.” “But he’s so rude to you—” She laughed. “Yes, because he’s trying to hide his real feeling. His life, you know, has not been happy. Lis- ten—” She laid her hand on my arm. From the woods came the sweet notes of a flute. “A boy who can play like that can not be thoroughly bad,” she said. “But Ruth, he never shows the slightest bit of gratitude.” “Watch, Platt,” she replied, “and I will show you something.” From a box she took an old ring, dirty and worn with age. “You see this? It is dull, isn’t it? Now watch.” With her handkerchief she rubbed the little band and in a few minutes it lay in her hand, bright and gleaming. “That,” she said, “is like Doro— dull gold. Some day something will rub away the dull, and we shall see the pure metal beneath. Now bring me my guitar. You’re cross, today, Platt, and perhaps a song will cheer you up. What shall it be? ‘Sole mio’ all right.” Ten minutes later I had forgotten Doro ever existed. It was a hot, murky day. The clouds hung low, but there was no sign of rain, and every where was heat and dust. Several of the boys went swimming, but Ruth and I preferred a shady nook. We found one, a ways from the bungalow, and sat down be- neath it. The heat was terrible, we could not escape it. Poor Ruth! She had been working hard all morning, and was so tired. “Sit down. Sole Mio,” I said, “and I will fan you.” “But you’ll get hot and tired—” “No, I won’t. You’ve been working since six o’clock, and I haven’t done a thing.” She was too tired to argue, and as I fanned her gently, her eyes closed, and soon she was fast asleep. I sat by her side for some time, but sudden- ly remembering a book I had left at the bungalow, I decided to go back and read. I went quietly, leaving her asleep in the shade of the tree. I don’t know how long I read, but I was far into the story when Tom came running in, breathless. He leaned

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THE ROUND TABLE 13 body. As he did so, Doro emerging from unconsciousness, screamed aloud with pain, a sound that sent a shudder through my body. Ruth, too, heard it and started up. “Doro!” she cried, “Jean, what are they doing to my Doro?” “Lie down,” 1 begged. “Please lie down.” She seized my hand. “Tell me— is he hurt?” I nodded dully. With a groan she closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall, while I, utterly miserable, went out to see if I could help any more. The fire had been checked and there was no more danger. Doro did not die. His recovery was slow, but there came a day when Ruth was allowed to talk to him. She did a thing I have never seen her do before —she fell on her knees beside him and kissed his cheek. Some of the old stubborness came back and he pulled away roughly. “Doro,” she said, looking straight into his eyes, “Why did you do it?” He lowered his lashes. “I don’t want to tell you.” “But you must, Doro. I want to know why you risked your precious life for me.” He hesitated a moment, then said rather sheepishly, “Well, I never had a mother, and you’ve been good to me, and—well—it didn’t matter what hap- pened to me.” “You blessed child—” she smiled, although her lashes were wet, “it shall matter from now on!” And I left them there together, and went out into the woods alone. Doro—gold. jp ¥ ¥ V This item appeared in a N. Y. news- paper recently: “Among the passengers on the Ber- engaria were Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Lar- sen, who with their son Junior, and ward Doro di Nordi, have just returned from Europe where the latter has been studying music. He gives his first re- cital in Carnegie Hall next month.” E. V. H. ’25. -------o------- NEXT! Next! The word, spoken in a deep bass voice, rings in and out of my ears. Here is the fairy word I have waited for almost an hour to hear. Like a doomed man I take off my collar and tie, lay aside the Police Gazette which I have been scanning, march slowly, and with measured step to the chair. I feel like a condemned murderer and I can almost hear the last words of the chaplain as the man puts the cloth over my clothes in front, and fastens it tightly over my neck. Is this the way it is done in Sing-Sing? I wonder. Am I about to be choked to death, electrocuted or get a sh— “Will you have it short or long?”, sweetly inter- rupts the man at my side. Ah! I sigh with relief as I remem- ber I have only come for a shave and a haircut. The cold sweat forming on my brow suddenly gets warmer, and a low cry like the sound of a wounded doe escapes from my lips. I am roused by a terrific whirring noise in my ear and come to find that it is the hair cutter (Pat. applied for March 4, 1923, all rights reserved) and a rough twist of my head by the barber. Suddenly one of the hairs catches and pulls out by the roots. I twist and writhe in the chair. Perhaps, I reflect, I am in the torture chamber and this is