Class of 1923
Unaccustomed to public eating as we are, the ribald and other wise representatives of the class, who claim that the end of the rainbow lies at Broadway and 42d St., in two grand attempts met the green-skinned monster, indigestion, on his home table, and as many times sent him down to the depths of gastronomical defeat.
First there was that affair at Keen's Chop House the night before the Columbia game. Sixty of the fairest youths who ever , tipped a soup tureen for Merrie Dartmouth responded to the summons. The crowd was as cosmo- politan as the annual bathing beauty contest at Atlantic City, and as diverse as a year's collection of single cuff studs. The cumlaudiest graduate whose diploma had looked like the queen of Sheba dressed for the carnival ball rubbed shoulders with the liberal contingent of premature financiers, and continued to do so throughout the evening.
Although no preliminary addresses had been arranged for, the boys generously gave of their talent, and there was no lack of eloquence from the clang of the gong till the waiters began examining the tablecloth for the perquisites of their offices. It is without the realm of possibility that any among the young and old assembled can recall a more intense moment than that in which Lou Van Orden knocked for attention, and rising to a fair amount of his full height announced in deep, rich baritone that he would signalize the occasion by announcing his entry in the contest for the class baby. The round of applause which rewarded this disclosure must have made little Lou, Jr., out in Montclair turn uneasily in his crib.
Mike Stearns '08 kindly consented to talk in behalf of the New York Dartmouth Club, and so well did he speak arid so generous was his audience that not one who had the most casual acquaintance with a ten dollar bill failed to draw a shiny eagle from his pocket, with such success that no less than thirteen paid subscriptions were noted in the count, not to mention the pledges, which, by the way, have been satisfied to the number of twenty-one.
The second gambol, which took place last night, was a bit more dignified, but hardly less enjoyable, and marked the inauguration of "a dinner the first Wednesday in every month" policy. The sensation of the evening was, hands down, the appearance of Steele Roberts in a dinner coat, and presumably, though we are no authority, he also wore dinner trousers. The gathering adjourned at last, and due to a happy thought on the part of Jim Landauer, those who still remained repaired to his town house on 74th St. and settled some of the fundamental truths of the world up in Jim's room, much to the delight of his parents, who enjoy nothing so much as an impromptu levee attended by thousands of ill bred and unkempt college boys. Pete Howe entered the banquet hall clad in an iron hat and wearing a stick, a fact we forgot to mention.
As a special condescension and through the exquisite office of Ward Hilton, we are devoting these pages largely to the boys from the Windy City, at last made famous by the Dartmouth Pow-Wow.
Rus Carpenter is hitting the ink, or in other words working for his father in the Sanford Ink business.
You remember Jim Pyott. Well, after what might be termed a more or less successful football career, seeing as how he captained the University of Chicago eleven and was regarded as one of the fanciest halfbacks in the business, he now is bending his efforts towards representing this land of peace prizes at the Olympic games. Never does that boy run the four-forty, as we say in Newark.
Ward promises faithfully that Al Schryver has stopped bumming Lucky Strikes, and is the impressario for an enormous ledger over at the Fidelity and Casualty Insurance Company's offices.
Joe Pick is working for his father, which means absolutely nothing at all, since we do not know what his father does, and we might say the same thing for T. T. Metzel.
Ken Blake has forsaken the East for a job with the American Tel. and Tel. in Chicago.
Bill Ryan is a studying barrister.
Johnny Coonley ran away and got married; that is he got married and then ran away. After a terrible social cyclone, which landed him in all the best rotogravure sections attired in a fall away coat and a shiny hat, he and his wife got their steamer baskets and started for a short journey touching at the principal seaports of the world.
Cagey Sharp is either a window decorator or a plate-glass salesman, and it is almost an impossibility to stroll about the stems of "Chi" without catching sight of the erstwhile human fly doing something behind a sheet of the purest crystal.
Bill Jeurgens, Swede Swenson, and Sum Sollitt are about town, or, as Ward so naively remarks, Bill has a job, Swede is looking for one, and Sum, I believe, is still writing stories about Mexico.
Rog Wilkinson and Len Marshall, the class representatives at the Japanese earthquake conference, have been sighted in Manila and several other out-of-the-way places, and claim that they are not going anywhere for a long, long time.
Bill Wallace, and last but not least our own Ward are learning the losses and gains of corporate suretyship according to Hartford, and claim that they will welcome all or any of the boys. Ward says that Bill is "keeping steady company" with a co-ed friend of his, but in the next breath he states that the ailAmerican stenographer operates in his office, and so there you are.
To get back to God's country, I suppose you know that Ted Hellwig started light housekeeping in Brooklyn, having married Miss Berts Eulalia de Irionda of Bolivia. He was up to the banquet the other night, but didn't give the boys much time after curfew.
Charlie Sanchez is way over in Leipzig, studying medicine at the university, and wants to be remembered to all. He promised to toss off a couple of seidles of good old meunchner for us, and if any of you want to put in a word for yourself drop him a line at Leibniz Str. 26, Leipzig, Germany.
Secretary, „ 48 Erwin Park Road, Montclair, N. J.
