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

Page 20 text:

THE BCHO UNBURIED TREASURE ( First Award) XTRA! EXTRS'! DEATH OF MILLIONAIRE! Prominent man dies suddenly; cause unknon.” This did not in ( terest me much. No matter if they are rich, they QD will have to go to the Happy Hunting Ground whether they want to or not; but somehow I remembered it. [wo days after this vs had been chewed over by the town “hicks” I was in want of diversion. Ifor want of any better occu- pation I collected Hobo (he ain't a dog, he’s my chum), and we wended our innocent (?) way to the Chink Dump, where the rarbage, both good and bad, is dumped; regardless of a “Keep Out” sign. Once there we began to rummage over the new spoils and to get ourselves beautifully unclean and quite “heppy.”’ As we plowed uur way through a pile of old magazines we perceived a garbage vacon putting in an appearance. “Ah!” hisses Hobo (who thinks he would make a good villian), “now for the dirty work But just then the town clock broke loose and announced it to be twelve o’clock, and as I had promised myself to be somewheres else at that time, I “beat it.” Hobo followed, but we promise ourselves to revisit the dump the nexi day. At the early hour of 10 a. m. ] shooed Hobo out of bed and we again proceeded on our innocent (?) way. Arriving at the dump we encountered the Chinks, but we are brave, we are, so we kept on. Hobo started to cuss, and I joined in the chorus when I found that it was because some one had beaten us to the new pile of garbage. The bushes had been strewn with envelopes and letters, with here and there some broken article of luxury. Among some wiliow bushes I saw a broken vase, rather fancifully decorated, but thinking it was one of the numerous vases abundant in the Chink Dump, I passed it by. “All the letters are addressed to that rich jasper that kicked the bucket « few days ago,’ says Hobo, in his beautiful language, gleaned from numerous “detective stories.” “Zat so?” queries I, forgettin’ that I like to imitate the manner of French and Englishmen, “nuthin funny bout that.” Then I recollects that I am supposed to be an English duke or sumpin’.

Page 19 text:

AN El dye De Ol LK) 15 a she = N t | X I t) i ie UNBURED SREASURE BY FRARCS PIAZZI GHE FACULTY JORN STUMP FOR OLD GLORY LAWRENCE HART WAR SOCKS VERREL WEBER POSSUM BELLA FLSK ELLEN FRANK FENTON

Page 21 text:

THE ECHO 17 “Rippin’. don't cha know. Perhaps we may run across some of his business lettahs. ‘That’d be bully, don’t cha think?” “Say, cul,’ says Hobo, rather peeved at my royal manners, and still in his best imitated dialect, “dont pull youah highbrow dope wid muh; it don’t woik, see!” Fearing to cause a diplomatic breakdown between me and Hobo [ stops. Hobo (I tell you he ain’t a dog), smiled in his superior way and we proceed to our “joint.” ‘This is a cave occupying a remote part of the creek, where Hobo and I congregate when we have raided some nearby melon patch or orchard. Here we dis- located ourselves and read some “dime novels,” Hobo trying his 4 hand at one with the very original title of “Double Crossed or the Pirate’s Last Gasp. In two gasps.’ What with the war ceasing and peace filling the world (except in Russia an’ between me an’ Hobo), it was no wonder that the editor crowded the main local news onto the third page. tere it was thar I found the following item: “The collection of ancient goid and silver coins of Mr. Thorn dyke Q. Ypsilanti (he was the millionaire who had died a few weeks before) has mysteriously disappeared. It was a known fact that Mr. Ypsilanti kept the collection, which numbered over five hundred 2old pieces and possibly seven hundred silver pieces, in a small wall safe in his study. The will of Mr. Ypsilanti discloses the fact that the collection has been bequeathed to the Western Museum of Numismatics. The Museum has offered a reward equal to the value of the gold and silver. This can be better understood when one knows that the value of the coins as relics, amounts to prob- ably $200,000, while the metal in the coins does not amount to more than $5,000.” Then it went on to say numerous other things about Mr. Ypsi- lanti, such as press agents use. You can bet, though, that when | read this I hustled out Hobo. He did not get my idea at first, but when | told him that there might be a map or sumpin’ among the letters of Mr. Ypsilanti’s which had been thrown down the dump, he was with me. I don’t think it took us a minute to get to that dump, and it is a good half-mile from our homes. Well, we rummaged and rum- maged and cussed (who wouldn’t), but nary a “dubloon” did we find. We went chrough the letters—nothin’; we dug up the ground, and still nothin’. Then I espied the fancifully decorated vase and sumpin’, maybe my sixth sense (maybe not), kinda’ made me want to take it and look at it. I lifted it, or rather I tried to. Heavy? Heavy was no name for it; so, seein’ I couldn’t open it, I broke it. Inside was a chamois skin bag. I yelled for Hobo, and he came skiddin’. With tremblin’ hands I opened my pocket knife and cut the leather thong about the mouth of the bag. My hands shook