St Johns Cathedral School - Chimes Yearbook (Paterson, NJ)

Page 25 text:

SAINT JOHN ANNUAL qu IW ELIZABETH WELSH Betty Her friends know her as a real K com panionf' Hobby-Running. Ambition-Secretary. Favorite Saying- Yes, dearf, School-St. George. GENEVIEVE WALSH Gene Noble in every thought, And nohle in every deed? Hobby-Reading. - Ambition-To be a high school teacher. Favorite Saying- So What? School-St. Agnes. JOHN WESTHOVEN Senator Perhaps I am occupied an hour and a half perhaps three hours-with homework. Hobbies-Footballg Swimming. Ambition-To be a chemist. Favorite Saying- Goodness, gracious. School-St. George. ANGELA ZAWISTOWSKA flAnge,l Quiet, retiring, loyal, industrious, and sincere. Hobby-Radio. Ambition-Accomplished Pianist. Favorite Saying- It's a quarter afterf' School-St. Stephen. Twenty-one

Page 24 text:

SAINT JOHN ANNUAL 261' INV Twenty JOSEPH SIMONELLI Sim,' A scorn for flattery and a zeal for truthf Hobbies-Tennisg Baseball. Ambition-To be a radio operator. Favorite Saying- Yeah, man. School-St. George. JOHN STEIGNER Stag Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. Hobby-Sailing. Ambition-To be a civil engineer. Favorite Saying- Pardon me. - School-St. Agnes. ANNE TAYLOR Teddy It,s nice to he nice when you're naturally nice. Hobby-Tennis. Ambition-Traveler. Favorite Saying- Keep still. School-No. 15. HOWARD TUTHILL !!Tut,3 I chatter, chatter as I go. Hobbies-Skatingg Talking. Ambition-To be an aeronautical engineer Favorite Saying- Let me do the talkingf School-St. Paul, Clifton. Q

Page 26 text:

SAINT JOHN ANNUAL V60 gag, Recompense OHN GRANT was broke. Studying the long list of bank shares, rail- road bonds and stocks which in normal times would bring him close to thirty millions, he realized bitterly that the total of its present value would not nearly approach the million and a half he needed to weather the storm. ' So the Inter Commercial Bank, his bank, which he founded thirty years ago, would close its doors, leaving him not only penniless but dis- honored. Tomorrow the Inter Commercial Bank would join the list of banks that had closed their doors since the disaster which occurred in 1929. Tomorrow he would become known as John Grant, the crooked banker who wrecked the Inter Commercial and lost all the depositors' money. Tomorrow he would be broke and branded as a thief at sixty- eight. He thought of Catherine, his wife, who had shared her life with him. She knew that he was an honest man, and that if he were guilty of any- thing it was of bad judgment, of pyramiding, a technical wrong-doing practiced throughout the history of finance. Catherine would under- stand that it was more a series of criminal misfortunes than a criminal act. He got up and paced the floor. This, he told himself, was no time to sit there and accept defeat. It was time to fight. But he had noth- ing left with which to fight. The Reconstruction Finance Corporation had refused his bank a loan with, he admitted, a good reason. He went over in his mind the few real friends he had made in his lifetime, because any help he might get in this moment would have to come from friends. There were five men he could depend upon. They were, strangely, in different walks of life. None of them was in a position to help him. Besides, he admitted, men would not come rushing to him with aid after what he had done to them in his life. It was quarter and he never indulged in quarter. A sense of relief suddenly possessed him. His hands fell to his sides and he began to think of his past life: of chopping timber, of logs tumbling down the river to lock themselves in a jam, of Steve, a tiny Greek lumberjack whose unpronounceable name had been Americanized. He had saved Steve's life. The memory came back to him in a thrilling picture of the most exciting ten minutes of his life. It was a day in early Spring. They were moving the logs into the river. He, John Grant, was bossing that job. The men were scattered along the banks, shoving the logs away and back into the current. Every once in a while a man would leap from the bank and alight sprawling, his spiked shoes gripping a log. He saw Steve jump. Steve was about five feet one inch in height. He was nearly as broad as he was long, and as strong as a bull. He leaped through the air and caught his log easily between his feet. He rode it, his wild brown eyes alight. Grant's eyes went past him to Twenty-two