University High School - The Cub Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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si ' If, lie aspired to hifjlier tliiiiji; , accordini td lii own now I ' oiil ' iisrd ideas. By this time his face liad tai en a hue closely apiiro.Niniatiiif, ' that of his hair and hi kers and he was in a very jovial mood. With one last hxjk at the wreck of the l ar room he lurched into the street. . ciowd that had been lookintj throufjh the window melted silently and swiftly at his ap- proach. He tried in vain to call them hack, feelinjj; annoyed at their lack of play t illness, and so, with the help of a picket fence he started toward the ship. He got along- nicely for some tw-ent ' or thirty feet until he came to a gateway, only five feet across to be sure, hut he didn ' t trust his legs to carry him that far unaided. With a glance at the stars to make sure of his course he dropped to his hands and knees and taking careful aim lowered his head and charged full speed at the opposite gate ])ost. .Somehow he got off his course, for when he finally crashed to a halt, he found himself on the lower step of a porch. He sat down to think it over. .Somewhere above a window opened. Who ' s that knocking at my door? asked a feminine voice. Drunk or sober, Barnacle Bill was always a gallant gentleman and equal to any occasion. He cleared his throat. I ' m old and tough and ready and rough, I ' m Barnacle Bill the Sailor. To his surprise the feminine voice willingly offered to come down and let him in. With this encouragement he sang another verse, and so it went for twenty or thirty verses. Bill was not a man to be easily discouraged, but the door remained closed. He was getting sleepy. He lay back but hardly had he closed his eyes when the door opened. Someone pulled him to his feet and — . Barnacle Bill never knew just what happened after that. He was very tired, his head ached terribly, his eyes didn ' t act right. Dim flashes of an old man with his collar on backwards and a little ring which he had diff- iculty in holding were all that he remembered. When he awoke he lay very still with his eyes closed. He felt vaguely troubled, the ship was unusually still, there was no patter ot bare feet on the deck above, the smell of tar — . Suddenly he sat up with wide eyes. This was not his bunk, this bed with clean, white sheets. This room with papered walls and sunlight streaming through the window was not his cabin. He looked out of the window ; there was the beach and the sea and far out to sea a ship was slowly sinking below the horizon. He buried his face in his hands. What had happened? He had been drinking of course: there was no. thing unusual in that, but this room and this bump on his head? Someone had played him dirt ; they couldn ' t get away with that, not with Barnacle Bill. He picked up a chair, balanced it lightly in his hand, and thus prepared to do battle, flung the door open. No one wis there — only a short hallwa y with some stairs at one end. Thirty-one V . - 1 iR.; . -.j

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EDITOR ' S NOTE: We are interpreting the liter- ary section as those an- chors of sacredness which one -will find liiddein in the personal Ijaggage of a traveller on the Clipper Cub . Wandering through this personal weight of cargo, we find and here bring to light a few of the idealistic essays stored carefully in steamer trunks, stories locked in the scat- tered suitcases, and the lighter treasures, such as poetry and rhythmical im- ages, within the hatbo.xe. . BARMACLE BILL THE SALIOR (The Sad Chronicle of His Reformation) T HERE are few persons left who can truthfully say chat the}- have not heard the song of Harnacle Bill the Sailor but important as the song is, it is only a ])art of the liijle stfiry A hich I am about to relate. It all took place in a little Massachusetts sea port town with wide clean streets and plenty of breathing space between the k)w white houses. The main street ran down to the b each where a small wharf extended into the bav- to take care of the occasional whaler that dropped anchor there. When there was a shi]) at the end of the wharf, the town was filled with a cheerful bustle, the school children were given a holiday, and everybody took a hand in the pleasant task of relieving the jolly tars of their wages. When the ship sailed away, the town settled down to its usual state of coma, stolidly facing the violent storms. On one of these ships Barnacle Bill arrived. Let me introduce ycjii to Bill himself, a huge Scotchman, a weathered sailor. Dressed in dirty dungarees and heavy ])ea jacket, he directs the unloading of the cargo, with his red hair to frame his weather beaten face. His bellowed commands come across the water like the booming of some distant fog horn. When Bill pushed through the swinging doors of the village saloon that evening, he found his mates well ahead of him on the road to delirium tremens. Bill accepted the handicap cheerfully and at once set about cut- ting down their lead. Bill was well able to uphold the old Scotch traditions. Within an hour he had the others hopelessly out-distanced. He had pro- posed to the bar maid, reduced the furniture to a heaj) of splinters, fought the village police force to a stand still, and now. having the saloon to him-

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Bill walked softly to the head of the stairs and listened. Someone was down below. He could hear a distant rattle of dishes; a woman was sing- ing. Xow he had it — that voice — he had heard that before. Well, he wouldn ' t have an - tmuhle with a woman. Throwing the chair into a corner he stump- ed down the stairs. Following an odor of coffee which assailed him he found himself face to face with a talile, set with shining silver, a platter of sausage and bacon in the center, a stack of pancakes dripping bright yellow, trickles of butter to one side. For a moment Bill forgot the subject of his search — what man would not. Good morning, came the voice. Bill whirled about. There stood a woman with a pleasant smile, happy blue eyes, and dark lirown hair touched with grey. Bill was too surprised to notice more. Won ' t you sit down? You ' re just in time for breakfast. Bill ])erche(I himself i)recariously on the edge of a chair. The breakfast could not be called a success socially. Bill wolfed the food that was set be- fore him. keeping his eyes on his plate and making muffled replies to any attempt at conversation. After breakfast the woman suggested that he take a walk. Bill was glad for a chance to escajje. Lunch will be ready at twelve, dear, she cautioned him as he left. Bill stumbled down the steps and strode away, a very troubled sailor. With the aid of information given by an evidently well informed loiterer whom he met. Bill soon figured out what happened. He had serenaded Mrs. Wilson, a grass widow, who had married him without hesitating. He was a married man without having had any choice in the matter. He did not think well of it. He could, and did swear feelingly in several languages, promised to drown himself at once, — and reported promptlv for lunch. Six months later the ship again dropped anchor in the little bav. A sailor wandering along the beach came upon Barnacle Bill sitting on a rock. It was not the Barnacle Bill of old. His hair had been cut and his whiskers trimmed, his coat was neatly brushed ; he had on a clean shirt. Well, blast me lights if it ain ' t old Barnacle Bill. he chuckled, caught and tamed at last. A laugh was cut short by Bill ' s fist which dropped him in a heap on the sand. I ' ll na hold it again ye. laddy, but what ye said was na exactly the truth. Ye see, the widow did na have a chance. I married her before she could say nay. and I ' ll have ye know I ' m the master in mv house. He glanced at his watch. . look of consternation came over his face. Hoots mon, I ' m late for lunch. He stood up hurriedly and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. There ' s no hurr}-, ye ken, it ' s just that I ' m a wee mite hungrv. He hurried away. — Archie McPherson.