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

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THE ECHO. 5 see his right foot descend with a mighty thud, while a grey carpet slipper, several sizes too large, flew from its moorings and went skidding across the room. Tom felt, in the moments that followed, just as he did six years be- fore, when, as a Freshman, he had served his turn at the faucet. The minutes sped quickly by, but the players around the table, busy with their cards, were in total ignorance of the fact. Sophia exclaimed, more to herself than anyone else, “Oh, dear, what’s more aggravating than a poor hand.” “Shoes,” suggested Dick, winking across the table at Tom. When the laugh had died down, Ralph looked up from his hand and said, “Say, old man, bet you the treats tomorrow noon, | can tell you what we're going to have for dinner tonight.” “Fire away,’ Tom responded. “Well,” Ralph began, “it goes something like this: roast turkey, dressing, baked potatoes, thick brown gravy, bread and butter, cranberry sauce”— “Confound that maid,” Tom broke in, “has she been talking again!” “And I'll take a chance on the desert,’ Ralph added. “Furthermore, old boy,” this from Dick, “it’s all to be on the table at once,—no courses, everybody helps himself,—a genuine square meal.” Tom was dumfounded, but before he could speak, the door across the room flew open, and a terrified maid, in white cap and apron, rushed in. As well as her terror would allow, she gasped excitedly, “Oh, Mr. Kinley, Mis’ Kinley, come ,quick! quick! Burglars! Robbers! Looks of consternation and amazement passed from one to another as they followed the frightened girl to the dining room. They stopped in wonder on the threshold, while the maid told her story. She had set the table, she said, with everything, turkey and all. Then she had gone to the kitchen to prepare some forgotten dressing,—the things would keep hot,—and had been gone only ten minutes, but when she returned everything was as it was now. Such a sight—the big. g, tiful, white table linen fringed with a border of thick, brown gravy, while empty platter where the turkey had been, an overturned dish, the beau- the opposite side was stained bright crimson by the cranberry sauce. Even the potatoes were gone. The girls were white as sheets as Sophia laid her shaking hand on Tom’s arm and said, “Oh, Tom, go get the janitor, maybe he can help us.” She hadn’t the least idea what good the janitor could pos- sibly do, but Tom went. As he left, Dick turned from the group, muttering something to himself. When Tom returned to the awe-stricken group with Mr. Jenkins, the burly janitor, Sophia said quickly, “Oh, Mr. Jenkins, what do you suppose went with it?” The janitor was plainly puzzled, but answered, “Dunno Mis’, must be spooks.” Somewhere in the darkened hall without a door squeaked on its hinges. Ruth Madge gave a terrified scream and sank to the floor, unconscious. Ten- derly they carried her to the lounge and sprinkled ice-cold water on her face, but it was several minutes before she opened her eyes again—just as the in- mates of the adjoining apartments came rushing in, attracted by the scream. Explanations were in order, and Tom gave them in anything but a pleasant

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4 THE ECHO. It was on Tuesday evening, early in November, just two months after their wedding day. Snow had been falling all day, the city was clothed in a soft mantle of white, and without the air was cold and crisp. Within, the lights had been turned off, and. the snapping, crackling fire on the hearth cast weird and phantom shadows on the tinted walls across the room. On her little stool at one side of the hearth, Sophia rested her chin in her palm, and gazed long and silently at the leaping, racing flames, while her delicate features, her golden-brown hair, and the soft, silken folds of her dress caught and reflected the ruddy light. Across the hearth, Tom lounged in his low rocker, stretched his slippered feet to the blaze, puffed lazily at his old college pipe, carved in all strange devices, and gazed long and intently through half- closed lids, at Sophia, across the hearth. The fire burned low; Tom poked the dying embers with the toe of his carpet slipper, watched the showers of sparks as they chased one another into the dark chimney, and puffed away in silence. The little clock on the mantel struck the hour of seven. Sophia started, and cried, “Oh, Tom, I didn’t know it was so late; they'll soon be here!” For answer, the door-bell rang sharply. Sophia switched on the lights and went to meet her guests, while Tom made for his room, where, while fumbling in the dark for the electric button, he kicked his slippers under the bed. As the light flashed on, he tossed his smoking jacket onto a chair, and, on hands and knees, reached frantically under the dresser for his patent leathers. But no shiny pumps met his touch. Slowly, despair and bewilderment in his face, he arose and sat on the edge of the bed, griping the covers in a tightening grasp. As the truth dawned upon him he gave an agonized groan, and mut- tered something which sounded like “curses.” For those precious shoes, dampened by a shower from the faucet in the pantry, reposed high and dry on a shelf above the tiny kitchen stove. There was no hope for it. His every-day tans were in the repair shop, and the blacks just as far beyond reach, for already he heard cheerful, laughing voices in the hall and Dick Haskell asking for him. Seconds were precious now, so Tom dropped on hands and knees again, and, wrathfully jerking the unoffending slippers from under the bed, slipped them on. Putting on his coat, glancing in the mirror for a final survey, and assuming a cheerful face, Tom turned off the light and stepped out, with a bold front, but a sinking heart. Yes, they were all there—Dick Haskell, promising young lawyer; Ralph Wesly, of the medical school; Grace Hilton, teacher; Ruth Madge, so terribly afraid of ghosts; Sophia and himself; they had all been college chums, with many a good time together. When the greetings were over, and the first friendly, bantering jests had subsided, Sophia suggested cards, and all joyfully agreed. No one had noticed shoes at all, and Tom’s hopes began to rise. The fire was almost out. Poking the dying embers with the tongs, he casually remarked, “While you people get the cards ready I'll get some wood for this fire,” and started for the kitchen. A harmless little spool had dropped from Sophia’s work- basket on the table and lay on the rug in the shadow of the table leg. There was plenty of room to go round it, but Tom didn’t know it was there, and he stepped full upon it. He didn’t fall, but everyone turned just in time to

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6 THE ECHO. tone of voice. Amid the explanations of sympathy, surprise and wonder, Ralph betook himself once more to the dining room. As he opened the door, a draught of cold air swept across the room, and he crossed to close the win- dow. For a moment he stopped to gaze at the twinkling lights high among the massive beams of the skeleton hotel. Slowly his gaze centered on a little knot of workers gathered together at the junction of four huge beams, directly under a light. Something in their actions arrested his attention and as he looked, something struck the window-sill beside him. It was the large, bare, well-picked drum-stick of a turkey. So those were the “spooks,” were they? Those men climbing by the window to work. The maid out fixing the dressing, and the beam so close to the window-sill. As Ralph’s mind grasped the details, one by one, a laugh came from the group above. It broke the strain, and his grim face relaxed to a grin, while the grin broadened to a smile, as he chuckled to himself, “Poor Tom, he would get married.” —A. S. ’12. A Hero OWDY, Mr. Cooke! I been atryin’ to make my way in here ‘bout an hour, ‘cause I heard you might consider carryin’ a passenger. Be you thinkin’ “bout it? That so? Then, maybe you'd take me along. I’m adyin’ to go, an’ my wife Mirandy, she sez she'd hate like anything to have me go, but she’s right when she sez, ‘Folks have to do something to show how brave they are, and make people realize that you're somebody.’ Now, ain’t that right?” Si, from under his broad, summer, hat, gazed earn- estly into the face of Mr. Cooke. There was a smile playing about Mr. Cooke’s mouth, as he looked at Si, for the latter was a typical backwoodsman. He was very tall and angular, had a short, pointed beard, a long mustache, and a head covered with straw- colored hair. “Well, 1 am prepared to carry a passenger, but, as he has disappointed me at the last minute, I could take you,” returned Mr. Cooke; then added, “but you know it is cold up in the air, so unless you can bundle up, better not attempt a flight this time.” Si’s face was beaming, as he replied, “Oh, I can manage fine. How long before you're goin’ to start? Ten minutes? All right; I'll just go and get ready.’ And Si departed. Making his way through the group about the aviator, Si hurried across the track, through the entrance, and, upon turning down the road, screamed out in delight, “I’m a-goin’, Mirandy! I’m agoin’!” By this time the happy excited man had arrived at the side of an old spring wagon, in which sat Mirandy and several children. All were staring at the hero with open mouths; then Mirandy explained: “But Si, you ain’t got no overcoat, and say, Si, wh—what—if anything should happen to the machine, an’ you—you’d be hurt? Wh—why—S-Si, I-I-I’d just die!’