CLASS OF 1918
News is right scarce these days. However, a few personals re the local grommet workers will help fill the aching void which your Secretary is trying so hard to fill.
"Herm Whitmore, the Wild Bull of the Campus, was recently seen careening through West 11th St. in his Chevrolet peanut-roaster. Herm has taken up long Creole cigars, from which we deduce that he is becoming an important cog in the Gair box works, and forced to sit in conference. First thing he knows, they'll make him wear white piping on the edge of his vest, and damn silly he'd look with it, too, now that his hair is falling out by the fistful.
"The annual alumni dinner drew out quite a cloud of '18ers. Many came on the rumor that either Pres. Holden (whose election has never been fully ratified by the House) or Pres. Jones might be asked to speak when it became known that Pres. Hopkins would be absent. Others probably remained away for the same reason. Earley and Christgau were observed exchanging unfriendly competitive glances in the course of the evening's lapelhooking. Syl Morey, full of helium acquired at some filling station en route, was denouncing the claims of the Graf Zeppelin in unmistakable taxi English. Steve Mahoney, the Silver Fox of the Graybar Building, admitted that he had been made a partner in his newspaper representatives firm. Musty Pounds, the Gene Tunney of Fathers, patted David Skinner on the shoulder and told him to persevere and some day he, too, would win his letter. Mandy Crothers made the long jaunt in from Jersey by dog-sledge, and stood up under it nobly. Bugs Wallace scored an ace on the hay-and-feed men by breaking out a suit of dinner clothes, completely beaunashing even such sartorial sharpshooters as Hen Mader and Stump Barr. Dave Garratt was noted comparing moustaches with Pres. Jones. Dave seemed satisfied, and why not? One of the speakers had to request an eyeshade from what was supposed to be the glare of the toplights in the ceiling, but which a hasty survey revealed the gleaming conk of T. A. Miner. Ned Ross hastily drew out his banker's fountain pen and dotted a quick stipple finish on the blinding expanse, after which the program was resumed. Phil Boynton and his famous story anent the deflated canine were among the missing, and a hasty vote among the Epworth Leaguers revealed the fact that this was all right, too.
"None other than Gene Markey was encountered recently strolling down th' Avenuh. Gene is putting some of his stories into the talkies, and looks for a first night at one of the big time houses some time late in February with the first.
"E. H. Earley, the Trader Horn of the Insurance Racket, says that he recently gave a party in his sumptuous apartment just south of Harlem, and that the breakage engendered through the oversight of inviting Red Wilson and Jones, among others of that ilk, was something terrific. (Ed. Note: this has been found, after a thorough investigation, to be an unqualified falsehood. If Earley ever gave a party, and plenty of people hereabouts think it about time he did, he is just smart enough to provide himself with rubber dishes. "Breakage me eye," said Morey, when interviewed, and this rather crude expression about conveys our own feeling.)
"A man was found dead in a telephone booth in lower New York last Thursday. The coroner pronounced starvation as the cause. Investigation developed the fact that the poor fellow had been trying to penetrate the protective barriers of operators, secretaries, beaters, gun-bearers, buffers, arquebusiers, and petemen whose daily job it is to guard the lair of Daniel Francis Shea from the onslaughts of the peasantry. This is unfortunate, and we cannot condone a situation which makes such a distressing fatality a fact. We are getting pretty moody about the whole thing, as a matter of record, and have about decided that a resort to carrier pigeon service is the only practical way to establish contact with Daniel Francis.
"While we believe it unethical to treat of business matters in this space, we nevertheless feel that we would be conferring a favor on our readers by warning them that Earley is now soliciting funds not only for himself via insurance, but for the rehabilitation of the new Delta Tau Delta House, which recently burned down in Hanover. When he sneaks in, stick your fingers in your ears and shout, 'No! No! Get the hell out of here!' Keep this up until he leaves. It is the only way.
"Stew Teaze recently steamed in from Japan. Stew thrives on raw fish and sake, and has retained not only his hair and genial smile, but his figure as well. He admitted that he could still tell a high lob from a last year's Nash (if interested in these things, Russ Smith sells 'em in Newark. Advt.), and that he had quite a batch of cups snatched from the rackets of the Yokohama Yellow Perils. Stew likes Japan, and why not? . . . At the moment, with the rain pelting down on the grimy pavements, and the soot thick on our desk, we are at a loss for an answer." (All of the above is from the prolific and ever helpful pen of Stan Jones.)
It is pertinent to mention here that Stan has met with considerable success in marketing his writings of late, judging from the fact that he contributed the leading story in Modern Priscilla last month, and has another in the current issue of Romance.
From the bounding South we have a letter from Al Gottschaldt. The advertising magnate of Atlanta says:
"George Kapff blew through here a short time ago, spending his New Year's holidays by touring the South. Not bad for a school teacher, eh what? I introduced George to Georgia corn. Any other candidates?
"Chuck Palmer, who was one of the 'specials' attending our class, is stepping out wide and handsome. Not content with being president of a corporation that owns and operates three of Atlanta's biggest office buildings, he is also one of the big guns in an unusually large restaurant just opening up here. Chuck is also president of the Dartmouth Club of Georgia—which donated a silver loving cup to be contested for by the prep school football teams of the state.
"Things with me have been rolling along tolerably well. Our agency has managed to add a bit of business every month, so that my travels to clients' headquarters now take me as far north as New York (occasionally) and as far south as Florida and New Orleans. If any of the Eighteeners want the services of a good advertising agency, why be content with Syl Morey? I ask you."
In January Ernie Earley had a letter from Joe Philbin at Saranac, in which he expressed deep appreciation of the thoughtfulness of the class in surprising him with a present at Christmas. To quote from Joe's letter: "I feel that I am making good progress. Though I am not quite up to carrying on a correspondence I should be very happy to hear of the struggles for fame and fortune of any Eighteeners who could find time to drop me a line." Philbin's address is 72 Park Ave., Saranac Lake, N. Y. Go to it, '18ers.
From a Boston newspaper clipping we gather that our Hubie McDonough is quite a football coach, and we don't mean maybe. During the six years Hubie has coached the Manchester, N. H., high school teams, his elevens have lost but one game. The record is 54 victories out of 55 games. A most remarkable feat, which should make the best of varsity coaches take notice. When not coaching McDonough teaches in the commercial department of the school.
One hears that Al Street has been West for a change, camping on the doorstep of his old friend Charlie Phillips in Arizona.
During the past few months Dusty Rhodes has been confined to the Gaylord Farm sanatarium near Wallingford, Conn., where he is recuperating from a physical breakdown occasioned by entirely too much work at his editorial labors. He reports getting plenty of fresh air, is making good progress, and does not expect to be ailing very long. Dusty would be glad to hear from any of the boys.
The Secretary has a good many prints of the class picture taken at reunion left over, and would be glad to send one together with some other representative snapshots to those who want them. A $1.00 covers the cost.
Gene Markey, Dartmouth '18, well-known novelist and playwright, has established a record for writing talking-pictures. At present Mr. Markey has four talking-pictures in production: "Syncopation," which R. K. O. is making in New York (taken from his novel); "Stepping High" (both picture and novel are to be released in February); "Mother's Boy," which Pathé is making in New York; "Close Harmony," which Paramount-Famous-Lasky is making in Hollywood; and "Listen, Baby!" also bejng done on the West Coast by Pathé.
Secretary, 953 Madison Ave., New York
