Class of 1918
Recently heard from Bill Mudgett, who writes, "When you ask an Eighteener in Palo Alto for news,—that is if it's news about classmates, —well, it's just like it used to be when you asked Craven for a few extra Sunday chapel cuts. See Bill Wright every once in a while. You know we city boys who are trying to complete payments on a fifty-foot lot get a big kick out of visiting him on his two or three hundred thousand acre cattle ranch down the line about 100 miles in Monterey county, and he is the finest host that ever hosted at a barbecue. If you've never tried to eat at one sitting half a corn-fed steer, a gallon of California grape-juice (old style), and watched a little signorita dance a battle dance to the tune of a guitar and accordion, why you'd better leave Broadway to come out here." We further gather that Mudgett spends much of his spare time making record runs with new cars in all directions for advertising purposes,—a new Ralph DiPalma with a 1910 man as his mechanician. Bill also reports that he, Bill Wright, and Doc Ellis are almost sure to be back in Hanover for the Tempting Tenth.
We've always suspected that our own Marco Polo, Don Bliss, had some other motive than mere homesickness for returning to the land of the Statue of Liberty. Our suspicions were fully confirmed with the announcement of his wedding to Miss Dorothy Hayward in New York on February 1.
Ken Jones informs us that 1918 was but sparsely represented at the annual dinner of the Boston alumni held at the Copley-Plaza in January. Only Jake Bingham, Em Morse, Stub Stanley, Ed Ferguson, Tom Proctor, Louis Huntoon, Breed, Kapff, and Jones himself could be found present.
In New York the class did considerably better at the annual alumni function, held this year at the Biltmore Hotel, the following Tuesday, January 31. We'll let Stan Jones report the proceedings in his usual manner:
"The annual dinner drew out several of the faithful who are wont to defy the Secretary's appeals to turn out for the monthly class dinners. About twenty-eight or thirty appeared, in all. Among the regretted absentees were Duke Dusossoit, who, though in town, had urgent business in Bridgeport (watch for notice); Musty Mike Pounds, the Burgher of Larchmont, who was auditing the books of some company in some Midwestern metropolis known to map-makers as 'Red Oak, la.'; Bill Rosenfeld, cause of absence unknown; F. Runyon Colie, the Jersey pettifogger, who_ (as usual) read his commuter's weekday timetable as the Sunday one; Lymie Burgess, who was reported by A 1 Rice as being caught up in Montclair's furious social vortex, and Croquet-Wickets Rood, who was snowed in at Pleasantville. It may seem strange to start reporting an event by listing some of the absentees, but that is just the way Life strikes us at times.
"Stump Barr and his bullthroated bass voice were in constant demand to lead cheers, and with the aid of a chair he could be discerned by the classes nearest him. Owen D. Young, the guest of honor, was heard to remark, 'You never can tell from the size of them, can you?'
"Ned Ross, the sardonic financier, appeared with his new moustache, (something midway between oldfashioned cream separator and the handle-bar style so much in vogue at present in the Caucasus), and tossed out a few new stories. At least they were new to Ned. He was all for dispatching a searching party out to Glen Rock in search of T. A. Miner, the Human Cue-ball, who had failed to roll in.
"Phil Everett, Yerb Smith, and the Messrs. Morrison, Rosnell, and Hesse were observed tearing the rolls and splitting the herring after a long period of abstinence from the beneficial association with the men of 'lB. Fritz Cassebeer even cast down his shovel and hoe on his rocky farm acres in Blauvelt, N. Y., and trekked in for the big razoo.
"'Blimp Morey was humiliated at being caught wielding his sterling silver toothpick behind his napkin by Dan Shea and Cliff Daniels. It is very difficult, he says, to abandon the ways of Greenwich, N. Y.
"Early drew the fire of envious sartorial sharps by appearing in a snappy black tie (his wife did buy it, Ned, as you said) emblazoned with large red horses' heads—a pretty risky bid for attention by a conservative life insurance man. But he got it, he got it!
"Red Wilson is once more among us, and nobody seems to object. He looks exactly the same as he used to, to quote Half-pint Mader, which speaks well for the bond business as a preservative.
"The only early defection from the ranks occurred when Andy Ross and the Blimp clumped noisily out in the midst of a speech, nervously fumbling their Garden City timetables "and adjusting the velvet earlaps. It might not have been made so noticeable had they not fallen over a limp body on the floor, which investigation revealed to be the earthly coil of Champ Clements, the Mad Mullah of the cloak and suit trade. When his utterly numb and helpless condition was brought to the attention of his associate, Mr. George Rand, the latter yawned slightly and said coldly, 'That man? I never saw him before in my life. Why, there's Bill Ryan—hi, Bill!' There seems not to be the same close-knit associations in some of these later" classes
—they neither stand nor fall together!"
The other day we were the recipient of a most interesting newspaper clipping,—an item that recently appeared in O. O. Mclntyre's Column. It reads, "Perhaps the best dressed man seen in New York streets is Gene Markey of Chicago, a talented artist as well as writer." No small distinction, and we think the class can congratulate itself that it already lists among its ranks a man who has attained perfection in one endeavor at least.
Dwight Sargent, who forsook New York for the land of rubber, has been taken in hand by Jack Slabaugh, who is fast acclimatizing him to the sooty city of Akron.
It is with regret that we chronicle the death of Mrs. Walter S. Ross at the Memorial Hospital, New York, on Jan. 24 after having been for seven weeks in the care of specialists, whose efforts, however, were of no avail. Her decease leaves Walter with two small daughters, Janet and Margaret, to care for. We sympathize with him greatly.
We have it from Steve Mahoney, who only recently shifted allegiance from Chicago to N. Y. C., that Ward and Russ Pullen, the pickle barons of Minneapolis, now operate nine pickle stations and yet keep within the law. Also that Ray Dart, Lymie Drake, Cort Horr, and Bill Shellman have all confided to him their intentions of appearing in person at the Terrible Tenth.
"If you depend upon a hermit like me for news, then God help your news column"—Pups Colie.
Another near hermit, A1 Rice, made so through the medium of the lonely sport of trap shooting, complains: "Still have only three children." God help him also!
Karl who has secluded himself at some such town called Woodbury, N. J., with working quarters at Paulsboro, N. J., says "No news"—except that his engagement has been announced to Kay Hancock of Overbrook, Pa., and that nuptials may be expected any time this summer.
W. C. Wales moved to New York from Dallas, Texas, last fall, and is assistant professor of merchandising at the New York University School of Retailing. He lives in Babylon, L. I.
Tom Sturgess up at New Haven, Conn., has had to expand to a new house recently to accommodate his two fast growing boys, one 9 years old and the other 4 1-2 years of age. Says he is sure to be in Hanover in June.
Bugs Wallis, father of two boys, is now teaching at Mt. Holyoke. He has an eye for the future.
Irv Rand is practising law at Portland, Oregon, and seems to be prospering. Says that Joe Converse is the only other 18Ber he has seen in the vicinity.
Ray Smith sends us a card from Amsterdam, Holland, where he has been manager of the branch of the Sinclair Oil Company since 1923. He writes in part: "I dropped in the Guaranty Trust Company in Havre the other day to see Hort Kennedy, assistant manager, but the Guaranty Trust had just handled $10,000,000 in gold through Havre for the French the day before, and Hort, of course, was taking a vacation."
We are wondering what sort of burg Medina, N. Y., is that it should harbor three such shining lights as Tom Robbins, Hugh Whipple, and Bob Munson. One hears that Hugh Whipple travels for the Niagara Sprayer Company, and sells sulphur to the rubber trade or anybody else he can get to take the perfumed powder. Has two children (boys), still of the age to believe in Santa Claus.—Robert Munson, addressed as Doctor, practiced medicine in Middleport, N. Y., for some time, but lately moved to Medina, believing more people available to feed pink pills and pale liquids. Expects to establish an office in Hanover during reunion, but advises all 'lBers that prescriptions necessarily come high.—Tom Robbins to gather all inhabitants for trip to the Tenth.
Eddie Felt was recently seen at a week-end stag party in "Canada," across from Buffalo. They say Ed has lost none of his vices from College. Was busy most of the time between rolling them, poker, ale bouts, bull throwing, and the like. When at work he is with MossChase Company, Buffalo, in the advertising field. . . .ON TO THE TENTH. . .
Secretary, 953 Madi son Ave., New York
1918 Is That Me?
