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

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14 THE ROUND TABLE one of the inquisitions. But no, I am, after all, in the barber shop. The barber, at last, turns the switch off and searches in his pocket. What is he going to draw? Nothing but an inno- cent comb and a pair of scissors come from his white jacket. I sit and stare into the mirror at the falling locks I shall never see again. Ouch! What is that! Something goes down my neck and tickles me. It is only falling hair but more and more are falling in my eyes, ears, nose, and throat. I beseech the barber to aid me, as I feel that the one mission for hairs that have been cut is to cause discomfort and pain. He wipes them away with a soft brush and sprinkles powder over my perspiring neck. After some time he finishes with my hair, parts it and perfumes it to his great satisfaction. Then he begins work on my beard. He puts a creamy lather on my face and rubs it in with his fingers and a brush. He takes a villainous looking razor from the case, and nonchalantly strops it. He applies its keenness to his thumbnail and as the edge appears satisfactory, begins operations. Carefully he strokes my face. Sud- denly a thought comes to me. Sup- posing that the barber should suddenly become mad! With one swipe he could cut my neck from ear to ear. I shudder slightly but I hold him in great respect. At length, after he mis- takes my skin for the beard several times, he finishes and applies witch hazel to my face. He suggests sham- poo, massage, and other sundries but I refuse pleasantly, as I think of the money which must last me till payday. I arise with a sigh of relief at having succeeded in getting away from torture or death. He hands me the check and I pay it. As I shut the door I faintly hear the magic word—“Next!” M. B., ’26. -------o------- CLOVIS THE GREAT Chapter II “So this is London!” Clovis gave a great sigh, “Hm, not a bad little town.” He gazed complacently at the tall buildings and the hurrying throng. “Oh daddy, look,” cried Junior, and as he turned to point out some curios- ity to his father, the latter seized him by the collar and pulled him back, just in time to avoid being hit by a big car. “See there?” he cried, turning a wrathful gaze upon his little son, “That’s what you get for not looking where you’re going. I’ve told you time and time again, and this must be the last. You don’t see me running into things. Blah-BIah-blah! ” An hour later he was still talking. So intent was he on laying down the law to his son that he walked straight into a hand cart laden with pears, apples, oranges, etc., and down they went together. He looked about, bewildered. Pears to the right of him, grapes to the left of him, and a banana clutched in either hand. “Well,” said Ruth, “You are a fine one. I can see where I’ve lost my wonderful vacation.” “Vacation ?” he flared up, “Say, whose money is this, anyway?” “Yours,” said a calm voice at his ear, “and you can just hand over $15 of it for the damage done to my cart.” Dead silence accompanied them to the hotel. Being weary, they decided to have dinner sent up to them, and at the sight of the steaming food, Mr. Loso’s spirits soared. “Junior,” he said, sternly, “I’m go- ing to punish you for your carelessness this afternoon. I shall do it in this

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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

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THE ROUND TABLE 15 manner You must eat at a little table by yourself. You are disgraced and cannot eat with us until you do as papa tells you.” “Papa should practice what he preaches,” put in Ruth. Mr. Loso favored her with an icy stare. So it was that a certain little boy sat down alone at a table placed at a far end of the room. For a long time he sat with head bowed, and Clovis, thinking him to be crying, softened and said, “What’s the matter. Junior?” The curly head popped up, “Noth- in’, I’m just saying a little verse I learned in Sunday School.” “Good for you! Let’s hear it,” our hero replied. Junior folded his hands and droned in a sing-song voice: “Thou prepar- est a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” Then he dived under the bed. “You little rogue. I’ll spank you good for that.” “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said his wife, “you ought to be glad one member of the family has a show of intelligence.” After dinner, Clovis piled the dishes on a tray, and going to the other side of the room, said, “Ruth, there’s no use ringing for the boy. I’ll just put these in here.” He opened a door and put in the tray. Crash! From far below came a faint tinkle of broken crockery. “Clovis! Where did you put those dishes?” “On the dumbwaiter I guess,” he replied weakly. “Dumbwaiter by that door,” he said again. “Dumbwaiter! Why you silly! This isn’t New York. That’s an airshaft.” Exit Clovis to soft music. “And poking the revolver in the pit of the villain’s stomach: ‘Utter one word,’ he said, and I’ll blow out your brains.” “What??!” Ruth stopped, speech- less, “Is this another story?” Clovis threw down the pencil in dis- gust. “Yes, if you must know!” he roared, “but how can I work with a woman like you around? I’m going!” For several hours he wandered thru the streets of London, and finally en- tered a hotel in search of the cup that cheers. At the end of the bar stood a tall, distinguished looking man, who kept eyeing him closely. Finally he edged up the bar close to our hero, and whispered gravely, “The great Poet?” Clovis looked at him in amazement. How had his fame spread so quickly? “Loso,” he stammered. “Yes, yes,” said the other, “John Loso.” “No—Clovis.” “Oh—my mistake. Well, I am— “here,” he paused to look furtively around. “We cannot talk here,” he whisper- ed, “Come outside.” “Now,” he said, when he had Clovis alone, “I will tell you who I am, you see. Now before you stands Stanley Powers, chief advisor to the king of England.” Our hero gasped. “And I have a plan to propose to you. Ed. is looking for a poet laure- ate, and I feel certain that you are the very man we want.” “But,” protested our hero, “why should you do this for me?” “Because I see that you are an un- usual man. Now remember, meet me here at 6:30 P. M. Tuesday, and I will present you to the king.” With that