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

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him to the morgue, tied a tag on his toe, and stretched him out on a long white slab. The tag flapped whenever they opened the door to admit another accidental death. He was buried in September without benefit of pomp. Even in death he was ordinary, just a pine box and a space in Potters Field. The attendants didn ' t look twice. They lowered the box and kicked in some dirt. Rest in peace. Bud. Amen. C sf i-g NINETY-TWO

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Each day he grew weaker. Each day the buzzing in his head grew louder; the dizzy spells came oftener. He applied at relief head- quarters some time in February and they promised to investigate his case immediately. He continued along for many weeks. Begging bread here, a few pennies there, always on the lookout for the never-attain- able employment. In April he again returned to the relief agency. But of course! Someone must have been assigned to investigate his case. Why yes, agent BD77q had been dircted to look into the matter. How careless. There never had been an agent BD77q. What a mistake. But you go right home and wait. We ' ll send a man immediately. They wouldn ' t listen to his protest that he had no home. Sorry, that comes under the Reconstruction Branch office. We can do nothing for you. That was the first time he laughed in a long while. The tears streamed down his cheeks, and it was so hearty that the clerk in charge became frightened. He was still laughing when he left the office. In May, about seven months after he had lost his job, he began going to meetings, meetings protesting that so many like himself were starving. At the beginning he was but a silent spectator, not even cheering at the appropriate places. Later his enthusiasm overcame his natural shyness. He yelled as heartily as the next fellow, and even when he shouldn ' t have been, he was talking loudly, incoherently. The movement was in his blood. He spent his time talking to others who warmed the city ' s benches. He stood in line outside of relief head- quarters, arguing with men too dazed to reason, arguing that the pittance they were receiving to keep them alive temporarily was not enough. They must take steps to remedy the causes of such a con- dition. His fervor increased. He didn ' t even mind when some horse ' s behind was shoved into his face by an over-zealous policeman. But one day it caught up with him. Someone in the crowd threw a brick. It broke a window — all that was needed to set the guardians of the law into action. Down charged the cossacks. Horses plunging, they rode into the crowd. A swinging night stick caught him behind the ear and he fell without a murmur. A rearing horse dashed his brains out. He died knowing no pain. There was nothing unusual about him. They took NINETY-ONE

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REPORTER ' S ROUTINE by Simon Alpert Hey Crawford, bawled the city editor of the Evening Dispatch above the din in the local newsroom. C ' mere. Coming, Mr. Nelson. At the far end of the noisy room a tall, flaxen-haired young man, drawing from his typewriter a sheet of copy paper, tossed it with several others on the nearest copyreader ' s desk. Then he threaded his way rapidly among the rows of littered desks with their knots of typewriter-pounding news- papermen, and hurried up to the desk of the city editor. Here I am, Mr. Nelson, he announced. The city editor grunted a final goodbye into a telephone beside him, turned to Crawford and barked, How ' d your copy come out? Okay, column and a half, said Crawford. Um. Awright. Now then scoot over to General Sessions. Stewart ' s sentencing that convicted killer at two. Routine stuff, but something might come of it. Hurry up! All right. How much? Two columns, with a long tie-in. Slug it killer. If you get anything good, just telephone in and I ' ll get the rewrite men to work • 1 It on IT. Okay, Mr. Nelson, Crawford said, and as the city editor turned impatiently to the clamoring telephones, Crawford strode out of the local newsroom. Six minutes later, at 1:44, the newspaperman was on the downtown express. And at exactly three minutes to two Crawford entered Judge Stewart ' s General Sessions court in the Criminal Court Building and took a seat up front with the other news- papermen and photographers. Anything, new here? he asked Brittman of the Clarion, who sat near him. Nope. Everything ' s as quiet around as a mouse on the night before Christmas. Thanks. Crawford leaned back on the hard wooden bench and looked around at the crowded courtroom. Then as the door NINETY-THREE