CLASS OF 1930

Well, by all the gods and goddesses, here it is another month! Time flits inexorably by, they say, like the tide, without respect for any man and making no exceptions for class secretaries. If time would give us a break some time we could forego caring about the tide.

As we feared they would, '30 men are beginning to sit back lazily on their haunches while the ink evaporates in the ink-well, as ink will, you know, if you give it half a chance and the roaring flood of correspondence has dwindled into a desultory trickle. And that, as practically any class secretary can tell you, is very deplorable.

Here is a problem for the boys. We look about us in the columns of the MAGAZINE and find "Twenty-Niners" and "Eighteeners" and the like on all sides, cheerily saluting one another. And we are nonplused for something convenient to call our contemporaries and classmates of 1930, because we happen to mark the turning of a decade and "Thirtyers" doesn't work so very well. We don't want to fall back on "Thirty-ites" because there is really no reason why we should sound like an obscure tribe of Israel. And what shall we do?

Things have transpired here and there, and especially at New Haven, where we left the Yale Bowl feeling twice as pooped as little Albie, convinced that there is nothing quite so exhausting as sitting in the Yale Bowl all afternoon hoping for a touchdown. It was very cheering at that point suddenly to run upon the irrepressible Johnny Cheney. In the hurried press of people Johnny didn't have a chance to tell us about it himself, but his colleagues in Harris Forbes have told us that he finished the training school as the ranking man, and, having his choice, elected to remain and run the home office while the other boys scattered out to the provinces to run branches and inject new blood into sundry Dartmouth clubs.

Speaking of Dartmouth clubs reminds us that Kip Chase and Bill Jessup have raised the question about an organization of 1930 men in New York, to get together ever and anon, and perhaps organize a luncheon club and plan other pleasant things, and we think that it is an altogether swell idea. So will all 1930 men in the metropolitan area be exhorted to get in touch with Chase or Jessup (at 24 East 38th St.) or Charlie Rauch (at the Dartmouth Club), whom we are hereby con stituting as a committee to designate a time and place for a preliminary meeting. There will be more about this in the next installment.

We are just emerging from the house party hysteria up in these parts. Lee Chilcote managed to get away from the Harvard Business School to be on hand. At the beginning of a misspent afternoon in Memorial Field watching the third team cavort around aimlessly with Allegheny before a very bored crowd of students and house party guests, we ran across Ed Carroll, who is just back from a cruise to Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and other points Scandinavian with Tom Peirce, and has found eight hours of hard work a day not at all incompatible with a swell time. They liked it so much that they are now trying to negotiate a Mediterranean tour. Tom is baCk in Wayne, Pa.

That Allegheny game, by the way, started out as a farce and ended up as something or other very sad, it is hard to say just what. The second team started the game and immediately began scoring sort of ad lib. It got so that when the Dartmouth team would approach the Allegheny goal-line, the Dartmouth stands would shout "Hold that line! Hold that line!" If by some unaccountable slip an Allegheny man should make a gain, the boys would cheer uproariously. Dartmouth was penalized thousands of yards, but whenever the referee seemed to be on the point of meting out some well-earned penalty to Allegheny, the Dartmouth supporters, with a magnanimity approaching the sublime, would say, "Oh, forget it."

Then the third team went in, and put on a pusillanimous exhibition which lasted for the greater part of the game, during which our virginal goal-line was crossed twice. And a thick haze of ennui settled down over the field. Amen.

To return to news-mongering!Here is a letter from Herb Chase, which is so packed with news that I am going to quote it verbatim:

75 Stearns Road, Brookline, Mass. 11/3/30

Dear A 1: It probably is the effect of having just finished reading the Amaini MAGAZINE from

cover to cover, but while it's still in my mind, will touch on a few of the boys and their activities in and around Boston. Some of this dope may not be news to you, but here goes.

The opening of Harvard and Tech certainly have given this locality a decided green tinge. I agree heartily with Pete Callaway when he says Harvard Square is lousy with '30 men. Several visits to the business and law schools have kept me in touch with college atmosphere as contrasted to the drab commonplaces of Boston's commercial life.

Have seen on several occasions at the business school Cliff Williams, Art Brown, Jack Hodges, Frank Neff, Lee Chilcote, Pete Callaway, Mort Collins, and John Holme. At the law school: Bill Keller, Jack Rich, Blair Wood, A1 Harroun, A1 McFarland—and the boys say I haven't seen the half of them to date.

Doing graduate work at M. I. T. have seen Arch Clark and Wally Poorman. Also understand Walt Birnie is there, and none of them seem to be killing themselves with work. After all, M. I. T. is too near the Back Bay, and let it go at that. Might as well keep this letter clean.

As for us time-clock punchers! Warren Phinney is with the Dennison Manufacturing Company in Framingham in the research department, and tells me he likes his job, but arising at 6:15 each morning to catch his train is not one of its most enjoyable points.

Bill Fletcher is with Carter's Ink in Cambridge in their training course for sales work. He has the title of a junior executive—something for every first year Tuck man to aspire to! You may have heard of that bit of Tuck School fiction of referring to us as potential junior executives while still in the college. Always good for a laugh from Eccy or Socy majors.

Chick Pooler is in the advertising department of Lever Bros, in Cambridge, but does not pass out any free soap to his friends.

Met Pete Lillard in the store the other day and he says the N. E. T. & T. has been quite successful since the '30 delegation entered its employ. Russ Gray and several others are also there. Porter Haskell was also in to buy a new suit and looked very prosperous. He is with Scudder, Stevens, and Clark—investment counselors—and says due to his drawing account rather than a salary he now owes them money. But can you picture Porter owing any one money? Usually he was on the receiving end. He mentioned doing some kind of outside work—calling on clients, etc.

I hear Horace Weston went to Japan on a cruise, and plans other trips on his return to the West Coast. A lumber freighter, not a pleasure trip.

Ed Carroll and Tom Peirce shipped as ablebodied seamen and toured all the Scandinavian countries this summer. Believe they are back now but just missed getting home for the Harvard game.

Carll Buhler is with the N. Y. A. T. &T. in one of their Long Island branches near his home.

Jim Fitch is working in the Halle Bros, department store in Cleveland, and doesn't find much time to write.

Pardon the favoring of the Delts in this letter, but have heard more of them than the others with the exception of the graduate school men.

Hanover looked darn good to me over Labor Day and Columbus Day, when I made flying trips up. Am afraid I am going to be a sentimental old grad in about five years, and a touch for the Alumni Fund will be too easy.

Enjoyed your letter, Al, and keep them coming.

Sincerely, HERB CHASE

P. S. Just in passing—at this writing I am in Filene's with a salesman's rating and with many others in their training course. The idea is that some day I may be a buyer if I stay in retail merchandising business long enuf. Interesting work except on Saturday afternoons of football season.—H.

That, my friends, is a very splendid letter, laudably full of news and praiseworthy sentiments.

Hugh Gibbons writes from Edinburgh, where he is going to get an Honours M.A. in spite of the condolences of British professors, who are pessimistic about American erudition. Our money is on you, Hugh, against all the British pessimism, Scotch winters, and other Edinburgh menaces.

Hugh, by the way, holds the record to date for remoteness among 1930 correspondents. How about a word from you, John French, from your academic cloisters? And you, Fran Horn, from your Egyptian honky-tonk? And some of you other distant fellers?

Any of you that got to the Stanford roundup doubtless saw Chief Factotum Faye, who has been writing letters on round-up stationery for months and sealing them with roundup propaganda. Chuck wrote a very colorful account of the educational delights of a summer at the University of California:—"And now I know," he says, "why the West has such good athletes. After spending most of the first part of class hours finding a seat among the horde (lecture classes number anywhere from 200 to 1000) and the last part watching row after row of beautiful silk-clad legs (Calif, girls don't have limbs, they're just provoking, flesh and blood legs), there is not a great deal of time to concentrate on the studies. Oh, I could go on for hours on the subject of the University of California, its teachings, environment, and other disadvantages. I lived at the House with a gang of healthy children, who delighted in waking everyone up no matter what time they came in. Their stock expression for two months that was used on every and all occasions was 'Hola! Hola! Don't be a mad papoose!' "

Chuck continued with an account of his present activities: "I'm a steamboat man of a sort—the job is beyond description. Sometimes I boss a gang of stevedores, or supervise freight car loading, or entertain visiting S. S. captains. This is a lulu of a job. Their desires are simple and stimulating, and are greatest beginning with (1) WOMEN, (2) LIQUOR, (3) automobiles, and so on down to sleep. Perhaps you might think that the job is not very exciting, but in the past month I have been right in the midst of all kinds of trouble. One gorilla of a stevedore with a little bit too much wine in him took a dislike to me and wanted to impress it upon me with a big long knife. I was very much faster than he was.

"Later I was working on a ship, when one of the men went aloft to fix a boom fifty feet above the deck. He fell and landed three feet from me on the steel deck. We picked him up gently, but it did no good. And the crowning event was the day I sighted a 'three weeks' floater' (a gentleman, or what's left of a gentleman after 'it' has been in the water three weeks)."

Perhaps desks are more comfortable than docks after all, and we, for one, would rather have shiny pants than run races with gorillastevedores or shout "Thar she blows" at three weeks' floaters.

A swell letter from Wandering Bob Mc Clory, who is now being a banker by day and a law student by night, and relaxing by tearing off ever and anon to see some lovely lady in Switzerland which, all in all, sounds like fun.

George Kearney is now busy about building the Bank of Manhattan, with a little help from Starrett Brothers; and now, after a year and a quarter, he should be well along toward the 72d story. George got married soon after leaving Dartmouth, worked for a time with a cotton house, then took a crack at selling cars, until he took his position with Starrett Brothers in construction work, which he likes. He is living in South Orange.

Gene Zagat is down at Harvard Law, surrounded by Bob Booth, Dick Hood, and Rog Ela. Bob Kohn, Gene Magenau, and Hank Salisbury are living in a smooth apartment over in Boston, according to Gene. No good will come of that.

Red Doherty has a brother up here in '33 carrying on the Doherty tradition. We saw Red, by the way, through the house party haze, but didn't get a chance to carry on conversation more extensive than a traffic cop's hello. It was the same way greeting Frank Neff, who seemed, nevertheless, in rosy health.

Carroll Mavis comes across with some vital statistics. Paul "Rooster" Hoffman, according to Carroll, was married to Elizabeth C. Moore of Indianapolis at the end of his junior year, and became the father of a son this year early in September.

Carroll came through Hanover early in October to settle a case in the Woodsville court about an old Vermont farmer in an old Ford who ran over one of Bachand's splendid stallions on top of which was Carroll Mavis.

There is somebody down in Baltimore at 3346 Gilman Terrace attending Johns Hopkins University, but we don't know who it is because he forgot to sign a name to his postcard. Whoever he is, he should be ashamed for sending a postcard out into the cold, hard world without a name.

Ken Jones is with the Murphy Varnish Company in Newark, and, oddly enough, declares he is engaged in making varnish.

Dick Elliott is doing graduate work at the University of Pennsylvania, and living at Roslyn, wherever that is.

Hank Odbert is studying psychology in the Harvard Graduate School.

Milt Patterson is with the Providence agency of the State Mutual Life Assurance Company

George Azukas is studying medicine at Bellevue Hospital Medical College and living in Long Island City.

Ernie Reed sends in a new address at 100 Gibbs St., Rochester, N. Y., but doesn't say anything about what he is doing to keep busy.

George Clare is with Gurnett and Com- pany, stockbrokers, Boston, "doingpeople."

Ed Holmes is doing high financing at the Harris Trust and Savings Bank in Chicago.

John Fletcher writes with all too much brevity that he is with the Indiana National Bank in Indianapolis.

Bill Keller is another of the boys who loaf around Harvard Square and go to Law School in odd moments.

Win Durgin, after deliberating for some months now, finally sent in his form postcard, written up, we suspect, facetiously, but containing the information that he is doing insurance soliciting in Lewiston, Maine, and you can take that for what it is worth.

George Crosier was here last week-end with his pipe, intimating that he was going to have some news to break some time soon, but letting none of it out at the time. His last address was in Marion, Ohio, where he was with the Erie Railroad.

Tom Donovan is instilling into the students at the Mount Hermon School a wholesome fear of God and a healthy respect for established usages in the English language. Tom could take his pedagogical pencil and mark out fourteen or twenty-three criminal errors in this particular present sentence of (let's see) twenty-four words. He not only could, but probably will, since last month he filled the margin of one of our columns with enough grammatical indictments to keep us "after school," if we were one of his students, for a month copying out violated rules.

Well ho-hum, and so to the Whitewings' Garden Fete. . . .

BUILD EES OF A FOOTBALL TRADITION

Secretary, Administration Building, Hanover, N. H.

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