Santa Rosa High School - Echo Yearbook (Santa Rosa, CA)

Page 14 text:

THE PORCUPINE The boys were duly watched, and one evening they were sure, from certain signs, that something was about to hap pen. The headmaster called a meeting and it was decided that they should all go to their rooms, put out the. lights and keep watch. If any of the boys went out they would follow them and prevent any mischief. At about ten o’clock their patience was rewarded by see- ing a solitary fgure leave the building and walk quietly down the driveway, dodging into the shadows at every chattce. They as quietly followed, and after a long and chilly walk arrived by a devious route at St. Johns. It was too late. The boys had been there before them, and the one they had followed was merely a decoy, who now mysteriously disappeared. Above the imposing en trance to the main building, above the chiseled “St. Johns,” was a gaudy red “W.” [t was useless to do anything then, so the masters re- turned cold and sold. But the worst was to come. The iron gates into the court were closed fast. One after another the 1asters tried to force them open, but to no avail. Suddenly it dawned upon them. They had been barri- caded. This was the revenge of the boys for the close watch at had been kept upon them. After breaking into the work room they managed to get a mg ladder, and placed it against the gate.. Then one of vem climbed down inside, and after a long intervals suc- ceeded in pulling away the chairs, benches and other furni- ture placed against the door. At about twelve, a group of weary, nearly frozen masters sought their rooms, while their wicked wards dreamed peacefully of the pleasant surprise awaiting St. Johns in the morning. Strange to say there was never any attempt made to catch and punish the barricaders, and to this day the masters are wondering how the boys discovered their plans.

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THE PORCUPINE 11 before we kick it,” was the comment of the captain of the Westfield track team. “Well, gee whizz! If I had to bea little dude like that This remark was interrupted by a soft chuckle from Max Carlson, who was held responsible for most of the practical ” jokes played in the academy. “You fellows come up to my room to-night and we'll plan a little harmless revenge,” he said, laughing. The next morning St. Johns woke to find the following legend painted upon the wall of the tennis court: “ St. Johns’ won't play 3ecause they say The Westfield brutes Will win the day. But they won’t play with country Jakes, Whose hands are used to grasping rankes.. Well, sissy boys, just take your knittin’, Or set and tat, for that is fittin. But fellers who have got some sense Don’t care to stay inside a fence. Your legs would make good shinny sticks, Your heads are balls of gas. But we can give you extry licks, Altho’ we get no chance, alas!” That afternoon cards appeared all over the Westfield premises bearing caricatures of members of the Westfield track team, each boy carrying a rake, hoe or pitchfork, while underneath was a mock advertisement, such as “Any one in search of an experienced farm hand, apply at Westfieid Academy.” “Expert broncho busters at Westfield,” etc. On that evening a messenger came from the dean of St. Johns to the head master at Westfield, saying that he feared mischief was afoot. He hoped there would be no unpleas- antness between the schools, and so he would suggest that the master keep a rather close watch upon the boys, as he was doing at St. Johns.

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THE PORCUPINE The Winner “Hey, wait a minute!” Bob stopped in answer to the summons, and waited for the boys’ basketball team. Lawrence the manager of White gave him a letter which read “Piermont High School has received your letter of the 17th, and will play your team of Cleveland High School in a basketball game on’ November Ist. “Sincerely, “Walter Overton.” “Good! When did you get it?” asked Bob Sanborn, the captain. “This morning. I’ve been searching the earth for you,” was the answer. “Come on, let’s tell the rest of the fellows. They ll yell for joy when they learn that we're going to lick our old enemy on the first of November.” “Yes, if we can lick ’em,” returned the practical Law- rence. “White, you make me tired. Of course we can beat ’em with Knight as goaler. There’s nothing the matter with him, let me tell you. What do you think of him?” “He's all right,” and when Lawrence White said that in that way, he meant. it. The evening of the first of November finally came. It was half after seven, with the game scheduled to start at eight o'clock. Confusion reigned supremely in the dress- ing room: A glance into the hall showed the immense assembly awaiting impatiently for this, the most important game of the season. The Cleveland boys were gathered around their. captain, listening intently while he encouraged them. They were going in to win squarely and fairly, in- tending to come out at least a few points ahead of “those old scrubs.” But “those old scrubs” were not so srubby as their opponents thought them to be. In fact at the end of