CLASS OF 1919

Had this issue closed a week ago we could have written a snappy little bunch of notes filled with that carnival spirit which was so prevalent around Boston after the Harvard game. This week with another Yale game gone West, Marsters in the hospital, the stock market on the rocks, and a slight headache, we feel like crawling off somewhere and dying with as little fuss as possible. But the ALTJMNI MAGAZINE has no consideration of a fellow's feelings, so here goes.

Way back sometime there was the Colum- bia game in New York. The night before we had a class dinner at the Club. About twenty were there, and things were very pleasant indeed. After dinner the boys gathered around the big card table upstairs, and under Charlie's solicitous attentions swapped lies far into the night. We caught the 10:06 for the rural districts, thinking that the party was about over, and were very much surprised the next week to have Dudensing ask accusingly what became of us. He said, "I was looking for you about 1:30, and couldn't find you anywhere."

Freddie Balch was over from Philadelphia, urging the boys to come over the day before the Navy game and participate in the gay doings he and Dennie Sullivan have arranged for the night before. Dennie himself sent a telegram with best wishes to the bunch, and boasting a little about the party he has planned.

Ralph Meader, who has managed to make himself a lot of money by inventing very clever devices, has just bought a large estate out on the North Shore of Long Island. The Long Island division of our espionage department reports this place the berries. The palace proper, which once housed Glenn (Merton of the Movies) Hunter, sits grandly beyond a couple of hundred feet of rolling lawn and looks out over the Sound. It is surrounded by garages, croquet grounds, tennis courts, and other useful what-nots. We have set to work earnestly thinking out devices to invent, but to date have made little headway.

Art Brentano appeared for the dinner, but strangely disappeared before we could get down to the actual business of eating. This was the cause of some regret among the boys, many of whom have not seen much of Art for a long time. Fred Daley was down from the more remote parts of Connecticut—Derby I believe—where he makes quantities of money doing something about sponge rubber. He reported frequently seeing Johnny Murphy and Burp Austen. The latter is secretary of state in Naugatuck, but does not wear a uniform.

Paul Halloran, who works for the Navy, told us that he has had a rather restless time since he got back to the United States this spring. He has moved three or four times, living briefly in Baltimore, Norfolk, Washington, and a few other seacoast towns. He has now settled down in Jackson Heights, and goes to the Brooklyn Navy Yard daily just like any other commuter.

Those present at the dinner, if our cheeking system is any good at all, which is doubtful, were: Greeley, Brentano, Hooven, Sandoe, Daley, Balch, Paisley, Parsons, Batchelder, Emerson, Johnson, DeMond, Huntington, Brown, Goss, Davis, Meader, Halloran, McCutcheon, Dudensing, Rand, Buttenwieser, and Moran.

The game itself you no doubt know all about, unless you live in Little America or some equally remote place. The team punched out a sweet victory as if it knew how to do nothing else but. There was plenty to yell about, and everybody yelled plenty.

The following week we arrived in Boston, leaving many shattered speed laws along the highway from Connecticut, in time for the class dinner before the Harvard game. Phil Bird and his gang staged quite a party, and it seemed to us that everybody we ever knew was there. We tried several times to make an accurate count and note just who were present, but we found this impossible for two reasons. In the first place the professional talent, a demure little girl who sang songs of home and mother for the most part while sitting in Bob Proctor's lap or embracing Louie Munro's bald head, so filled these old eyes with tears that the faces became blurred beyond recognition. Secondly, 1917, 1918, 1927, and several other splendid classes kept milling in and out in such numbers that it soon became difficult to tell Bunny Holden from the fillet mignon.

Spider Martin sent in a list of those pres- ent. We feel sure that it represents only about half, which shows just how busy Spider was or something. Here is his list, and all complaints about omissions are to be sent to him direct: Phil Bird, Louie Munro, A 1 Googins, Rock Hayes, Jim Davis, Tom Reilly, Jack Reilly, Jack Ross, Spider Martin, Cotty Larmon, Jigger Merrill, Bill White, Johnny Chipman, Spence Dodd, Jack McCrillis, Bob Proctor, A1 Crosby, Howie Cole, Buck Harris, Hawka Hawks, and Herb Fleming.

The game was a tough battle for the first half and then a mad orgy of scoring, which ended one of the pleasantest afternoons ever experienced by Dartmouth men in the Stadium.

The following week was a gray horse of another color. We journeyed to New Haven aboard the Dartmouth Club Special, more or less accompanied by President Martin. Larry McCutcheon, Gin Mullen, and Louis Stone were also along. And frequently Dr. Danny Featherston was seen shining through the hubbub. An unfortunate incident was narrowly avoided when someone who never knew or who had forgotten invited Spider to sing in a quartet. We pulled into New Haven, however, before they could find a tenor, and all was well.

Between the halves we saw Rock Hayes, Clark Ingraham, Bob Proctor, Bill White, Batch Batchelder, George Band, Leland Bixby, and Spider Martin. All were agreed that we would pull the game out yet, and we almost did, but the Yale jinx licked us in the last moment. Aw well, next year . . .

Suddenly out of the clear, comes a letter from Pat Glasheen, who has been almost as lost as Billy Higgins. Furthermore, he answers our nightly prayer by sending in dope and suggestions for the much needed improvement of the Nineteen News. Pat is on the Lowell Courier-Citizen, and keeps out of jail mainly by working at night, thus avoiding a great many temptations. Art Stackpole is on the same paper, and in mentioning it Pat tries to be as decent as he can about Art's being in the advertising department. He reports frequent contact with Jack and Tom Reilly, who both live in Lowell.

Pat says in closing, "Through your columns, will you please notify Buck Harris, sometimes known as Harold Cobb Harris, that his former playmate is still alive, and would like to hear from him if he hasn't gone totally blind from drinking his own concoctions. " We can assure you, Pat, that when seen last week Buck was not yet totally blind, but he was working away earnestly with a concoction, possibly his, which was no great help to our old eyes.

Jim Wilson writes in to me with a great big vote for Spider's financial plan and a brief report on that great kitchen chemist McCleery. We always enjoy hearing from Jim, because the Salem Tool Company, pictured on the letter head, has so much interesting smoke coming out of the factory roof. It looks like a postcard of the Chelsea fire.

Rabbi Raible, who has the distinction of being married to the only woman who ever held up the Boston boat for twenty full minutes, was seen in Cambridge for the Harvard game. He also has written in with a very substantial approval of Spider's plan, i.e. or to wit, a pledge of many large round dollars.

Since the last notes left our tidy desk, Vice-President Bird got himself all worked up and came down into the Connecticut hills to show the natives how golf is done. The dean of putt conceders went back to Boston a sadder and wiser man. Nothing has ever been seen around the local country clubs which compares with his explosion shot from the tee. They still talk about it. But after he had conceded himself that last eight-foot putt on each hole and the score was tallied, he never seemed to be in the money. We here and now extend to the Master of the Right-Fore-Finger-DownThe-Shaft-System a cordial invitation for a return engagement at the earliest possible date.

Secretary, R. F. D. 37, South Norwalk, Conn.