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

Page 17 text:

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

Page 16 text:

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

Page 18 text:

16 THE ROUND TABLE he was gone. “A book?” asked Ruth as she took the bundle from Clovis’ arms. “I’ve always wanted to read ‘If Winter Comes’—“Book of Etiquette!' Why— “Yes,” he replied, “I am to be pre- sented at court, and I must know what to do.” He went on to tell her what had happened. “Hm, sounds funny to me,” she said. He picked up the book and read: When leaving the court, one must never turn his back on the king and queen, but must back out gracefully.” He laid the book down, and bowing low, retreated to the door, which he had left open, and without realizing where he was going, he kept on back- ing. Suddenly he reached the top of the stairs, his feet slipped from under him and the steps rose to meet his chin. “Clovis! did you miss the step?” Ruth ran to the head of the stairs. He groaned. “No, I hit every darn one of ’em.” Tuesday night found him at the cor- ner agreed upon, pacing anxiously back and forth. What if Powers should not come? Suppose—Oh, here he was now. “I see you are on time,” said Pow- ers, smiling. “That is well. Come.” And he took our hero by the arm. “Not so fast there, Jim,” said a voice behind them, and Clovis’ com- panion was seized by the collar. “What does this mean!” roared Powers, “Do you know who I am? I’m Chief Advisor to the King, and I’ll—” “Oh yes, and last time you were Napoleon’s long lost brother. Come on, Jim, back to St. Anne's asylum for yours.” Clovis dashed home. “Ruth,” he cried, “pack our grips, we leave for France on the next boat!” (To be continued) By E. V. H. ’25. --------o------- We read in the last issue of the “Round Table” the statement that Latin is a dead language studied for use in the after world. We could never allow this statement to go unchallenged, and we feel called upon to make a few observations upon the subject. Anyone who has ever studied Latin does not think it is dead. On the contrary, the person himself is likely to be dead after a few weeks of study. If Latin is a dead language, who killed it? Let us now consider a few facts in reference to history: Cicero, Caesar, and Virgil all spoke Latin. Where are they today? Dead! Latin was too much for them. It is not the language which is dead, but the people who have tried to speak it. This proves that Latin is not a dead language, but a deadly one. Besides, Latin is always useful. Look at John Wilkes Booth. After he shot Lincoln, if he leapt to the stage and shouted, “Die doggone ya,” or, “Heh! Heh! I have meh rahvenge”, it would not have been nearly so ap- propriate as “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” This illustration shows another great reason for studying Latin. We have it from unauthentic sources that one mil- lion per cent of all the pupils who take up Latin do so for the purpose of studying out what “Sic Semper Tyran- nis” means. Most people think that Booth had a dog by the name of Tyrannis, and he was trying to “sic” him onto someone in the audience by the name of Semper. W. M. T., ’26.