University of San Francisco - USF Don Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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The Derelict Eustace Cullman, Jr., ’25 I. HE shipping master climbed over the port rail of the good ship “Lady Louise”, his broad, leathery face aglow with honest satisfaction. “Here they be, Captain Bellnay, and as fine a crew as ever I’ve shipped”, he called out enthusiastically, addressing his remarks to a short, intelligent-looking man who was leaning against the opposite rail in company with a huge giant of a mate. After the master came the crew, “as fine as he had ever shipped.” It was the typical complement of an outgoing American deep water vessel—the motley gang of nut-browned, tar-stained foreigners, in their canvas sea jackets, smirched with the accumulated grime of many and distant voyages. Each, as he climbed onto the deck, tossed with a sailorly heave, his clothes-bag upon the dunnage pile, and then joined his shipmates by the capstan as they stood waiting patiently to be counted. Captain Bellnay and the mate looked the crew over with evident disgust. “Where did he round up that nest of wharf-rats?” exclaimed the captain, irritably. “There’s not a first class sailor in the bunch, if I’m a judge!” The mate slowly turned the quid of tobacco over and over in his mouth before replying. “A rotten deal”, he said, “a gang o’ lubbers sure. But time, an’ patience, an’ a be-layin’ pin can round ’em out.” Already the shipping master was approaching with the lists and his receipts. “Tally ’em off, will you, Cap’ll Bellnay? Here’s the names.” The captain took the list dubiously, and with lowered brow approached the crew. “Answer your names as they are called”, he said roughly, “and then form along the rail.”

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The Dreamer Kenneth Doyle, High School, ’24 In an attic dimly lighted, Dreamy-eyed and growing gray, Lulled by wiles of airy fancy Droned a man the livelong day. In the future, never present, Was the masterpiece he'd write. Morning’s hours gave place to noonday Noonday glided into night. Changing years roused no endeavor, Till upon a listless day Passed his soul to his Creator, Faded thus his dream away.

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THE DERELICT 21 “Tom Draak!” “Here!” A ponderous Swede shuffled across the deck. “Donald Me Angus !” A burly Scot followed to starboard. The captain regarded the paper carefully before he read the next. “Satan Carillo!” “Here!” responded a melodious voice, as a fine featured little Italian touched his cap, and, smiling pleasantly, joined the other two. Captain Bellnay glared alternately at the shipping master and at the cherubic owner of the sinister name. “What’s the idea?” he cried angrily, turning to the shipping master, “didn’t I tell you no Dagos need apply?” A shadow passed over the Italian’s face, only to vanish as quickly as it had come. “What do you expect on short notice?” returned the shipping master hotly. “You signed for sixteen men and you’ll take these sixteen men or lay over a day, and that’s that”, he concluded with decision. “Besides, this ain’t no Dago. He’s a Greek Islands.” “But his name is Dago”, objected the captain. “Now see here, Cap’n”, said the shipping master, “I ain’t got no time to fool. There’s lots of people as has names like his in America, and they’re just as good Americans as you or me. If you don’t want the crew, say so. There’s the ‘Belle Isle’ over there as’ll take ’em.” “Ask the man himself”, prompted the mate. The captain yielded to the suggestion. “Satan Carillo.” The seaman stepped forward. “Where were you born?” asked the captain. “Greek Islands,” was the ready answer. “Parents?”