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

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TEE ECHO At the station I was greeted with a tearful kiss, which was not at all dis- pleasing, for the giver was a well-dressed, pretty giril with the most bewiteh- ine black eyes, now filled with large glistening tears. { ‘‘Oh Jim, I am so glad you came. I lost my purse’and this terrible cab- ; man refused to let me go—and I never could have walked home this black ! and rainy night—why, it’s so dark I ean hardly see a thing—so—so—l sent tor you,’’ she ended limply. Who was I supposed to be? A long lost brother or fond cousin. My brain was in a muddle. But that was hardly the place for explanations and, well, it was a rather thrilling adventure, so why not go through with it? { settled with the cabman, helped her into the waiting taxi. After we were comfortably settled and out of the rain I noticed the chauffeur still waiting ‘ there- for directions. My gray matter whirled. ‘Br—er—you tell him where to go, my dear, while I get a match at the j corner.’’ I lit my cigarette. How quieting it was to smoke, and | prided myself on how easily I had gotten out of that difficulty about directions. | When I returned to the car she said rather angrily, ‘‘Even though it is lark, I can see the light of your cigarette and Jim, I am not going to let s you break your promise to me and smoke.’’ } “Why—er—I thought under the circumstances, I——”’ ‘ Well, I won’t have it!’’ and she snapped the cigarette out of my mouth. ; I consoled myself by remembering’ that 1 wasn’t married to her—yet. I | i looked at her closely and wondered who ‘‘Ji m’’ was. Supposing—but her ‘ cloves prevented my knowing that one thing at least. 4 ‘And Jim,’’ when I kissed you at the station I noticed that you had ; shaved your moustache, I don’t think it was a bit nice of you when you know i don’t like you nearly so well without it. Oh, I wish it were lighter so I | uld see you better !”’ Having never had a moustache I was decidedly amused but answered with | | all gravity, ‘‘I’ll let it grow again if you want, but it—it got in my coffee in | the morning and was a nuisance?’’ i She looked at me rather curiously and the awful thought struck me that maybe ‘‘Jim’’ was the proud possessor of the now fashionable very diminu- tive moustache and I thought that I had surely said something wrong, but her mind was busy elsewhere, for she soon said: ‘““Why don’t you ask me why I came home from my vacation a week sooner than I had planned, at such an hour, and in the rain?”’ ‘“Why—er—my dear, you know—why I was so confused by the situation that I had forgotten.’’ 4 “Oh, Ill forgive you, as it is rather unusual. It’s this way—Frankie got q the measles, and Mr. Stoddard said I should go home at onee, as I had never had them.’’ yg Now was the chance for some finishing touches! And how is Mrs. Stod- y dard?’’ IT asked, coolly. 7 “Why, Jim, you know she has been dead these two years?’’ Oh, you mean , his mother! She’s’’—and she launched into a description of some old lady’s | |e Y = i ry a s aes cd —e . U SS Y Twenty-nine

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tesco OK PS Che Nivht © Ht Rained ING-A-LING! Ding-a-ling! I awoke with a start. How long had that pesky telephone bell been ringing? Out of patience, I answered it. ““Hello!’? ‘Hello!’? The answering ‘‘hello’’ was in a woman’s voice— sweet but teary. “‘Oh Jim, please come down to the station at once! I am in terrible trouble!’’ ‘But, Madame, | !’? But I heard the click of the receiver and I knew that I was alone on the line. Having been christened Archibald by a doting parent and having never had the honor of being called ‘‘Jim’’ in my en- lire life, I knew I was not the rightful recipient of that pleading message, out [ pulled back the curtain and looked out. Tt was certainly a wet world that I beheld. The rain was beating down pell-mell and the eutter’s and ear tracks were miniature Mississippis at the flood season. The dull street lamps sent out their sickly gleams through the mist of the downpour, but added no light to the dripping world. No living mortal was in sieht. Gad! What a beastly night! How I would hate to be out there! But a woman—alone and in trouble. I turned and looked at the bed. The eover’s were thrown back where I had left them in a hurry, the pillows were piled in an anviting heap, and moreover, the chills were running up and down my spine. Well, taken altogether, the bed was the most enticing thine I could see. so I jumped into it, pulled the cover’s over my head and tried to resume my slumbers, but my conscience troubled me, trying to tell me it was a gentleman’s place to help a lady in distress. The clock, chiming twelve, added the last drop in the bucket and I arose, dressed, and hurried to the station. cursing the rain, vet with my innate adventurous spirit at its highest. Twenty-eight

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TEESECHO = health, about which I didn’t give a rap—but it was interesting to watch her talk, Suddenly the machine came to a stop. I awoke to find that the adven- ture was about at an end—but—how? I dismissed the taxi and with my arm and coat sheltering her, we walked up the steps of a small but comfortable- looking house. As she stepped back to allow me to go first, I suddenly real- ized that I was in need of a key, and began to search my pockets. At length—‘‘Hang it all! I left my keys in my other suit! Have you yours ?”’ ‘Oh how forgetful!’’ she exclaimed petulantly. ‘‘Mine were in my purse and it’s lost.’’ I wondered why she didn‘t suggest ringing the bell and waking somebody in the house, but— “Well, the kitchen window is all that I can think of. You probably haven’t locked it. Men never do.’’ Luckily for us, men are forgetful creatures, and the window was stand- ing wide open. I climbed in and was just letting her in the back when a loud ‘‘Hands up’’ and the lights were switched on. I wheeled around and found myself looking into a ‘‘38’’, and behind it a man so nearly my double that it was positively uncanny, Suddenly a scream and a third, and there was a girl—fainted. With a short ery the man threw himself at her side. My wife.’’ I slipped out the back door and walked home—rain and all. I was con- fused but I couldn’t help being greatly amused, and lighting a cigarette, I puffed contentedly and was glad that I was still a bachelor. EARL KUYKENDALL,” 22.