Wethersfield High School - Elm Yearbook (Wethersfield, CT)

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THE IMPERSONATOR P. Galahad Hotchkiss stopped his car. He stopped it expertly with one manicured hand on the brake. He stopped it with an devil-may- care coolness. His features wore an aloof, superior smileg his manner, as he surveyed his car, was slightly bored, and had a touch of haughtiness about itg it was P. Galahad Hotchkiss's imitation of a French duke as played by a motion picture actor. In his mind's eye his car was a costly imported limousine-a roaring, throbbing, beautiful car with racy lines. But really it was an elevator in a big Seventh Avenue department store. Every day now for five years P. Galahad Hotchkiss had piloted the elevator up and down, down and up. He was a youngish, stoutish, blondish man. His hair was sleek. He wore a flower in the stiff lapel of his coat. In the tone of a lord, he addressed the people crisply. Going up! Step to the rear of the car. Don't crowd, madam. There are other cars. Going up! Again he brought his car to a stop. In swift, mechanical accents he announced: Second floor! Men's and boys, clothing, mops, lampshades, toys and bathing suits. Anybody want second? Going up! Up he went. He stood very erect and stern. In his mind's eye he was a colonel in a red and gold uniformg actually, his uniform was grey and bore on its sleeve the monogram B. 86 T. He stopped the car abruptly. Third floor! he chanted. The elevator slid skyward. Mentally P. Galahad Hotchkiss was cruising up Fifth Avenue in his roadster, an heiress by his sideg he was wearing white Spats and smelled of Belgian perfume, this was his con- stant day-dream. The figure 7 painted on the floor brought him out of his day-dream to real life and caused him, by habit to stop his car and automatically call out: Seventh floor! Ladies' and misses' suits and evening gowns, cor- sets and rugs. Going up! Step to the rear of the car, pleasef, P. Galahad Hotchkiss was worldly. He coveted things, limousines, silk pajamas, a duplex apartment on Park Avenue, and no work. It struck him that the easiest way to attain this bliss was to marry an heiress who would support him in the style to which he was unaccus- tomed. He felt sure that he was the mental equal of any heiress. But how could he meet an heiress? That was the problem. No doubt he had carried many-dollar princesses in his carg but an elevator is a poor place in which to start a romance. P. Galahad Hotchkiss went about it scientifically. He saved his money, he purchased a dinner jacket and a pair of white flannels. He invested his savings in a Week-end at a fashionable summer hotel.

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whole attention. And very suddenly it was revealed to my puzzling mind that in this I had the possible means of bringing together again my two estranged lovers. For there was a certain part in it which would, I felt sure, break the barriers that held them apart. Is it necessary to explain with what lavishness I prepared this interesting little play which I could not believe would fail to bring about a reconciliation between my beloved two? And was it not wise to have advertised more extensively than usual, assuring myself of the attendance of all my patrons? I took into confidence the ticket-agent, and together we lied to the girl that we had sold all seats for Thursdayis performance earlier in the week, but that we had a very desirable one for Friday. Our dexterity was rewarded, too, for both the girl and the youth now held tickets for Friday's performance. And approximately half an hour before the entrance of Jaques Daguerren fwho, for my purpose, was the principal character of the dramaj, one of the players came to me and announced in a trembling voice that Monsieur who had the Part of Jaques Daguerren was quite ill, that, in fact, he was dead, it was his understudy who was ill, Peculiarly, as she explained, they had been victims of an accident, her tears reminded me of the soft patter of summer rain. Gently, she said it, as if my real happiness did not depend wholly on the success of the play. But the rest of her sobs were superfluous, for I did not hear them: I was thinking very fast. I glanced down at myself, observing the bulge at the knees of my trousers, the knots in my shoe-strings, while I passed my hand through my rough hair. I could never make a romantic Jaques Daguerren. But this was only one drawback which seem stifled by other advantages which were in favor of my taking the role upon myself. I knew every movement of the play-every expression, and even every intonationg and I had the supreme desire to see the two lovers reunited in happiness. The deliverance must be a perfectly rounded whole. Because this one ambition had embedded itself in my soul--had become a living part of my being-I mustered all my courage and de- termined not to see it thwarted. So I delivered the words of Jaques Daguerren smoothly, and easily, because my heart was stilled in a terrible calm-that of expectation. And I saw, from the stage, a tall youth hurrying to the side of a maiden whose face was like a Madonna'sg saw their hands clasp, and saw the beautiful understanding which overspread their features. I knew the Glory! --Doris Stryker, '27.

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There he contrived to introduce himself to Lucy Fenwick, daughter of a flour king, rated at four million. P. Galahad made sure of that. Lucy was short and fatg but it was the figure in her bank book that won P. Galahad. He worked fast. One word led to another. She invited him to visit her at her parents' apartment on Riverside Drive. Then he returned to town and the store. He was sorry he could not linger, but he explained that Wall Street needed him. Fall came. P. Galahad Hotchkiss in a snappy suit, set forth to conquer. He took Miss Fenwick to the theater. He dropped hints about deals in oil and- sugar, about directors' meetingsg he expressed regret that his town car and roadster were both out of commission. V Toward midnightihe and Miss Fenwick returned to the lofty apart- ment house where dwelt her parents. 'Tm sure we met beforef' she was saying, there,s something so familiar about your facef' Perhaps we met at some party at the Ritz or Sherry's. Or maybe it was at Newport or Monte Carlo. Or perhaps you saw me playing polo. , I wonder where it was, she repeated, puzzled. They had stepped into the private elevator and she pressed the button. Softly the car stole up. It stopped. On the door P. Galahad Hotchkiss saw painted the figure 7 . Swiftly, mechanically, he called out: Seventh floor! Ladies' and misses' cloaks, evening gowns, toilet goods and Corsets. Going up! Step to the rear of the car, please! And then she knew. -Marion Rolcrson, '29. SUNSHINE Brighter days are coming. How sweet it is to know, That o'er the nights dark shadows The moon is sure to glow. How sweet to think that when our day, On earth's turbulent seas has set, Afar upon the distant hills The sun is shining yet. -Harold A. Iope, '27.