Western Canada High School - Yearbook (Calgary, Alberta Canada)

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Page eighty-four YEAR iUptery nf tl|p ifllurtor?d (Caesar I was sitting at my desk, gaily typing out some society notes for the noon edition of “Pyramid Prattle” when suddenly a slave entered and informed me that the editor desired my presence. I hurriedly rose and, after brushing my hair and re-arranging my toga, followed the slave to the editorial sanctum. The editor was sitting writing laboriously, for like many of the old school, he refused to admit anything ' more modern than a fountain pen to his office. I had scarcely waited five minutes, when he looked up at me and barked: “’Tis rumored that Octavius Caesar has been slain in Cleopatra’s palace. Go and get the story. Step on it for a change, and get back by tomorrow at the latest!” I blushed, for I knew he was thinking of the time when, as a cub reporter, I had been sent to interview Julius Caesar before he left for Rome, and had been gone over three months. “But that,” as someone or other has brightly remarked, “is neither here nor there. In fact it isn’t anywhere.” “At last!” I murmured as I waited for the elevator, “At last I have my chance. I’ll get a story that will stir the world.” Five minutes later I was in the Police Station. “I’m Bill Wigglelance of the ‘Prattle,’ ” I told the desk sargeant. “I’m onto a murder case. Will you give me an open warrant?” “Sorry, but we’re not allowed to issue open warrants any more. New regu¬ lations.” “But what shall I do if I find a murderer?” “Oh—well, since it’s you, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a deputy sheriff’s badg ' e. But don’t use it except to make an arrest, and be sure you’ve got the right man. first. I don’t want to get into trouble.” I promised, and went away in a hurry before he could change his mind. I had no time to think up some way to get into Cleo’s palace, as reporters were not admitted. At last I thought of a plan and, donning a false beard, I made my way to the palace. I rang the doorbell, and a Nubian slave, attired as a butler, appeared. “I’ve come to read the gas meter,” I stated. “Sorry, we haven’t gas laid on here,” he replied, and slammed the door. I departed and walked around the block; then, having changed my beard for a moustache, I went to the back door and knocked. This time the first footman appeared. “Have you electricity connected here?” I asked. “Yes.” “Well, I’ve come to read the meter.” “It is just being read.” “Oh! my mistake.” I now hurried round to the side door, pocketing my whiskers, and this time the second footman answered the door. “I’m a detective, come to look into the death of Caesar. You’d better let me in if you don’t want to be pinched.” “Oh sir! No sir, I shouldn’t like that. I think it would be most uncomfort¬ able. Please come this way, sir.” And he led me to the room where the body lay. “Mind,” I warned him, “don’t let anybody know I’m here. And don’t let any¬ body else in, no matter who it may be.” He promised, and left hurriedly, while I looked around the room. The walls were hung with rich tapestries, and the floor was covered with a thick carpet. The furniture was in the latest cubistic design, richly inlaid with gold. On the table in the centre of the room stood an open tin of salmon, a large part of the contents of which had been eaten. Near the table stoqd a very un- comfortable-looking chair; and before this lay the late Octavius.

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BOOK Pape eighty-three “Oh God!” he would mutter, “a few days more and I’ll be in ... . God knows where.” Swiftly May 23 approached. Outside he could hear them pounding; at the scaffold. Each nail meant a step closer to death’s door. He learned that the hangman was due to arrive soon, that his plea of insanity had been rejected and slower and heavier grew the steps on the cold concrete. May 23 finally came. The scaffold stood ready. The hangman had also arrived. . . Three more hours to live! Suddenly from his cell he heard loud exclamations, cries and curses. Cer¬ tainly something must have gone wrong. Consternation was printed on the faces of all the guards who went by. He mustered up courage and asked one, “What’s the matter?” “Sergeant Lander, who was in charge of the erection of the scaffold, ran away mysteriously this morning,” was the terse reply. “Whaddya mean? Ran away?” “Yes.” “Well, then, maybe they won’t. . . ” his voice rose to a hopeful pitch. “I’m sorry. The execution shall take place anyway.” An hour passed. The chaplain entered slowly. “My dear man, are you prepared to meet your God?” “Yea, as prepared as any man who still wants to live.” The Warden came and the chaplain stood up and received him. There was a signal and the Death March began. Cries of encouragement came from the nearby cells. Slowly they groped their way through the narrow passage. First the warden, then the chaplain, his crucifix raised high, and then Calkins. On and on. . . Barely one hundred feet of cold pavement separated him from the scaffold. On and on. . . They dragged him up to the platform and stood him on the trap. A few seconds and they had adjusted the black cap over his head. The signal was given and the hangman pulled the lever. . . . The man’s body stood stationary on the trap. It had not sprung! There was a nervous twitch on the hangman’s face. What could have gone wrong ? He strode over to the warden, said a few words under his breath, and the warden nodded his head. The cap was taken from Calkins’ head and he was taken to an anteroom. Icy shivers ran up and down his spine as he heard the saw slowly gnawing its way through the wood. . . the trap must have fitted too tightly. Once more the black cap was adjusted, and once more the signal of death was given. . . and once more the trap did not spring. Robert Calkins had waited, heard the pull of the lever, and had stood still. It was incredible. The expressions on the faces of everyone present were strange. . . they were in the presence of a miracle! Calkins was taken aside into the anteroom once again. The saw screeched through the wood and with a start he heard a small strip of it fall. For a third time he was taken to the scaffold. Everyone’s eyes were glued upon the figure on the trap who could not die. Grimly the hangman placed his hand on the lever. From the lips of the warden sprang an inaudible gasp. Again the trap had failed to work. There ' was a depressing feeling of awe, of the inability of man to cope with the will of God. The chaplain spoke solemnly and earnestly. “Truly, gentlemen, we are in the presence of a miracle. The man must be freed.” They united the man, now more dead than alive, and the warden said kindly, “You shall be released tomorrow.” At the end of the yard there was a great commotion. Between the arms of two burly policemen was Sergeant Lander who had run away from the prison that morning, and the officers were dragging him towards the amazed group of people clustered about the scaffold. He was laughi ng hysterically. The warden strode over and said sharply, “What does this mean?” “Sir,” one of them replied, “Sergeant Lander nailed the trap.”

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BOOK Page eighty-five He lay on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands clasping; his stomach, while an expression of extreme agony distorted his handsome features. A sword with “Mark Antony” engraved on the hilt was sticking in his chest. First, 1 carefully examined the salmon, smelt it, tasted it, and glared at it through my pocket microscope. Next, I examined the body carefully with the aid of my patent X-ray flashlight. Then I leaped to my feet with a cry of joy. 1 had solved the mystery. I rang the bell, and almost at once the butler appeared. Without giving him time to remark on my presence, I demanded an audience with Cleopatra. Whether he thought I had a right to be there, or whether my display of authority fright¬ ened him, I do not know, but without demur he led me into her presence. She was lying on a divan, playing with her favorite asp, and by her side, in a very amorous attitude, knelt a man whom I soon recognized as Mark Antony. On my approach he rose hurriedly and began to brush off his knees with a great show of nonchalance. “What do’st thou want of the most royal Cleopatra, Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, daughter of Ptolemy Anteles, King of Egypt, and of Isis, Queen of Heaven?” she purred. “I arrest you in the name of the law for the murder of Octavius Augustus Caesar, and it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence against you,” and I showed my badge. Cleo se emed quite unmoved, but Antony began to wax wrathy. “Thou varlet,” he shouted, “how dare thou make such a ridiculous accusa¬ tion against the Queen of Egypt? What grounds have you, I say?” “Caesar died of ptomaine poisoning; Cleopatra’s name is Ptolemy. Surely even you can see the connection. “Why, you idiot,” he roared, “didn’t you see my sword sticking in him?” During this altercation Cleo had been teasing her asp beyond endurance, and it chose this psychological moment to bite her. She died almost at once. “Pshaw!” I stated, apropos of his last remark. “That was only to cast sus¬ picion on you. But I was not deceived! I solved the case despite the many obstacles thrown in my path.” “Why, you fool,” he said rudely, “I killed him myself.” So saying, he fell on his second-best sword and, not unnaturally, died. “Humph!” I murmured. “I hadn’t thought of that!” 31 ttk By PHILIP HADFIELD You ' d never think that in a bottle of ink There’d be food for contemplation ; But if you do think, you’ll see the link Between the ink and my narration. Our High School system is one which, on the whole, merits a great deal of praise. Of course it is an established fact that Western Canada High School is far superior to any other in Calgary, if not in Alberta. We have the finest teach¬ ers, the ablest principal and the most intelligent students. Some, attending other High Schools may say that I am prejudiced,—let them prove it. There is, however, one small matter in this system of ours, excellent though it is, which requires consideration. This is the ink problem. From all sides we are bombarded by the financial situation, the situation in India, the situation in the Far East, and so on, yet I seem to be the first to realize the growing importance of the ink situation which has arisen amongst us, which is indeed, from an inko- nomical point of view, a problem deserving deep thought.