Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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STONE By Roger B. Goodman The cemetery at Breau was noted for the antiquity of some of its tombstones, and the fine examples of Puritan carving which were to be found on most of them. The thing that attracted my attention when I first went there, was not any particular stone or monu- ment, but the man in charge of the grounds. One could not say for certain that he was old. His springy walk and merry, twinkling eyes belied that. Yet there was something in his voice, a harshness, or maybe a strained, cracked quality, which made him seem old. He rarely .was in the shed erected for his use. He walked through the aisles of tombs, gazing intently at each one. He muttered continuously to himself as he walked, and sometimes he stopped and shook his head as if in despair. He seemed to be looking for something. He never spoke to visitors except when he shouted Grit oifa thar,', to some fool who posed for a picture while sitting on some monument. Pat, that was the name of the old keeper, detested being asked over and over again, How old is that, or, Whose grave is this?,' He ran away from people who approached him to speak with him. He enshrouded himself in an air of mystery. I first spoke with him on a quiet August evening when the pines surrounding the burial ground nodded sleepily to and fro. The sun, setting rapidly in the distance, cov- ered the area with a golden glow which was becoming mellower every minute. All seemed to rest. As I entered the iron gate at the side, I saw him standing beside a memorial. He was absorbed in contemplating it. I ap- proached him quietly. I could hear the mur- mur of his voice as he ceaselessly chatted to himself. The tomb contained The Mortal Remains of Jonathan White and His Loving Wife Emily. The top stone had two excellently preserved carvings of a man and a woman in Puritan garb. They represented the two sleeping beneath. Every word of the inscrip- tion could be clearly read. '6What sort of stone is that?,' I queried. He wheeled. His eyes travelled from my boots to my face. He stared at me. 46Hmph, he grunted, and turned away again. page sixty-five

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I must get that peculiar inflection . . . Mal- lory played the part of a court-room attend- ant who appeared on the stage for one and one-half minutes. At least l1e was enjoying himself. But the evidence was not digested. Pasquale Romano agreed with Charles Hammond. He licked his lips. The girl was pretty. But Pasquale was sober, not frivolous, conscientous, not devil-may-care. That's how he had learned his English. Perseverance . . . night school. He had no time for playing around. Besides, there was the wife. Romano understood the proceedings. His mind was still open . . . A prominent figure in the jury box was Ali Gatore, spiritualist, fakir, seer. He felt that the dazzling combination of his jet-black, pointed beard and his gleaming, deep-set eyes was most effective. He wrinkled up his fore- head. That was to showyhis evident interest in the testimony. It was only part of it that he got, for he was busy looking exceptionally intelligent. However, Ali sympathized with Masters. After all, a man named McCutcheon . . . He had once been socked by a fellow of that name because he had told McCutcheon's wife she would meet a tall, dark man. The wife spilled the beans. And McCutcheon was blonde. Ali Gatore bore a grudge against the whole Mc- tribe. A vote for the de- fendant . . . Perhaps the least blatant and most impres- sive of the jurymen was John Norton, broker extraordinary. He was the type-steel-gray hair, conservative, expensive suit. . . Norton was fully cognizant of the progress of the trial. He had heard the pleas and evidence with undiminished and judicial attention. True, he was slightly prejudiced because Mas- ters was a Negro, on the other hand, Joe, his chauffeur, was colored, and Mr. Norton found him an honest, dependable employee. He wondered if the Harvard coach would put his son, John, Jr., into the 6'big game. It was a little annoying that he was detained here in New York and would miss it . . . And the jury, twelve representatives of the People, was complete. On the next day, January 4, 1936, Judge Raymond called a mistrial. It was discov- ered that a juror ,one Charles Hammond, had telephoned witness Mae Flamm the previous night. His reasons were unknown, but his actions were illegal. jurors were to be aloof . . . A week later, on January 11, a new jury of intelligent citizens was paneled and the trial began anew . . . page sixty-four

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I heard ye, laddie, he snapped. I bein't deaf-yitf, Then he pointed to the tomb. g'Thet,s the stone I wants. No! Not thet very one, as he saw my features change, one like it. I want somethin, as'll last. 6'WeH, I returned, Hthat ought to be easy enough to get. Yah! but it ain't. This y'ere granite 'n marble, they rot, jes, like me 'n you. Ha! don't git narvous, ye can t escape it. Ye know it's true, donit ye, lad? He saw that I was becoming uneasy. His face lit up in a wickedly triumphant way. Ye'll be jes' like that . . . He picked up some dirt and threw it at my boot. He gazed in silence at the smudge. I hastily withdrew my foot and stood looking at him, not with- out some horror and fright on my counte- nance, I will warrant. Suddenly he turned on his heel and walked swiftly toward his shed. It was dark and his figure faded rapidly into the gloom. Not lik- ing the thought of being alone, I hurried through the gate and began walking towards home. As I passed the gate I tripped over some- thing embedded in the path. I got up and, on looking carefully, I saw that it was a stone. Not knowing why, I picked up a rock and dashed it with all my strength upon the other. The missile split and pieces flew in all directions. The stone in the path received a slight scratch upon its surface. I looked at the stone that I had tripped on. Then I remembered the old man's words. '4Somethin' as 'll last,', he had said. I bent down and pulled up the stone. Vengeance upon it may have been my motive, for if it had not tripped me I should have been well away from the cemetery and maybe I should have forgotten Pat's thoughts. I wished to. When I reached his shed, I saw Pat bend- ing over several objects on his table. I could hear repeated tapping. Mutterings and sighs were intermingled with the metallic clicking of something on stone. Then I understood. I-Ie was pounding some stones he had with him, with a hammer. He was trying to find out which would last the longest. The situation would have been a funny one had I not known how serious the old man was. I went to the door and knocked. The tapping within continued. I knocked again, louder. The door opened. g6What d' yer want, lad ? growled Pat. How did you . . . ', I burst out. I seed yer, lad. Pat actually laughed. His cackle sounded stage-like, but from the page sixty-six