St Matthews High School - Samascript Yearbook (Conshohocken, PA)

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and with practised hands, jimmied a small window open. With the slyness of a eat, he entered the store. Yes, there was the package jnst where Doc had said it would he. under a small table beside the safe. With the precious parcel in his possession, Durvainc left the building and disappeared into the shadow of the adjacent warehouse. Back at the cafe, Marshall paced the floor impatiently. The ash tray gave evidence of his nervousness. “That fool should be hack by now,’’ he muttered to himself. Sundae “T guess I’ll finish these glasses and dishes,” muttered Ted, the soda-jcrkcr. For two years this had been the tedious task of Ted Price, son of the proprietor of the “Sweete Shoppe,” the favorite high school haunt of the neighborhood. Most of the “dates” ended at the “Shoppe.” Indeed, it served as a part-time residence for the young folks, who liked “to trip the light fantastic” and enjoy the chatter of their crowd. Every week there was an ice cream specialty. This week it was the sundae-special. and its popularity kept Ted behind a mountain of dishes that seemed never to diminish. “Another order for a snndae-speeial.” he groaned, “and I’ll collapse. I must have made a thousand of them tonight.” As he was polishing some glasses. Ted caught sight of a suspicious-looking man approaching. “Tough looking character,” he said to himself. “I wonder if he could be a member of the gang that’s been staging the holdup parties about town.” The newcomer walked slowly to one of the rear booths, seated himself, studied the menu carefully, and gave his order tersely. Then his small, heady eyes darted furtively about as he inspected all parts of the store within his range of vision. In a few minutes, Ten At that instant Durvainc walked in. “Well, Doc, here’s your loot. I don’t know why a man like you wants to rob a store. Hope it’s worth the trouble.” “It is,” retorted the Doctor. “That, my friend, is a rare and valuable parcel — not money — not jewels — but a pound of honcst-to-goodncss coffee — my favorite brand. I haven’t had a good cup of coffee since the rationing started, and I can’t stand it any longer.” John Edmund Crawford, ’43 Special Ted brought his order, and hurried back to his mountain of dishes. On the wall were mirrors in which the boy could watch his customers. While apparently absorbed in his dish-washing activities, Ted's attention was fixed on the back booth. Now and then, he and the stranger would exchange glances in the mirror. Ted grew nervous as he noticed that the customer glared at his plate but did not eat. Suddenly, the man arose and approached the counter. Ted warily watched his movements, and inwardly grew tense. “This is it,” he decided. “Maybe he will make the usual approach; ask change for five dollars and then request the contents of the cash register.” With this, the hoy reached for an empty bottle that was standing near the register and waited for action. The man was now beside him and the clerk asked, “Do you wish something else, sir?” “Yes, I do, and I want it right now. Put down that bottle, too, and listen to me! I ordered a sundae-special and you gave me a banana split. What kind of store is this?” With a sigh of relief, Ted hastened to fill the order, muttering to himself: “Boy, I never thought I’d really get a kick out of making a sundae-special.” Theresa Poysden, ’4i THE MIRROR

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THE MIGHTIEST FALL THE winter snows had made the usually quiet Schuylkill a roaring torrent. The trees on the West Consho-hocken hills were showing signs of spring. There was little evidence of activity along the water front, however, except for the white smoke that emerged from “Moe’s Diner”, a ramshackle eating house, at the bend of the river. Doctor Marshall, noted physician and lecturer, entered the small cabin. His coat collar was turned up; his brown fedora pulled low over his eyes. Gone were his usually dignified air and conservative attitude. In fact, he looked exactly as he felt, furtive and nervous. Hesitantly, he surveyed his surroundings; then his eyes fell on a disreputable figure slouching at a table in the center of the smoke-filled room. He walked in that direction. “Howdy, Doc.” drawled ‘Frcnchy’ Durvaine without rising, and dropped on the table the battered hat which he had been slowly twirling in his hand. Doctor Marshall merely nodded acknowledgment of the greeting, and, removing his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He glanced around at several shabby figures at another table and then seated himself beside the Frenchman. “You know what to do, Durvaine?” he inquired in a low tone. “Sure, Doc,” replied his henchman. “It’s going to be easy.” “Good,” answered Marshall. “Now listen carefully. The store closes at ten. It usually takes the clerk a half hour to go over the books, so I’d say eleven would be the best time.” “Sounds simple enough, Doc, but I don’t see why a man of your position would stoop to—” “Never mind,” snapped Doctor Marshall. “I’m paying you well. Let me do the worrying.” THE MIRROR “All right. Doctor. It’s your money; I guess it’s your worry, too, not mine.” Frenchy left the shack and headed downtown. It was a cool March evening; an evening that made a person forget the evils and hardships of life. As Durvaine trotted along, his thoughts wandered back to the old doctor. The Frenchman could not understand why any consideration would make a man of the physician’s standing engage in a ‘shady’ undertaking. Marshall was a respected member of his community; in fact he was one of the most prominent men in town. Everyone knew, however, that the doctor had grown a bit morose since Mrs. Marshall’s death Jtve months ago. Perhaps that accounted for his strange behavior. Anyway, Durvaine had never been averse to earning a little easy money, and he was sure the Doctor would take good care of him. These thoughts were still running through his mind when he reached his destination. The store lay in the shadow of a warehouse. The whistle from a tug boat on the river sounded in the silence. For a moment the interloper stood still in the shadows to make sure he was alone. Then he cautiously moved toward the rear of the store, Nm«

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ABODE OF MEMORIES CRADLED in the hills surrounding Spring Mill is a comfortable, old vellow house of Revolutionary vintage. Encircled by the ancient Barren Hill Road and Hector Street, it gazes down on the Schuylkill River worrying along, twisting, and winding through the valley in the distance. A stone wall, broken by a flight of marble steps, flanks the vine covered porch. The house is outlined against a hack-drop of motley colored hills terraced with graceful white birches, and faces a silver stream that winds its solitary way through meadows and fields, passes an ancient stone mill, crosses under a modern, highway, and ex-! pands, finally, into romantic Bubbling Springs. It is a well-built old house with thick walls and the sloping roof so characteristic of the period. Six heavy doors with iron locks and bolts give access to it. Why anyone needed six doors remains a mystery to this day. The entrance reveals a hall ■which extends the length of the house, southern fashion. There are fourteen rooms in all. They are airy and spacious with high ceilings and deep window sills. Every window frames a picture: dense forests of green clothe the hills; wheat fields, touched with dabs of gold, glimmer in the sun; the river becomes a stream of liquid fire, in the setting sun; and blue swallows dart about under the dusty rafters of the crumbling stone flour mill. A colonial staircase affords a view of old-fashioned bedrooms on the second floor, and an enclosed stairway leads to the third floor, where the busy drone of bees and the domestic chattering of birds can be heard under the friendly eaves. On the ground floor the large, airy living rooms have an air of charm and hospitality. White doors and woodwork and an antique mantle-piece lend the place colonial atmosphere. THE MIRROR To the rear of the house, but with no connecting door, is a small square room known as a smoke-house. Here meat was cured and tobacco ripened. Even today the strong odor of tobacco fills the room. Next to this is a kitchen with a big copper sink, deep cupboards, and a Dutch oven built into the wall. Beautifully wrought black iron doors keep in the heat when a roaring fire blazes beneath the oven. Great black pots resembling witches’ cauldrons, speak eloquently of our forefathers’ love of good fare. Tradition has it that Washington gave the house to Lafayette, who had grape vines brought from France and, before he returned to his native land, cultivated a vineyard which covered many acres. The deep purple wine produced from these grapes was well known around the countryside. Even today a few straggling survivors remain of the once great vineyard. Many fruitless attempts have been made to uncover a tunnel which leads from the cellar to the river. In the pre-Civil War days this tunnel was used as an underground railroad by runaway slaves. It extends from the river to the house, and from there to a network of subterranean passages which lead to Plymouth Meeting three miles away. Through this maze of channels, slaves escaped to safety farther north. The house has a witchery all its own, for the cobwebs of antiquity are woven into each corner of it. W’e inherited it, and for three years now it has been to us a haven of love and peace. Our family is large and the big rambling place suits us. We have all our old furniture and the things we like best around us; and these things combined transform the old house into a true and happy home — “the spot of earth supremely blest. A dearer sweeter spot than all the rest.” Patricja Dobbin, ’45 Eleven