St Thomas More High School - Utopian Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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FQ 1-4. N E CARRY P J ,uw ff flin g as-fzf X -N Qs ai! an-915 :lla ,gx Duff ,em ,. ' ff '. ,rl 4,...gu in ' , M, .,... rg ri .rl BY RONALD CENTRONE '51 Alf gh! LQ HERE IS NO need to glance at the clock to leam that it is 6:03. Anyone passing a million homes knows the familiar time signal which heralds the nightly Western. Bang, bang. . . pid-dinnnngl Yes, mothers, with dishtowels draped over their wrists: fathers, with the evening newspaper jammed awkwardly under their arrnsg big brothers, with unfinished dinner plates balanced on one kneeg elder sisters, still plunging bobby pins aimlessly into their hair- dosg and finally, the kiddies-bless theml-all make their accustomed way into the living room to pay the usual homage to TV's hallowed Hr by gs ' N- gy L-ll-Esllvccx K f7 T ,,'?'i A ', ' rpi l Q 3,5535 .- n 0 I V I-In 1 1. j' - 1eggg,1.ff - .h V. 4.1, I Y x fi -lla - 'f u f' ' - Q K , I . I .1 . rg . I ,,, F5 N' .Q.-if f' t , -ff: ' f fn I c' Tiff 1 1 '-' ' h . - 'K .-4 x f ' L0 'Q P , , . r B A B K ' ' i ' V 1' l 7 is 1' ' ,. I W? ' ' e' f . 1 ' -I : pf' 4' .n F11 W. J KA., gg i X0 ,v I N -, . -5 --. ' . I K Q wg M.-. - ll- K 5, .u , ,Q X X d f g, b X ,X ' 7-. . V53354 . 7' iz . -T'-.'-f , V .. . ,,. . . 'v - ,. -X TLA... ' 5: V 'T ii' 4--' U. , 5 1 fr . x - I 7- ' ' Y 5 -L' I' ..'-:-ff' , 153' K 'if ' Y ' ,.i,- 4 z 4, 'va r- F, . ,gf ,I 4 ' A . . ' .LE . A' ' ' I -1' -Q75 f '- J' 5 3 ,pf Agfi - 'Hig if '- Q. 3 i ,4' .-.Viv .V . ' Q ' , ' A ' ' u 11 3 - -- .fig F35 . -P X, vig!! iz... J 1.1: 553 , .. y. i n-:fm 1' 3:3 , A .....' 4 'W5 W17C?' LEW' 'Eff' -if .. v5'f.wfq-,S ':1 f?i. Y ' L, rw-9 . . . f ,fl J' 9 W' .P li , 5 . 'f ' ' 1 1 jf' 6 r 4 A W:-32 1 4 rife , ' 4, 5, Ja l yi l 1 ? I v I n lil QA 'I I f x S p-095 ti g w ' a J C .J iffy- - i 1 lm, L if ' X nl V P h t , f . 1 rg x X .x shrine. What is it that magnetizes them thus, THE UTOPIAN .

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overheard telling the mate that the chief figgers 'es got close to 330,000 worth of the purty pills. Perhaps there was reason to celebrate. Malone expected the party to stretch into the night. We prayed that the rum would outlast our hosts. By feigning greater friendliness we hoped to conceal our eagerness to escape. That blessing depended largely upon our getting the two revolvers stowed in my locker on the Blue Dolphin. Admittedly, to swim over in the dark, board her unnoticed, and get back alive, was a risk that neither Malone nor I relished. We flipped a coin. I lost. Apart from Siki, nobody on board ate much that night. A liquid diet was the thing. At nine o'clock we met on deck-that is, Malone and I. Siki was to help the cook clean up, then induce him to have a drink with the boys. A single light shone from my cabin on the Blue Dolphin. Her bow and stern lamps flick- ered faintly and her starboard light traced a streak of red across the placid surface. Good luck, Matty! whispered jim as I lowered myself into the water as quietly as possible. In my belt I carried a butcher knife stolen from the galley. Scared as I was, I actually enjoyed the swim in the tropical waters. The whole boat had seemed to reek with rum and tobacco. Almost too soon I reached hold of the Dol- phinis anchor chain, shinnied half-way up, and pulled myself gently over the taff rail. I waited for the water to drain off me a bit so that its dripping might not be heard below. Up near the reefed jib, lying on his back with one leg crossed over the other, was West's first man. I hoped that he was asleep. If he wasn'tg he at least failed to detect my arrival. Without further de- lay I tip-toed in my bare feet down the passage- way and paused outside my cabin door. Yellow light leaked from beneath it. The key hole re- vealed nothing enlightening about the occupant's whereabouts. Maybe I could rush him. I tried the doorg it was locked. The lock clicked as I sought to release the knob. Who's there? That you, Al? a raspy voice grunted. Uh-huh! I managed to reply. Feet shuffled toward the door . . . closer . . . until at the instant the handle turned suliiciently, I hurled my weight against the door. As it flew open, I leaped forward and smashed my fist into a bearded chin. The man, about 50 years of age, 64. and of slight build, fell back and landed flatly. There would be no trouble from him for awhile. Then, the sound of feet hurrying overhead con- firmed my fears. Quickly I locked the cabin door, seized a chair and swung it at the wooden locker door. The thin paneling gave way enough to admit my hand. I reached in and grabbed the cold, steel barrel of a Colt .45 automatic. Scarcely had I extracted the second gun when the cabin door thundered open again. West's stooge rushed for me but stopped short when I swung around and faced him with a most convincing gesture. He looked for a moment to see whether his sprawled companion had been slain. Get in there, you! I scowled at him, motioning to- ward the closet. He obeyed promptly. I kicked the door shut and snapped the bolt across, then turned my attention to the prostrate form. Having removed the man's belt, I tied his hands, stuffed a handkerchief into his half-open mouth, tucked the -guns securely into my trouser pockets, and headed for the deck, and the hundred yards of water back to the William West. Though no one was visible there, I was satisfied. My absence had not been noted. Malone reached a welcome hand over the side, extricated one of the guns from my pocket, and without commenting, beckoned me to follow him down the deck. Dripping wet and panting from lack of breath, I nevertheless hurried after him. Time was precious. Together we edged into the forward compartment where Malone already had the radio transmitter lit up. As planned, he was trying to reach the U.S. Coast Guard Station maintained at Luoano for weather observation and certain types of intelligence work. Malone felt sure that the word smugglers would bring a well-staffed patrol boat to our aid. To guaran- tee the success of his efforts he had already crippled the West's Diesel engine. lflfhile jim liddled with the dials, I thought of something else . . . the pearls! More than likely they were still in West's pocket: he seldom hid them away. I'll be back in a moment, I told Malone. Deep snores from West's cabin assured me that I would encounter little resistance from him. He hadn't even locked the door. A quick search in the darkness proved unavailing. A gun jammed very persuasively into the small of his back did the trick. Drunk as he was, he per- QContinued on Page 84D . THE UTOPIAN

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six nights a week? The Saga of the West, the Modern Epic, the Western Film! Count the evenings misspent which fail to produce its quota of cattle-rustlin', insist the devotees of horse opera. For it matters not that the usual Western is no Academy Award contender, or its stars candidates for Oscars. A loyal following finds enjoyment enough in the simple plots and simpler plotters of derring-do. Tell them that Westerns are customarily leveled at the eight-year-old-mind, and people blithely answer: Who's caring? They're fun! So, we suffer from the cult of Hopalong Cassidy. Now, the typical dramatic fare linds its open- ing in an aura of peace and contentment. To the accompaniment of guitar music, the Good Guy of the silver screen makes his entrance on horse- back, either singing or humming for maybe whistlingj something about little doagiesf' His beautiful horse is geared down to three miles per hour, so that its clopclop will keep the singer in tempo. Whatever else his qualifications, the goodie must be a smooth-looking cookie. If he can be a United States Marshall, so much the better, though he may have to conceal that fact through six and a half reels, in order to ally himself with the local gang. Generally he will ride into town accompanied by a reputation for marksmanship, stage robberies, and the ability to carry more likker than his ten gallon hat. Such evidences of lawlessness seldom fail to win him the undying respect of those on whom he must eventually get the goods. See? As the star approaches the closing bars of They'l1 Dangle at Dawn, especially composed for the picture by Sammy QSwing and Swayj Kay, a shower of lead greets him. Whereupon our hero, disconcerted by such an interruption, fear- lessly gallops in the direction of the shots. The picture has been miserably directed if, in more than seven seconds, the hero fails to reach the wounded side of old Bill Stebbins, lying beside his busted-down buckboard breathing his last nineteen breaths. Having propped the dying man's head by removing his own coat, and rolling it under the snowy hair, he whispers softly: What's it all about, Old Timer? Touched by this tenderness, the Old Timer stops bleeding long enough to cough and splutter the entire account of his life-long en- 66. counter with the varmin. Trouble started the very day Slinky Slade came to town. Slinky, of course, is the badieg or, in this picture, the 112 badieg the first, the real brains of the mob, is usually the town's leading citizen, the banker, or the local saloon proprietor. For the present we won't say which. But back to the close-up of the goodie. Holding the Old Timer, as aforementioned, he proceeds to sympathize: Yeh, I know how it is! Since the world is round, nuthin is on the levell The tragic tale continues to unwind, with the victim's pleading with our star to look after his only daughter's interests, at least until she can manage to put her ranch on its pre-Slade, money- making basis. Here it is thought advisable for the hero to reveal his true identity. Thus assured, the Old Timer resumes his bleeding, rolls off the lap of his comforter, and, in a state of ecstasy, expires with the words: Atta boy, son. Go get the dirty dogs. Embittered, and muttering imprecations of revenge, our goodie rides gallantly into town with the body of the dead rancher slung limply over Old Paint, his ever-dependable steed. To impress the badies, he carries the corpse into the saloon, lays it on the bar, and snaps: Did anyone here lose a dead man up the road a-spell? Further to remove all suspicion of his ultimate purpose, our star whips out an illus- trated poster, proving that he is wanted for several murders and such, in Canada, Mexico, Cuba, Guatemala, and numerous States. The gang unanimously accepts him into its fold. He smiles. Several days later, convinced that he is now above suspicion, he decides that after breakfast he will ride out to the dead rancher's shack to visit the daughter. He hopes she is purty. She is. Approaching the shack, by the way, he dis- covers gold on the ranch. Provided now with a motive, he devises the perfect plan for rounding up the whole gang, including the leader. But wait- a vacationing member of the mob, chancing to ride by, sees what is going on, and returns to town to astonish his cohorts with the announcement: He's no bad guy. That's Dead- pan Dan the Lawman, the most feared marshall this side of the border. He's greased lightnin' with a shootin' iron. . THE UTOPIAN