Class of 1930

Pudge Hartmann, who stopped to exchange a word of greeting amid the clickclacking of press box typewriters and telegraph keys at the New Hampshire game, is the only alien Thirtyman who has passed the time of day this month in Hanover. Pudge drove up with Mrs. Powers, mother of the fleet Ike, and returned the next day to his work in Mr. Powers' law office. It is true that Ed Holmes and Burt Crandell stopped in one day and left the following note:

"Just a couple of '30's traveling throughon our way to Montreal, Quebec, Boston,and back to Chicago. Came up to see theYale game—what a game! Mickey Emrich,Bob Hale, Newell Rumpf wish to be remembered to you. We are all working hardat the Harris Trust in Chi. Stopped off inPhiladelphia to see Fritz Brunner and hiswife. He sent his regards. Stopped over atBob Walker's in New Rochelle for theweek-end. Saw the great and smooth ArtHayes in New York—he gave Burt a merrychase. Sorry we didn't get to see you."

For the rest of the month's news, there are executive committee letters from Nelse Rockefeller, Pete Callaway, and Herm Schneebeli, a fair crop of other letters, and a few chance encounters about New York. Among the latter, there was Ev Low, encountered on 38th St. and later seen towering smiling and serene over Saturday confusion in Lord and Taylor's; Paul Freeman met, with his banjo under his arm, in a Broadway elevator, having just played for a smart new dancer's opening performance and talking of Hanover the next week to play for house party dances; Charlie Rauch, proffering dinner at the hands of one Sue (a maid) high and swank over 96th St., and left somewhat later with only slightly less altitude and swank over an unhappy hoss in the Armory; Howie Ziegler at breakfast in the Dartmouth Club, having been too tired to go home to Pleasantville after an A. T. O. party the night before; Kip Chase at breakfast the same morning, later disappearing before he could be approached, the fox; Ben Finch, through a Fifth Avenue bus window, boulevarding it of a Sunday afternoon, derby, cane, and all; Bob Bottome reached by telephone, thinking it must be Old Home Week. He had just had Tiedtke to dinner—John no doubt still roaring about the house while Bottome talked on the phone; Hank Johnson was on the way; and Haffenreffer, the skipper, being about due. It was almost too much for Bottome, on top of all this, when your Secretary phoned and inquired in a mild voice how was his health and what about a Thirtyteer dinner. He swears that something will be done about the latter. Meanwhile he has undertaken to fill the main floor of Rockefeller Center, not with barbers, speakeasies and gift shoppes, but with vast display exhibits by industrial enterprises.

Bob and Verna Geisinger are being complimented on Harry Clifford, born October 31, 1932. And speaking of sons, have we reported yet on Merle David Kimball, born July 9, 1932, to parents of practically the same name, and weighing 7 pounds, 4 ounces?

In reply to a request for some vital statistics (her name was Elizabeth P. Earnshaw and they were married in Hyde Park, Mass., June 12, 1932) Jack Coppock announces himself in business for himself, with a couple of other fellows—"Business Management Corporation, Boston." Try it.

Matrimonially, we have only this to offer: "Mr. Walter Kasten requests the honor of your presence at the marriage of his daughter, Gertrude Anne, to Mr. Everett Grunewald Smith [our Eggie] on Saturday, the twelfth of November, at four o'clock, St. Paul's Church, Milwaukee, Wisconsin."

From Hank Birge comes the following:

Philadelphia, Pa.October 4, 1932.

Philadelphia seems farther removedfrom Hanover and things Dartmouth thanit really is. If it weren't for your worthycolumn, I doubt if I'd ever read a wordabout Dartmouth unless I bought a Bostonpaper—which I would have to order.

Both Mrs. Birge and myself are thoroughly in favor of the changes in the ALUMNI MAGAZINE; it certainly looks ahundred per cent better on the outside. Ido miss not seeing any notes in the Thirtycolumn on the medics in the class, however.

It was a real holiday for those of us inPhiladelphia when Dartmouth came downfor the football game this year. There wasa goodly crowd of Thirtyteers here, and itwas like old times to sit in a real cheeringsection and to see familiar faces again.

Between the halves I had a short chatwith Win Stone, up from Washington, andSi Chandler, I've forgotten where from. Inthe distance I saw Van Leer and Funkhouser. Tom Dunnington sat in front ofus, and said that he is with Ayer and Son,advertisers of Philadelphia, along with acouple of boys not in our class: NormBankart and Dinty Gardner.

Ben and Warren Parish, who are also4th year medics here at Penn, have beenthe only Thirty boys that I have seen muchof for months. Warren is now at Bostonfor a few weeks, imbibing some Harvardsurgery, and you will probably see him inHanover now that he is so close.

Phil Bassett of St. Louis dropped us aline the other day—the first letter in abouta year—telling of sundry medical thingsbut no word of any '30 men. Swede Nelson'31 is also studying at St. Louis Med.School. Phil is still a bachelor; at least, todate. Perhaps I shouldn't let this getaround any more than it has, but it's rareand I can't resist: Phil blossomed out inone of the St. Louis rotogravure newspapers with 20 other young St. Louis beaus,listed as "Eligible Bachelors." It happenedthis summer, and he's still fighting off theapplicants.

I saw in your last column that " Water-Polo" Harrison is somewhere about Penn,but I haven't seen anything of him yet.And also in your last effort I noticed thatHank Embree and his Mrs. had been touring the Gaspe. Did they tell you all aboutit, if not I want to warn you. Some autoclub told us that it was a good trip and sowe took it in my short and precious freetime this summer. It's one of my sore spotsnow, physically as well as mentally. TheFrench peasant food and frontier beds theysupply you with scarcely made up for thescenery, which was grand in its wild way.If you ever take the trip patronize someof the Thirty tire and rubber men, and getsome solid rubber tires before you leave.The roads are made of exquisitely sharpened arrow heads—to increase the sale ofCanadian tires perhaps—but there is noplace to buy tires up there. And there'spractically no beer on the peninsula.

HANK BIRGE.

Gene Scadron writes his annual twentyword, more or less, communication to subscribe to the MAGAZINE: "Still enmeshed inre medico . . . two more years and I shallbe licensed to cure second-rate truck drivers of third-rate diseases. . .

Rog Ela writes about a feed at the cabin of the D. O. C. of Boston for Thirtymen, scheduled for November 19; adding that Scribner still dashes around the library in the interests of the Law Review, bundles of paper under the arm, while Bob Ryan lends a sympathetic ear to would-be divorcees who come to Legal Aid to have him help them over the necessary formalities.

We dug up the lost letter from Ensign Salisbury, who says, "I am at present basedat North Island (Coronado, Calif.) here atSan Diego, but expect to drop in and seethe old school next spring."

And, while we are still in the Service, there is Kadet Kel Klow, who writes practically ecstatic over watching an alma mater of his actually walk on Yale! He also had fun the next week watching Harvard take it. "Ad Rugg stopped in on me yesterday,spreading the tidings of a mess of Thirtymen whom he met at the Yale game. Hetold me to tell you hello—or something likethat. . . . Henry Gilbert is married. . . .Dave Rubin dropped in on me last summer, and has written since. . . . Dave isdoing social work 'somewhere in New York'. . . not the Salvation Army."

Chris Chrissinger seems to be about the only Thirtyman who ever gets to the Chicago weekly luncheons. He crashes the Diddings every now and then, and came across with a letter so long ago that we've forgotten what was in it and it wouldn't be news anyway. We just want to give any Thirtyman who writes a letter, credit.

Have we reported on Bill Wilson, who gives up banking in Nebraska City to return to school, this time at Northwestern? "I hear that Northwestern is a good school too," he says.

Cupe Burns spreads the news as follows: "Much, very much, has happened! On June9, 1932, I was married to Dundine, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. John B. York, of Arkansas City, Kans. The young married coupleare at present residing at EdgemontPlace, Wichita, Kans. . . .

"Never see anyone from the old schoolunless you'd count Walt Rosenberry, whonow resides in 'the city'—whenever hecan't get a week off to drive back to St.Paul. He is still trying to resurrect thelumber business, and once in a while findstime for a 'breather' of golf with your correspondent."

Newell (you know the nickname) Rumpf, who married a Wheaton '30 product, of South Bend, well known about Hanover, writes: "I'm still slaving for the HarrisTrust along with Mickey Emrich and Eddie Holmes of our class. It is quite a hangout for Dartmouthites, there being at leasttwenty men working for them at the present time. Right now I have the securitiesinterest of the state of Indiana under mywing, but just try and sell a bond thesedays. . . . Nels Ranney is working for abank in Cleveland the last I heard, and Iran into Bob McClory the other day inChicago. It appears he decided to comeback to U. S. A., and at present is runningerrands for some large law firm, and studying law at night."

Glamouv and the commonplace appeared in an oil-and-water mixture in a colorful letter received the other day from the Esplanade, Madras, on a letterhead on which appeared the omnipresent "Socony" symbol which one sees, probably about thirty times a day during the more prosaic routine of one's daily life. The letter, which was from the hand of Hod Erskine, began with a regret that he had not thought to write his first impressions of India, since these now are everyday occurrences. But he tells his own story neatly and exotically as follows:

I live in a chummery with three othermen, representing Ohio State, Vanderbilt,and Annapolis. A chummery is nothingbut a spacious bungalow where all thebills are shared equally. We have a largeliving room, four bedrooms, four baths,four dressing rooms, a dining room, alibrary, and a stores room. Each of us hasa Madrasee boy as our personal servantbesides a butler, a cook, a cook's matey orhelper, two gardeners, a sweeper, and twocleaners and drivers. I pay my personal boyRupees Thirty per month or the equivalent of about NINE DOLLARS, and he doeseverything except bathe me. Our total expenditure for servants and bungalowamount to roughly SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARSodd a month. Honestly, we live like millionaries on a clerk's salary. We have dinner, tiffin or luncheon, and breakfast,cooked well and of the best quality, foronly on an average of about a DOLLAR ANDA HALF a day. As you can readily see, livingcosts are extremely cheap, and what doesit matter if you don't have modern bathfixtures, and bathe in a tin bath tub with aquart measure for a shower.

My day begins at sunrise, for the hoursfrom six-thirty to eight are the best of theentire day. In the early morning, I usuallyplay golf, tennis or have a walk. Breakfastat nine o'clock, and I am at office at ten.From ten until five is spent attempting tomake economies, and effect sales, and earnmy salary. We have an hour off for tiffin.At five, and not always do I leave at fivesharp, I either play golf or tennis, endingup at the club for a peg or two. Dinner ateight-thirty, bridge, movies, reading orwriting till eleven-thirty, and then to bed,feeling swell or terrible depending on thenumber of pegs at the club. Of course, theschedule is only an attempt to show youwhat can be done. It sometimes happensthat there is a date. The only reason that Ididn't mention dates are their extremescarcity. In India, there used to be aboutone woman for every eight men, includingmarried women. Now the ratio haschanged, it is one to twelve, and the competition is keen. No matter—l don't actually prefer these English women, give me aVassar or Smith girl, if you can.

India is a country of contrasts. Thecoolie lives on about Rupees 25 per year,an Indian Maharaja on about 25 croirs ifhe is rich, otherwise on about 25 lakhs. Iwas most fortunate in securing entree tothe Maharaja of Mysore's palace. Insidewas a paradise for lotus eaters; jewels offabulous value and size, gold and silverdecorated rooms and furniture, masterpieces of art and more especially paintings,rugs and carpets that were voluptuous, anda harem, I am sorry, there was none. Outside the palace entrance was an inferno ofbeggars—men, women and children inrags, diseased and crippled and starving.Crying and beseeching for alms, they mademe sick, their squalour and poverty weresuch a contrast to that which I had justseen.

As I glance bach over this letter, I cansee that I'm going to make it a treatise onIndia and I have only been out here for ayear. Never mind, bear with me, and Ishall try to give a few first impressionS ofmy early days in India.

Perhaps one of the strangest sights is tosee men or women on their buttocks delousing one another's hair ... or to seethree coolie women walking down thestreet with a grand piano balanced carefully on their heads . . . or women andchildren picking up the offal of cattle fordrying and consuming as fuel . . or an Indian squatting in the middle of the road,conveyances of all types passing by, havinghis hair cut and beard shaved ... or aperson with elephantiatus, his limbs five or six times their normal size ... or menand women squatting on the roadside doing what we have sanitary plumbing for... or being invited to the Maharaja ofPithapurams wedding for his sons ... orgoing to a Hindu wedding and seeing thebridegroom about seventeen and the brideabout three . . . or receiving a wedding invitation couched more or less in the following terms: "You are cordially invitedto attend the wedding of so and so'snephews and neices ... or trying to findthe way to Yellamenchelli, and the onlyHindustani you know is how to ask for awhiskey peg . . . or the heat, the heat andthe rain, and the heat . . . or a temple intowhich one secured an entrance, and onlya month before the Governor had been refused access—l am-proud of that feat . . .or having to stand at attention every time"God Save The King" is played ... orreading a newspaper where a man advertises for a virgin widow (now I ask you),or a woman wants a youth and if he isn'teducated she will pay for his education,provided he is worthy and of good appearance . . . or to feel homesick, and to want adate with a good one hundred per centAmerican girl, even though you had castthem all from you when you were seventeen.

Notwithstanding, I like India. It is acountry of colour, beauty, and romance;it is a country of disallusionment, filth andsqualour. There is poverty and wealth.There is life. It is life.

And I must close this sloppy letter. Iblame it to the Indian typewriter which Iam using, otherwise I would continue onthe same strain for hours. If this letter interests you, then do drop me a return, andI'll oblige with a masterpiece on ModernIndia or Ghandi's Dandy Fast or whateveryou are interested in.

HOD ERSKINE.

From this point on, you are to be regaled with news at the hand of those three stalwarts of the executive committee, Schneebeli, Callaway, and Rockefeller, who have come through like Christian gentlemen, meeting the request as follows:

I. SCHNEEBELI, Pikeville, Kentucky

First of all, my apologies for not writing sooner, but what with my mail being sent home and then to Louisville and finally dispatched to me on the road, I received your announcement only ten days ago. Way back in my mind I knew I'd write you if I lived long enough. But that is all neither here nor there.

I believe I wrote you in my previous letter the first six installments of "The Tuck School Lad's Battle for Affluence," or "The Swiss Youth and the Mountaineers." Well, the next several installments vary but little in both action and consequence.

The past four or five months I've been a traveling man, but have tried to keep from a traveling salesman's mannerisms, there being too many mountaineers' daughters whose fathers have daily pistol practice with some other feuding tribe.

You probably deduced from my other epistle that I was still in the transitory period between scholastic and business activities. Well, I'm still in the same transition and position. A neophyte in a big oil puddle. (Poor fish!)

My present meanderings seem to be more a study of sociology than a session at business. Most of my time is spent up here in the mountains in the eastern part of the state, among the aborigines. The first reaction upon seeing these dull, stupid-looking, inbred mountaineers, who are supposed to be of pure American stock, was, "Thank God for the several furriners who ventured to these parts."

I conduct myself as a quiet, unassuming chap around here, because the boys don't care to have outsiders meddle in their affairs. They can shoot it out themselves. The eviction of several groups of Eastern college students last spring bears testimony to their attitude. So, without any difficulty, I acted as though I had never pursued higher learning.

Here in Pikeville everyone walks around with a gun on his hip. Our distributor was shot only a week ago, one bullet bouncing off his head and two going through his leg.

About a month ago, in Evarts, a fellow happened to be passing a restaurant and saw someone for whom he had a dislike. So he drove past the place three times, emptying his gun each trip, and wounded eight of the people inside. Some old boy of 75 shot and killed his daughter, who had previously killed the two husbands to whom she was married, merely because of a slight argument. Cases such as these by the score. A big Fourth of July down here —nine people shot.

The people are of very primitive thought and have only the elementary desires. The depression has had a malign influence— what with no work for the miners, an enormous crop of infants sprouted forth this year. Margaret Sanger (am I right?) would froth at the mouth at the strict observance of her teachings, but, after all, the men can't spend all their time studying the classics during their inactivity at the mines.

After a heavy period of Cimmerian atmosphere in dear old Kaintucky I burst forth from my monastic orgy and ventured some excessive socializing. The listed, foundering ship has about righted itself (sounds like I'm a Tabor boy), and sailing is more on an even keel.

My work is still serving as apprentice or coadjutor to company special men, inspectors, lubricating salesmen, etc., going through the entire rigmarole of "loining" this oily business. I realize I'll have to keep steady check on myself to retain my ideals of integrity and honesty, because especially in this vocation the other fellow likes "to break it off in you."

After a frantic period of restlessness I've reconciled my thoughts to a more practical curbing of my impatient, impetuous desire "to get somewhere." With a genuinely naive, scholastic ambition I was wont to get feverish about doing things, but what with some rationalization and the realization that the fundamentals are more important than first I supposed, there has been a slow amelioration to more rational thought and disposition. After all, "Neither Rome nor a service station was built in a day"—even as you and I.

If I spend much more time in this "Gateway to the South," I'll be rivaling you, Al, as the affable boy with the Southern accent. Such expressions as "How you?" "I reckon as how," "Drunk as forty thousand dollars," "Yahzuh," come almost as second nature by this time. "How you, hon-eh?" Some nice blondes down here. I'm still leading a normal life of composed, confirmed celibacy, especially with guys such as you stealing down to my native haunts while I'm away and dashing off with our fairest young ladies.

My sole contact with Dartmouth men is through the mails. By an interspersed reciprocity of letters I find Bill Blanchard is a full-fledged mason (brick-layer—not the lodge), Pooch Meyer the chintz department at the store where you can buy it for 6% less. . . .

I've rambled on, Al, with entire lack of continuity or sequence, and even my former restricted glib propensities seem to fail me. "Am I mortified?" as Schnozzle Durante might say.

HERM SCHNEEBELI.

11. CALLAWAY

40-15 Bist St., Jackson Heights, N. Y.

If you have sufficient courage to attempt to read my handwriting, I certainly ought to be able to work enough energy to tell you some of the tales of Tammany Town. (Grand note, that mayoralty vote.)

With the proverbial luck of the Irish on my side, I located a job in New York about a week after I graduated from the Harvard Business School. (No hatchery for tycoons.)

In other words, I've been working for the Conde Nast publications (Vanity Fair,Vogue, Home and Garden, The AmericanGolfer, etc.), since June. I'm in the advertising department—yes, one of those damned space salesmen. Technically, I'm the smallest cog in the organization, but I'm still in the wheel. If I had known that it was so much fun working, I'd have started a long time ago. No fooling, it's a great organization and an especially fine one to work for. (Adv. Can't I sell some of youse guys some space?) Anyhow, I'm located in the Graybar building, and have learned that meat pies at 15 cents apiece are the great American dish. In fact, every time I go down to enjoy my glass of milk at lunch time, I run into Stalin's future right-hand man—Wally Turkevich—none other. He is working for the Sterling National Bank. Sunday I bumped into Richard Dix's only rival, Shaw Cole. Joan Getchell was with him. The great Cole is looking unusually prosperous—how I don't know. You know Joan, so you know she doesn't need the boosting that Cole does. It was mighty good to see them both again.

I'll have to go back to the beginning of the summer to really give you all the lowdown. Spent a couple of week-ends with George Warren "Bud" French in Montclair —and don't think it wasn't a bit of paradise after the heated canyons of little old New York. Got together with Bud and Jack Wooster and visited the famous Jack DeVeau. French can give you more hot dope on the lemon market in Italy and the apple situation in Yakima than anyone on the river. He likes his job, and is doing very well. Wooster (Light Horse Harry) is still running Moody's. He is the gent that the Mrs. Millionbucks refers to as "that nice young man at Moody's." He seems to be so good down there that he speaks of week-ends in Bermuda as you and I would refer to a trip to the Nugget.

I have lunch with "Wolf" Whaley '28 quite frequently. I'm afraid he's in a social stratum far above mine, for I'm sure he has a glass-covered desk and French phones —which is equivalent to a raise in these here times.

Bill O'Brion pounds the pavements as I do, and I run onto him frequently. Ed Heister '29 is also one of the pavement sleuths—l meet him just about every day. I had dinner the other night with Fred Chase and his wife. And a good one it was. Boy, you ought to see that child of theirs— it's some good-sized kick, and that's not saying half enough.

I've seen Fred Page just once since coming down here, but I do know that he graduated with very high marks from the Business School. Nor have I seen Morrill since June, at which time he celebrated his graduation by having his appendix removed.

Last week I had lunch with Buck Steers, who is with Pedlor and Ryan, advertising agency, and is doing very well with them. We bumped into Spen Foster in Grand Central—whose cast of countenance has changed but little from playing tag with bandits around the Sphinx.

Robert Rathbone Bottome—none other —I see quite frequently. In fact, he had me out to dinner at his home the other evening. Tycoon Bottome bids fair to shake the stock market from its pre-election lethargy—since he's now down at that end of the island.

My last word from Jim Irwin was last summer, at which time he was gleefully exercising his talents in probing the cadavers which Johns Hopkins delights in preserving for the medics. Jim will be in his third year at Johns Hopkins this year. The only way you'll ever be able to get any news from him is to send him a self-addressed and stamped envelope.

PETE CALLAWAY.

III. ROCKEFELLER

26 Broadway,New York.

As you say, there has been a great amountof tone and quality added to the 1930 classnotes by the recent contributions fromJohnny French and Bob Booth of the executive committee. I am afraid that this communication will add little to the column.However, as you insist, there is nothingleft for me to do but acquiesce.

Several weeks ago I went up to Cambridge for the Harvard game, where Ispent most of the time with Johnny Frenchand his wife. At several of the classeswhich I attended with Johnny on Saturdaymorning I saw various members of ourclass, although I did not get a chance tospeak to them all. Dean Wiggin sat acrossthe room from us in one class—you mighthave thought he was a Supreme Courtjustice. I saw Bob Kohn as we were goingout and had a word with him. He haddropped out of law school for a year andis now back finishing up.

At the game we sat in the center of awhole group of fellows from our class. Itreally seemed just like old times. I had aword with Freddy Scribner, who, by theway, is on the ' Law Review" again thisyear, which is no small achivement. DaveRubin was about ten rows above us andseemed as cheery as ever, but due to ourrelative positions the conversation whichwe carried on was rather incoherent.

After the game a group of us met atJohnny's house. Among those who werethere were Karl Rodi, who is finishing upthis year and plans to practice law on theCoast, and Bill Alton, who is back at college this year in Tuck School. Si Chandlercame but was late, as it seems he had amix-up with a cop on the way. However,he went right to the 'phone and after calling up two or three of Boston's leadingpoliticians was able to straighten the matter out. He seems to be getting mixed upin the political racket and talked of running for some office this fall.

On Sunday as we were driving out tosee a friend of Johnny's we passed HenryKohn on the street. However, as we werelate I am sorry to say we did not have timeto stop. It seems he is doing graduate workat Harvard.

Freddy Chase has been helping me withsome things which I have been doing oflate. He is a mighty smart fellow. Bob Bottome and I got together about a month agoto work on a scheme for renting twenty ofthe stores on the ground floor of the central building at Rockefeller Center to national advertisers as display space. If thisidea can be put across, and there is no onewho can do it better than Bob, we wilthave a small industrial museum in thebuilding which should be quite interesting.

The other day Gene Zagat stopped in tosee me. He is working for the New York"Times" and had just come bach fromSmith, where he had been giving some lectures to the girls on how to read the paperintelligently. He seemed to be very enthusiastic about his work.

Only yesterday morning as I was crossing Broadway I stopped to let a very smartlooking Chrysler roadster pass, and whoshould be at the wheel but Jack Dobson.

I would send you a picture of our sonRodman, except for the fact that I wouldhate to show up Johnny French's and FredChase's progenies. Freddy Chase and Ihave already laid bets of no small amountas to how large our sons will be at the ageof twenty. If it had not been for the factthat I have a brother-in-law as well as abrother over 6' 4" I should have demandedodds. NELSE ROCKEFELLER.

Secretary, Administration Bldg. Hanover, N. H.