CLASS OF 1918
What Zack Taylor says about Joe Philbin in a letter to Ernie Earley is rather illuminating, and there are some paragraphs which we think are worth repeating here. To quote from it:
"Tuesday, October 22, was a red-letter day for me, for that evening was spent with Joe Philbin at Saranac Lake in a good old bull-fest. Let me say right here that you are not doing Joe a favor in visiting him, but become his debtor, for it is truly an inspiration just to talk to him and listen to his philosophical outlook on life. The writer left Joe mentally exhilarated, yet slightly sad as he realized what ordinary mortals most of us are in comparison with Philbin, who always faces the world with a smile and shoulders thrown back, in spite of all he has been through.
"We regret that our business takes us to the North Country so seldom, but we have resolved that whenever Joe is able to receive lis we will never go back on the privilege of seeing him when we are in that vicinity. Tell all 'lBers that they owe it to themselves if the opportunity arises just to talk to Joe—"
We learn from Dusty Rhodes the pleasant news that he has escaped from the Wallingford Sanitorium with the doctor's permission, and is again at his home in Hartford. He says that the physician gave him a very good report following a recent examination, and with his pep coming back to him he feels he will again be thoroughly fit in a few months more. He sent us some weeks back an open letter to the class which unfortunately arrived too late to appear in the February issue of the MAGAZINE. However, we are pleased to publish it now, as follows:
"My Classmates:
"If I could see each one of you personally and shake you by the hand, perhaps I could more adequately convey my thanks for what you fellows did for me at Christmas time. Written expressions are frequently involved, and at best I should be bound to get sentimental. Hence, if seeing you all at this time is a physical impossibility, this is the next best thing. Thank you! Thank you an awful lot! It was a genuine surprise, your generous gift, and the wonderful thought back of it brightened a Christmas otherwise shadowed by recent events of the year just passed. It is but another reminder of how sure the support of friends is.
"Along about the middle of December my correspondence began to include letters from Eighteeners I haven't seen hide nor hair of since Hanover. Some of them contained mysterious references to Ernie Earley, which upon further study led me to believe that Ernie had given away the secret of my hiding place in Wallingford. The old sonof-a-gun, yes! For he visited me down there while I was being habitually lazy, drinking milk, sleeping, and learning about bloodcounts and X-rays. Came up all the way from Long Island. Howie Park, my old sidekick, also penetrated my Highland fastness.
"Well, now that I'm healthy enough to swell (word used by advisement, meaning fat, or 175 pounds) the ranks of the unemployed and considering joining the rougher element at the Dartmouth Club bar any day now, let me say how much letters, messages, books, and what-nots helped kill time for me, when the clock ticked slowly and each day was like the next. I had time to do lots of things. I didn't do any of 'em because I couldn't concentrate and had to learn to be quiet,'—bodily, I mean. Joe Philbin knows all about this. He's had a rough time up at Saranac. I've often wondered how he's getting along. Here's a cheer for you, Joe, if you happen to read this. You'll beat 'em yet! "And then came Ernie's letter
" 'Dusty, old boy: The whole '18 class wishes you the best of luck. And we're rooting for you hard!' "Say, that made me feel great. And the check, too. That wasn't necessary, though. I don't deserve it.-But I've cashed it now.
"—'Stand as brother stands by brother,' runs the old Dartmouth song. See, I told you I'd get sentimental.
"Ernie was great about it all. He sent on things to eat at the Farm. Howie sent books and letters. Dammit, how can you thank guys like that?
"Tom Groves, the Vegetable, who wrote verse for me on the Jack o'Lantern, lyricist and playwright of 'Heave To,' aroused from salty retirement at his Cape Cod retreat, sent this typical telegram:
" 'Dusty Old Fellow I Had Not Learned Of Your Illness Until Recently One Of These Days I Will Write You A Bit Meanwhile As An Old Clam Digger To An Old Diplomat Here Is A Load Of Good Wishes Not Merely Seasonal We Really Should Be Heading For The Old Cafe Royal Lounge Or Giving Polly The High Sign At The Cecil But Are We Downhearted No All The Best-— Vegetable.'
"Then there were lots of letters and Christmas cards. Most of the boys wrote a special line of good wishes on the cards, too. It was fun hearing from everybody. My thanks especially to the following, who sent greetings and special messages:
"Eddie Ferguson, West Roxbury, Mass. 'Twelve years have rolled by and I haven't set eyes on you yet,' he says. Something'll have to be done about that soon, Ed.
"Jack Storrs, the Bridgeport manufacturer; Si Gordon, Boston leather merchant; Ben Stone, Brockton shoe manufacturer; A 1 Rice, New York broker; the genial chemist and amateur photographer, Fritz Casse•beer, our class secretary; Ed Booth, the Dartmouth professor; Mr. and Mrs. Hal Doty, Cleveland, Ohio; Mandy Crothers, Passaic, N. J.; Harold S. Glendening, the barrister, from whom comes the news of his young son who is, incidentally, my godson. (It is good to hear from an ex-London neighbor); Louie Hobbs, Newport, R. I.; Walter Ross, New York city; Pete Col well, New Rochelle, N. Y.; Mayo Magoon, Framingham, Mass.; Oma, and Ned Ross, New York; Ken Jones, Mass.; Mr. and Mrs. Dave Garratt; Mary Olive and Stan Jones, (from way down South—on 11th St.); Syl Morey, New York; Andy Ross, New York; Shorty Samuels, New York; Gene Clark, Springfield, 111.; Phil Everett, Brooklyn; Bob Nims, Keene, N. H.; Mr. and Mrs. W. N. Taylor, Buffalo; J. M. Salisbury, New York; A 1 Gustafson, Detroit, Mich.; Russ Smith, Newark, N. J.; George Davis, New Rochelle; Dr. Leon White, Boston; Hector Macßean, Syracuse.
"Now a word as to this guy, Stan Jones. Not a bad bloke at heart. But his correspondence has recently taken on an entirely too commercial aspect. Every now and then I receive a little card from the United States post office to the effect that if I will kindly send on five, ten, or fifteen cents, as the case may be, I will receive a parcel being held for me on account of insufficient postage. Always I send the required amount and am rewarded by a magazine containing the writings of Mr. Jones. The group of periodicals thus collected now ranges all the way from Modern Priscilla to Plain Talk. In the last named magazine the class will be startled to learn that this bird Jones is actually a taxi driver, and, to quote the publisher, 'pounds a typewriter when he isn't stepping on the accelerator. He has carried an excellent assortment of drunks, dead men, gangsters, a kidnapper. . . .' You've heard the rumor about New York taxis being driven by ex-convicts? Well, what I mean is, do you think such a desperate character is fit to preside over the 'lB class? Every time I get into a hack now I'm scared stiff that the becapped and sweatered thug at the wheel may turn out to be Jones.
"I had a letter from Dick Willey the other day. He's been promoted to the rank of consul out in Calcutta, and is leading a Kipling-Talbot Mundy glamorous life. He's been in hospital for a slight operation. Howie Park was out of the combat for a couple of months at his Cranford, N. J., home, laid up in bed most of that time. He's made a good recovery, though, and I believe has resumed his duties as Mr. Rockefeller's legal adviser.
"See you fellows soon!
"Yours,
"Russell (Dusty) Rhodes"
(111 Retreat Ave., Hartford, Conn.)
Secretary,953 Madison Ave., New York
