Class of 1918
While wandering around Hanover during the secretaries' convention, we espied Ralph E. Clark, normally of Boston, ruminating among the undergraduates. Not understanding this intermingling we investigated and found that he was trying to get a jump ahead of Ernie Earley, his competitor, and was endeavoring to sign up as many as possible of the younger generation with life insurance. There's nothing like virgin soil to work upon!
The three apparently permanent 1918 residents of Hanover are still upon the scene. We find Tom Groves installed as publicity agent with the decorative title of "Director of News Service" Ed Booth teaching in the English department and Rolf Syvertsen in the Medical School, where he serves in the dual capacity of pedant and secretary.
It is noteworthy to report that there seems to have been some reaction among the undergraduates from the era of "smoothness" which we mentioned in these columns a year ago. Now old clothes appear to be coming back into vogue. Finchley, Brooks Brothers, and the like have lost their grip upon many of the student body, and, cheerful to relate, a generous sprinkling of green sweaters of the old-fashioned type are again to be seen on the campus.
After a year of much building activity, the south side of Webster Avenue presents a much altered appearance. Instead of green fields we find four new buildings of extremely pleasing brick colonial architecture. Three of them are fraternity houses, namely, from east to west, Zeta Psi, Delta Tau Delta, and Sigma Nu. The last building, which is set considerably back from Webster Avenue and practically borders on Tuck Drive, is President Hopkins' new home. It is rapidly nearing completion, and will be a beautiful roomy home for the president. It commands a great view across Tuck Drive to the west.
Stan Jones and Syl Morey, our intrepid Gotham news chasers, have been indefatigable in covering the metropolitan area with extreme thoroughness, and have turned in several pages of copy from the New York district. In deference to his title and position (we hold no brief for those who believe it to be a sinecure) we will let Prexy Jones shoot his stuff first. He reports that:
"The interstate ebb and flow of Dartmouth's noblest group of young men seems to be almost static at this chronicling. Or if they have been ebbing or flowing, they have been pretty darn quiet about it. We haven't caught a ripple, even in our daily rounds of the calcium belt and the more polite offices of the local constabulary. When in town, strangers, holler out!
"Karl Hutchinson, known on the Grand St. blotter as 'The Big Swede,' 'Viking Al, and 'olaf the Oaf,' has changed jobs and residences. (This will give you an inkling as to just how desperate we are for news, so stop here if you want to.) He is now adding his mediocre grade of banana to the really high test oils of the Vacuum Oil Company, 61 Broadway. By popular request he has carried his belongings far from the chaste quiet of Brooklyn Heights, clear up to some less particular place near Columbia University. It is said, on what we regard as reliable information, that he occupies the third floor front, just across the street from the girls' dormitory. Ah, these Swedes !
"Old Frank Lewis, he of the prognathous jaw and lurid vocabulary, recently eased his embattled bonerack into our easy chair. Old Frank, who still holds the record for orchards stripped and poultry slain in la belle France during the war, is still his inimitable self. 'The rougher the going, the better I like it,' he grated at us, hoping we'd Contradict him and precipitate a sock in the eye. 'Can you imagine me,' he continued, polishing his famous glasses on our coat-tail, 'selling Bibles in the great open spaces ?' 'No,' we replied, with childlike candor, 'shooting crap, yes. Digging for oil, yes again. Jostling Dempsey, thrice yea! But selling Bibles—never.' 'lt's true,' he grinned. And I'm makin' 'em like it! Texas, Oklahoma, all those he-man states where men are, well, what they say they are! You may address' me if you care to, at J. C. Winston Publishing Company, 1008 Arch St., Philadelphia, Pa. I live at Haddonfiekl—or at least my wife and three youngsters do. Yes—if you insist—it is in Jersey.'
"Dave Skinner, that sleek bondmonger who introduced the square derby to the beau monde of Gotham years ago, is now married. Perhaps this news is now as old as yesterday's murder, but here it is anyway.' Dave is to be manager of the Chicago office of the National City Company of New York, so if you are holding any of the latter's stock this should be ample warning.
Hi Belding, plump and bespatted, recently blew the city to a brief treat. Hi is bonding in Chicago, and building a home out on, let's seewell, wherever it is that Chicagoans go to get away from other Chicagoans. He reports that Dick Aishton, now the staid and patterned suburban paterfamilias, is doing well, doing well, in the bank. We wondered, at the time, what a straw vote among the shareholders of that bank would disclose.
"H. P. Hood, the flying milkman from the Hub (always it occurs to us as that part of the wheel where least motion takes place) was seen a few days ago racing two cans of Grade-A through the Grand Central. Earley, that agile sandpeep, skimmed after him and breathlessly asked him if he ever thought how he'd feel at 65, if he lived that long. Harvey, so the rumor goes, hesitated a moment, then sacrificed one of his precious cans. But it was well worth it, at least to the spectators.
"Blimp Morey (sister ship, you will recall, to the ill-fated Shenandoah.) is pretty much worried these days. Spring is practically here, and none of the local clerks are showing much zip in joining a golf course. -'First thing you know,' he complains, (and he's dead right), 'warm weather'll be here and what'll I do then? I played last year on Jones's membership out at some crummy club on the Island, and the greens were terrible. Then, year before that I played on Wart McElwain's card out in Jersey, and the fairways were like plowed fields. I think it's up to Musty Pounds to join that good club up at Larchmont, don't you ?' We certainly do!"
A 1918 executive spotted the following headline in the morning Times a few weeks ago, "James Edward McMahon, a New York visitor." An official reporter was dispatched at once to cover the story. Syl Morey tells it thus :
"Jim was paying but a fleeting visit to the great city. In fact, he was on the point of checking out at the Commodore when interviewed. His next stop was Atlanta, Ga. 'Business,' explained Jim, in a very businesslike tone."
"Too hot for me in Florida," says Ed Mader, sagely enough. And he's probably right, however he means it. Anyway, he's back in New York once more, and we've agreed, although it's against our regular practice to use these columns for advertising, to announce that he's willing to consider large sized positions that can be filled by a small-sized executive. "Would prefer a place near the beach, as I don't want to lose my Florida tan," was Ed's final caution in placing his want ad in our capable hands.
Now that Ed is back, Morey and Jones invite correspondence from reliable Florida 18'ers to look after their extensive, (for them) Miami holdings. "Please find us a sucker right away," is the net of their requirements.
Stump Barr, Wall. Street's smallest runner, reports that Chris Christy is making final preparation for moving out for the summer to his estate in a New Jersey seaside resort. "Pretty soft for these rich fellers," says Stump, '"and to think if this market hadn't flopped, I'd have taken a house next door. Oh well " And then he settled down to the difficult task of selling an 18'er a $100 bond.
At the fourth prolonged ring of the phone, our Baron (otherwise known as Andy Ross), flung himself out of bed and yawned a hello into the receiver. "Hello, Andy! hello! Can ya, can ya help me out", the agitated voice of T. A. Miner bellowed at the other end of the wire. It seems that Miner dragged Andy out of bed at 11 o'clock this fine Sunday morning for no other purpose than to get the name of the president of the Chase Bank. It was reported that Miner's own bank was to be merged to the Chase. Paul had prepared a letter for the new president, setting forth his own accomplishments in a striking manner. All Paul lacked was the name and address. And he had come to the wrong place for that. Andy was obliged to pass him on to Wart McElwain, who was working at the Chase Bank, as is his Sunday habit of late. The Wart finally dug up the necessary information after exhaustive questioning among the other clerks present. From the amount of time the little Wart has spent at the Bank lately, it would seem as though he had put over this merger single handed. He darts into his room at the St. George Hotel, Brooklyn, at odd hours to get his beauty sleep out of a black case bottle, and then darts back to his high stool. "Oh, well", says Andy, as he patted his dress tie into position, "Somebody has to keep the work moving. I've got to see my new girl". And that last item is one of the real bits of news we have to offer in this issue.
When Earley's name was mentioned at lunch the other day, Stan Jones heated up to the boiling point. He denounced Earley in no uncertain terms. Called him a poor ham and several unpleasant terms that our readers wouldn't understand. This uncalled-for line of abuse was brought on by the fact that Earley had asked his wife (his own, not Stan's) to go to Commencement. "Well, how about your wife, Stan?" asked bewildered Mike Pounds, "Isn't she going?" "Well well. .. .well, I.. um," said Stan, as he finally broke down and confessed that of course she was going. MORAL: You may be a big guy with the boys; you may be president of your class; but you're a pretty small potato at home. Which reminds us that Stan's wife did go to South Carolina with him last spring. Despite his thumping down the law on the lunch room table, he does the heavy listening at 44 East 10th St.
Secretary, , 953 Madison Ave., New York
