St Stephens Academy - Academician Yearbook (Port Huron, MI)

Page 30 text:

Too Much Lobster Salad “If Dad don’t let me take the car tonight, I’m going sailing for sure,” exclaimed Chris. Kent to his chum, Jule Draper as they sauntered toward the Kent home after baseball practice. “Aw, Chris., what’s the use of making so much fuss over nothing? I think mother will let me take our car and we’ll call for Phil and Gene” an- swered Jule. “Yes! I know, Draper, but can you tell me what the big idea is of having three perfectly good cars shut up in our garage?” demanded the hot-headed Chris. “Well, no, to tell the truth I can’t, but I guess your dad must have some reason,” slowly answered Jule, whose father had been killed in India when the boy was ten years old. “Only his meanness, I guess!” retorted Chris., as he picked up a stone and aimed it at a neighboring fence-post. “Well, so long, Jule, I’ll see you at Jerry’s drug store at seven o’clock.” “That’s fine,” said Jule as he started for home on the run. When Mr. Kent arrived home for supper, he went directly to the library to assort his mail. “Hello, Dad,” greeted Chris, half an hour later. “Well son, what’s on the bulletin for tonight?” asked his father. “A weenie roast at Lake Washington that the ‘Ne’er Do Wells’ arc giving.” “That’s fine,” said Mr. Chris. Kent, Sr., in his hearty voice. “Hope you have a splendid time, Chris., and by the way, do you need any money?” “No, thanks, Dad,” said Chris, and after figiting around for a few mo- ments o nthe arm of his chair, he finally gained sufficient courage and asked in a strained voice meant to be careless, “By the way, Dad, may I take the “Stude” tonight?” Mr. Kent looked over his glasses and finally answered, “Not tonight, Chris.” and turned again to his letters. Chris, knew that the interview was closed so he slowly left the room with his head down. Behind the locked door of his room, Chris, hurriedly packed a bag, count- ed his money and found to his surprise that he had five dollars and eighty cents in loose change and his bank book, which fortunately he found in the drawer of his desk.

Page 29 text:

Class of ’22 And here, dear friends, we have the Freshmen, or, as they prefer to be called the Ninth Grade. And be assured, gentle reader, that nowhere will you find a brighter or more intelligent group of young ladies and gen- tlemen, gathered in one class room. Three more years must elapse before their individual photographs appear in this book, but when the time does come, they will surely be there with banners flying. Class Roll Clarence Adamson Wellington Burns Clarence Fountain Francis St. Denis Lawrencee St. Denis Louis Samberg Harvey Simpson James Stack Charles Wyllie Charlotte Allen Anna Bryant Gertrude Causley Margaret Cash man Helen Connolly Veronica Deemer Helen Falkerts Elizabeth Hickey Gwendolyn Hickey Catherine Kraus Mary Kelly Margaret Kearns Nora Malloy Irene McCarthy Margaret McCarthar Philomena Noetzel Agnes Netter Janice O’Rourek Mildred Richert Theresa Tyson Theresa Worsalla HUMBLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO FRANCIS KRONNER, ESQ. ON HIS EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY Boyhood passes, and manhood Falls from the speeding years On Kronner’s kiddish shoulders, (’Twas a tight squeeze to pass his ears.) Old father Time, while flying by, Thought best to pause once more, And add a year to Frank’s age, Sending him from kidland’s shore. Old daddy Tempus meant it well But overlooked that still at heart Kronner’s yet the same old kid, Though some times he’s really smart.

Page 31 text:

“Well, there’s one thing sure” said Ch«js. to himself, “Dad always gave me enough money and so 1 have enough to last me for a month or so.” After getting his bag ready, he put it out on the rose covered balcony that joined his room, then slipped a strong rope ladder into his pocket. At seven o’clock Jule stopped his car by the curb and entered Jerry’s drug store just as Chris, was about to phone to see if he had left. “Hello, Chris., you look like a thunder cloud ready to burst,” said Jule. “Well, I’m sure I don’t care,” snapped the unfortunate one. “I’m going to leave home tonight, anyway,” said Chris, as he climbed into the car a few minutes later. “What for?” questioned Jule. “You’ve been going to leave home every month for the last four years. What has offended your dignity now?” “Well, Dad insists that I go to college and I don’t want to, and so I thought it would be a good idea to sneak out now, because he wouldn ' t let me have the car tonight.” The chums joined the rest of the boys at the beach and Chris, forgot for awhile his intention. He arrived home about twelve o’clock and after quickly removing his shoes, he tied them to the bottom of the rope ladder with his bag and quietly lowered it to the ground. Just as he was about to spring over the railing, he saw a light near the garage. He waited breath- lessly for a moment, then as the light disappeared, ran nimbly down the lad- der.. Where to go now became the question of the moment. As he walked quickly down the driveway, many wild thoughts ran through his mind. “My! wouldn’t I like to be a villain for a month or so?” said the runaway to him- self. As the first streaks of dawn began to steal over the city, Chris, found himself in that part of Seattle that is known as “1 he Slums.’ It was his plan to remain hidden here for a while. He passed weather-beaten shacks that were sadly in need of paint and some minus the doors and window ' s, dogs seemed to spring from nowhere to bark at him; suddenly his ears rang; and he felt as though his legs were giving aw r ay under him. 1 his was the last he remembered. When he awoke he was lying on a filthy blanket on the floor. Chris, looked around the room which seemed to be about eight feet square with no windows or doors, but a small opening in the ceiling. “Well,” said Chris, aloud, “I’d give something to know how I got here.” Although he was not tied, he knew that escape was impossible at present. Some time later he heard footsteps and then voices outside. “He’s sort o’ young, don’t you think?” queried the first speaker in a loud whisper. ‘Wot more ' n seventeen, I’d say, but they’d never think of suspectin’ a