Toulon Township High School - Tolo Yearbook (Toulon, IL)

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March, Nineteen Thirty-one 9 in northern England with a person who claimed to be my great aunt. We never had callers and I never had a playmate. We lived apart from the world. But one night during my eighth year, this sort of life came to an abrupt close. “All that day the house seemed filled with a weird confusion. My aunt went about with a grave look on her face, but also seemed resigned to some almost inevitable fate. She acted particularly anxious about me and more than once looked at the ring that I wore on a silken cord about my neck. I have it on my finger now; I’ve worn it ever since I can remember. “That night I heard an awful scream from her bedroom and tremblingly crept in to find my sole protector dead—with a knife sticking stiffly in her breast. “I didn’t understand what it all meant and with childish sobs crawled into bed beside her and gazed into her wild staring eyes imploring her to answer me. I lay huddled beside her until morning and then went to a nearby farm and told them that I was running away because my aunt would neither talk to me nor move. “They immediately guessed the trouble and did what they could. “This aunt left her fortune to her own heir—me. I was placed in a boarding school first; then I went to Eton and later to Oxford. “Many nights during my boarding I have been awakened by the feeling that some one was tugging at my ring. When I finished school I conceived the idea to get the other half of my ring (which I naturally supposed was in existence). I vaguely felt that finding of my ring w'ould tell me who my father was and explain a few questions concerning my real identity. “Well, anyway, one evening last year as I was strolling in Calcutta 1 began to feel that I was being followed and several times I turned to see who it was. Each time I saw no one but was firmly convinced that I was being followed by the sound of scurrying footsteps. “Just as I was entering my apartment I heard several shrieks and a distinctly loud groan. I ran to the scene of confusion and found an elderly Englishman lying on his back with an ivory handled dagger in his heart. “The whole scene struck me as familiar. At first I wondered why but when I took a close look at the dagger I remembered all. The dagger was an exact replica of the one that killed my aunt. The body was lying in almost identically the same posture. “By this time a crowd of natives and a few white men had gathered around and I, being a physician, took sort of unofficial charge of the whole affair. I went through the man’s pockets and began to examine his body for jewelry, money, etc. I looked on his left hand and saw a large ring completely covered with blood. It looked as if the assailant had apparently been trying to get the ring off, by severing the finger from the hand, when he was forced to flee. “I took his belongings home with me intending to turn them over to

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8 March, Nineteen Thirty-one in i i i ii ■ i i i ilium 1111111111111111111111 a mu ■ ii a i i mini a a a a a imam am a a imamm am i iinimm iniiiiiiiiii i WDi© ttCimows? iiiimmiimmammiiiiiiiimmi'iimmiimiiiiiiimmiimimiimamiim lima a a a iniiiiiii a ■ iniiiiiiiiii ■ irminitiiiiim i 'iniiiiiiiiii Several years ago, while on my first trip to India for the company I represent, I had the opportunity of hearing one of the strangest tales I have ever heard. The second day out, through loneliness, I was driven to seek the companionship of a few casual acquaintances I had on board. They were all congenial, good-natured fellows so we spent much time lounging and visiting on the deck. The next afternoon in the midst of some heated discussion a young man strolled by. Now there was nothing extraordinary in this except that the large sparkling ring on his finger drew my attention almost involuntarily. At the time I thought nothing of the incident except that I expressed the opinion that the young man used poor taste in wearing such a gaudy ring. He strolled by several times, and at last I asked my companions who the gentleman was. My nearest comrade leaned over and whispered that he v'as an English millionaire, George K. Huntington, around whose birth and family there rested a sort of cloud. He said that the millionaire went to India annually on some mission, but what it was, my companion didn’t say, either because he didn’t care to relate or didn’t know. That evening I got my first good look at Huntington’s ring. Now I have been a collector of rings and I knew at a glance that it was a very valuable and ancient oriental ring. On looking closer I noted that it was in shape of half a heart. Immediately I began speculating as to how Huntington could have gained possession of it. I was so interested in the ring that I forgot where I was and my situation. When I looked up Huntington wras staring at me. He instantly smiled and turned it off by saying, “Odd ring, isn’t it? Ever see one like it before?” Trying to hide my embarrassment on thinking it would make my blunder of staring at the ring more excusable, I answered, “Yes.” The moment I said it I regretted it, but nothing could be done because I wouldn’t admit that I had lied. Shortly after I had retired to my stateroom I was aroused by a knock at my stateroom door. It was a messenger saying Mr. Huntington wished to see me in his stateroom at once. I had a thousand visions of his finding out I had lied to him. I reluctantly plodded to his cabin and entered with a feeling that I might never come out alive. We sat down and he abruptly asked me where I had seen that ring before. I had to admit that I had never seen it and explained as best I could. This open confession of my foolishness won his confidence, and without further delay, he plunged into a narrative that he seemed anxious to get off his mind. He began in an eager tone: “I have been told that I was born in India, but I only remember living

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10 March, Nineteen Thirty-one the authorities in due time. At that time I didn’t know who were the officers and didn’t trust native policemen with these valuables. “I washed the ring off, and found to my astonishment that it was the mate (the other half) of my ring. I then eagerly examined the few letters I had taken from the body in hopes that they would throw some light on this matter. “At first I looked through several unimportant letters concerning a trip to Northern India. At last I found what I wanted—a letter never posted and addressed to a brother in Scotland. It read: “ ‘Dear John: “ ‘It seems as if the net of these religious fanatics is closing in on me. 1 feel I haven’t much time left here. You remember William Berton for whom I worked, about twenty-five years ago? Well, once while he was traveling in northern India for the government we discovered far up in the hills a secluded secret temple of a very cruel, zealous cult. He, against my wishes, lay in ambush near by until night had fallen. Then he stole into this temple out of curiosity and love of adventure. “ ‘He became engrossed in two beautiful rings he saw on each side of an altar or shrine. He decided to take these for souvenirs. But a priest caught him in the act of stealing the valuable sacred relics and tried to run for help, but Berton, to keep from having these howling fanatics down on him killed the priest with a small ivory handled dagger he always carried. “ ‘We escaped but from that time on we were hunted secretly by members of this cult. They swore to kill (with replicas of the knife he used in killing their priest) all who were in any way connected with him and to regain the sacred rings. “ ‘Now the very day this happened his son was born in Calcutta, so when he got there he put one ring on a silken cord about the child’s neck as a good luck charm. (But all mortals who wore these rings were cursed, according to tradition). “ ‘A week later his wife died and he lost his job. He sent his baby son to England to live with an aunt. During all this, it must be remembered, he wore the other ring. “ ‘A month later he strolled into his library, screamed, and was dead. I rushed in just in time to see a figure in oriental dress leap through the window. I examined poor Berton to see what had happened. He lay on the floor with his very own dagger, with which he had killed the priest, sticking in his breast, in exactly the place he had stabbed the priest. The finger on which he wore that accursed ring was badly mutilated as if the murderer had tried to remove the ring by chopping off his finger. “ ‘Poor Berton died without a penny, and I received the ring as back pay. And I had earned it! “ ‘About eight years later I read in a London paper about the mysterious death of Berton’s aunt, who had taken his son. The paper said she had been stabbed by an ivory handled dagger. The members of the Temple