Class of 1916
The Britishers proudly boast that the sun never sets on their Union Jack. The same can be said for the members of the class of '16. You find them wherever you may roam. Years ago I was fighting the Germans at Rockwell Field, San Diego, with thoughts of Dartmouth far from my mind. One day I was rudely stopped by a cadet shouting "Lieutenant Fenno." Assuming the proper hard-boiled look, I turned to see who was saluting me in such an unmilitary manner. It was none other than old Dan Lindsley, fresh from the ground school at Berkeley.
Three years later I boarded the "Norman Castle" at Cape Town, bound for Southampton. As usual on a ship whose passengers were for the most part English, there was little or no conversation for the first two or three days out. There was a chap I had noticed in the lounge bar who looked for all the world like an Italian count. Yet I thought I noticed a slight touch of American accent in his voice as he ordered from the steward. When sufficient days had passed to make it permissible to speak to a stranger, I found the chance to ask him, "Aren't you an American?" He was. And so was I. Finally he said, "I went to a place called Dartmouth." And as I had lived among the English for eighteen or more months, I said, "Really. What class were you in?" "1916." The Italian count was Bob Townsend, who was with us the first half of freshman year. Since that time he had batted all over the world in the consular service, and was just returning from his station at Lourenco Marquez in Portuguese East Africa.
And only last week down in the middle of the canal bridge here in Providence, I saw a car stopped, engine running. The driver was studying a map. I looked again. It was Vic Porter, trying to find out how to get back to the world from the center of Brown men. While I hated to loose this Dartmouth contact, I helped him out. You find them everywhere—the '16ers—even in this bear's den.
Jack English blows into the office now and again on his visits down from Boston, and we run across Abe Lincoln once in a while. Jack (can you beat the Irish?) is running a school of palmistry in his spare moments, with Abe as his chief pupil. Abe is all for the romantic and fanciful. The first time he saw one of those signs, "Danger, Soft Shoulders Ahead," now so common along our roads, an extra twinkle appeared in his eye, and he stepped on the gas, looking for them. (I've promised to lay off Abe, so no more.)
A few weeks ago I ran into Tug Tyler in Boston. If any of you golfers want to get some extra fine clubs, write to Tug at Muncie, Ind. He has a factory making them there.
McKinney, Lynde, and Grear have moved to Suite 2100, Bankers Building, 105 West Adams St., Chicago. Joe Larimer is practicing law with them.
And, finally, Lawrence Joel Eigner was born August 7, 1927.
Secretary,646 Angell St., Providence, R. I.
