CLASS OF 1929

Oxford, England, March 14, 1932.

Dear Bill: I am quite sure that I have a perfectly good cause of action in slander against Austin, and a fairly good chance of succeeding in a libel action against yourself, or the class. I shall probably proceed against Austin; his homely face has guilt written all over it.

Yes, I am married, and to a Scottish lass with slight English tendencies. It happened quietly in September. There were no cannons booming, nor did we tell the world by means of the usual nicely printed announcements. A bit unconventional, perhaps, for old England, but now everything is lovely. We are enjoying this last year in England to the full, and have not permitted outselves to be discouraged by the fall in the pound, the Tories' sweeping success in the last election, or by the slight increase in the beer tax.

I took my B.A. degree in jurisprudence last June, and am now studying for a graduate degree. I have decided that if it is at all possible, I shall go into academic law for a few years. Recently, I received word of my appointment to a Sterling Fellowship in Law at Yale. This will enable me to get a needed American degree, and, what is more important, it allows me one more year away from the world of economic crises and unbalanced budgets.

We are returning to America in about August, and will be settling down in New Haven about the second in September. I hope that we may be able to arrange a good old English "tea" party for '29ers who are in New Haven for the Yale game next year. But more about that later.

I missed Ed Plumb's departure from Europe last summer. We had hoped to have one more reunion somewhere along the Rhine, or the Mosel, but our plans failed to click. John Martin and Si Leach '3l are here in Oxford this year, and we have occasionally undertaken to teach good Dartmouth songs to slightly unappreciative Englishmen. They are both beginning to settle down a little after the first hectic weeks over here. Leach is considered an ice hockey star, and he performs regularly for the varsity. Dean Bill was in Oxford for a couple of days last spring. His pastime while on the island seemed to be finding out the best golf courses in Scotland and England.

I am anxious to get back to America now, although the three years have gone rather quickly. I am tired of trying to explain to English people why it is that America has cities like Chicago, and people who make their living by kidnaping the babies of aviators.

I am sorry that we are not returning until after the class will probably have had its reunion. Depression, or no depression, I think there ought to be a reunion.

With all the best, CARL SPAETH

75 East 45th St., New York, N. Y. April 5, 1932.

Dear Bill: Having once been a member of that terrible band which gave birth to The Dartmouth day by day, I could not resist your invitation to push the pen. In spite of the literary shortcomings of the writer, the pen moves with a new zest as the writer contemplates seeing himself in print once more.

The "as much of myself as bears telling" will be brief—not that I consider myself an old devil, but rather that "self" stories are usually uninteresting. I work for the firm of Janney, Blair (fatter), and Curtis at 230 Park Ave. in this huge and dangerous city. We specialize in patent law (you know, relating to inventions), and I can now take care of all inventions which the acute genius of my classmates is bound—yes certain—to produce in the near future. As for that important question, to date I have avoided entangling alliances.

This brings me to a more important subject. I go to Fordham Law School (night school—five nights per week) on the 28th floor of the Woolworth building. St. Patrick's day is passed and finished, so my school has again regained its composure and stability. Fred Armstrong is a member of my class and doing very nobly (a quarter, please, Fred). Another student of my new alma mater is none other than Wataw William Williamson. This man is a mystery to me. In the first place, he lives on Staten Island. That in itself brands him as being queer (in a nice way), for I have learned that all people who dwell on that lost appendage of our depression-wracked city are suffering from a complex. They seem to feel that they are a little different from the rest of us—for they are Staten Islanders. Our Bill has become so staid and respectable that I begin to fear that he is leading two lives. Certainly the Bill we used to know in college cannot have disappeared in thin air. I am working on this case, and, if there are any developments (yes, I expect the worst), you shall be the first to know.

Ed Walsh, who is now a can man for the American Can Company, works in this building just a few floors below me. Once in a while I see him for lunch. Of course, Ed always was very modest, but I have it from a reliable source that he is now quite an authority on cans. Well, there are all kinds of ways of making a name for yourself in this world, and I like Ed's. It appeals to me.

This all brings me to Cliff Purse, who rooms with Ed at the Fraternity Club's building on 38th St. I saw Cliff a couple of months ago (the so-and-so, he lives on my street and yet we just don't seem to connect). Still that old flashing smile. He's slippery, though. I understand no young lady has been able to slip the thumb-screws on him yet.

It was a clear night. The stars were out, and there was even a touch of the old moon in the sky. A night for romance. New York hums about a certain apartment on 38th St. Is all well in this fair city? (asks Blair, switching into the present tense). But come with me, classmates. Let us take an elevator in this apartment. Let us find if all is wellout of the elevator and we open the door. Whom do we see but Fred Ingram, Herb Wollison, Mat Rock, and Jack Blair—all busy staring into round, transparent things. So you see, classmates, all is not well on this sparkling night in March, for Ingram has just asked for another lemonade, and we all know what that does to Ingram. Wollison is a banker with a Tudor City address and can still belch wonderfully. Ingram is a big porcelain man from Pittsburgh, at present residing in Jersey City. Rock is a high-hat tailor with an engagement on his hands. I believe it's to take place in May. Other things of interest about these men will be passed out in sealed envelopes upon request.

Just two days ago I bumped into Elly Cavanagh at a Sunday "tea." I found the "tea" very much to my liking, thank you, and so did Elly. Elly's latest hobby is going to such "teas" and getting a "dinner-inviting" complex. You know how those complexes will get you at teas. I bet he had ten people to dinner Monday night. Poor Marge.

Not long ago I visited our capital city and saw quite a bit of Duke Barto. His candidate for the class baby has golden curls and is now busy whizzing around the apartment. He can't wait for the old gent to let him out among them. Horty is looking as swell as ever, in fact, more so, if possible. Duke is still a telephone man and is particularly disgruntled by the decline in long-distance calls of late. Other things about Duke will be divulged upon request, but only by word of mouth.

I fear this is getting rather long, so I guess I better fade. However, before fading, I'll condense a few more items. Saw Ed Chinlund, very prosperous looking, in the lobby of the Biltmore (not under the clock, so everything is okay with Ed). Trunkie Brittan, being an accountant, has been very busy lately finding out how much everyone is in the red. He had a tough break last weeksprained his ankle. I don't know the details. Jim Hodge, the tombstone man, has that undertaker look. He really looks quite mournful and informs me that people have even stopped dying in this depression.

Well, this time I will fade. With kind regards to you and the rest of the Cambridge boys, JACK BLAIR.

54 Oregon Avenue Crafton, Penn. March 16, 1932

Dear Bill: I attended the annual dinner of the Western Pennsylvania Alumni Association at the University Club here not so long ago, and have some news of the '29ers in this vicinity. This may help you in stuffing your periodic alumni notes a trifle, and if I am of any help in this arduous task, my purpose has been accomplished.

I assisted Joe Pritehard in his nuptial ceremonies with a very nice young lady early this fall. Bob Waddell was the best man, and Richard Kuhns of Allentown and myself were hangers-on, so to speak. Joe dashed off with his bride, after a morning wedding, to honeymoon on an eastern, trip, which included the "touch" game at New Haven and some time in Hanover. The splendid retinue remained in Philipsburg, Pa., however, long enough to discover that there was more than coal in "them thar hills."

Jack Meany and I attended the Pitt-Army game together. Jack is still pouring steel and rolling red-hot bars, shapes, and plates for Jones and Laughlin. He says that if Charlie Schwab would step out of steel the name Meany might have a chance.

Bob Sparks arrived in town about two weeks ago in some new capacity for the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company. Bob says that business is definitely on the up grade, "otherwise I wouldn't be here." You can nose that about Boston or tell Babson if .you wish, but please use all your influence to prevent an "On-to-Akron" just for Bob's sake. I saw quite of bit of "Ting" Ingram this summer and early fall, but he has now transferred his activites to Jersey City and vicinity. I understand, although not officially, that he and Bert Wolliston are considering going into the cleaning business. I rather imagine it must be some hook-up with Mat Rock.

Bill Henretta has been in and out of the "Smoky City" from time to time with toys and wooden novelties under his arm. The last time I saw him he was muttering about something to the effect that the public didn't half appreciate his new walking or talking duck. I let him rave on and finally put him on the train for Cleveland at about tenthirty. I hope that duck didn't get out of upper ten before he reached his destination.

"Cy" Worth attended the weekly Dartmouth luncheon here with me a few days ago. He is looking well and putting on weight, but says that living out of a suitcase is no fun and he earns every cent of his money.

"Moon" Vossler has been up from Wheeling to attend a few of our functions, such as the radio broadcasts of the big football games and occasionally a dinner. "Moon" represents "Cy's" rope concern through a West Virginia distributor, and when Worth arrives in town, the conversation begins as follows: "What, Moon! you've sold no rope?!" "Yes, Cy, I have sold no rope!" "Then, I guess it's the rope for both of us, Moon!"

The last affair of importance, the annual dinner, to which I referred in the first part of this letter, was attended by five of the "in-towners," namely, McKean, Spangler, Simpson, Kier, and myself.

George McKean has been graduated from Lafayette and is studying law at the University of Pittsburgh. "Watt" Spangler has been a faithful attendant at all of our functions, while Herb Simpson and Sawyer Kier have not only been faithful at the Dartmouth affairs but have been regular callers at the homes of two very nice young ladies. Simpson seems to be out in front at the present moment, however, having, announced his engagement to Miss Eleanor Louise Lewis of this city early this winter. Both of these men are employed by the West Pennsylvania Power Company, one of Pittsburgh's much maligned utilities. However, if working for them is conducive to matrimony in these trying times, I believe they must have redeeming features also.

Here! I have rambled on at too great a length, but this may be just the length to give you strength to fill a column. I hope you have settled the question of a third reunion amicably with yourself and your classmates and I trust you will remember me kindly to my friends in Boston. Let me hear from you when and if it is convenient, as I imagine your time is rather well taken.

With my very best wishes, JOHN M. CONLON 24 Warwick Road Belmont, Mass. April 6, 1932

Dear Bill: On thinking it over I find it's rather hard to put my finger on anything of enough worth to write about, but maybe I can scrape up a few things anyway.

As you know, I have been traveling pretty much since leaving school for the .National Carbon Company, Inc., and have been seeing America first, so to speak. The only difference between Dick Rogers and myself is that I haven't been lucky enough in my travels to find "the only girl."

Naturally I see a lot of the fellows in our class at school, also others who were not so fortunate to be in '29.

About seven weeks ago in New York Moe Heath, Bob Lyle, Trunkie Brittan, Mike Ferrini, and myself got together and celebrated darn near the whole week-end. As you probably know, Bob is teaching and working at the Peddie School. Moe is still at Chase along with Bud Foulks, and Moe is ambitious enough to go to night school two or three nights a week. Trunkie is working hard, far into the night, to be an expert accountant of sorts. Mike is still plugging along with Western Electric over in New Jersey.

Charlie Harden I see occasionally, and he's still making his bid to be one of Wall Street's financiers. "Nivy" Nivison is also down there, and is working at the New York Stock Exchange, I believe.

Saw Jim Loveland in the subway in New York about two months ago, just after he had received a pep talk on insurance selling, and by this time he's probably finding it a little harder than he had pictured it.

Bumped into Ed Chinlund at the Dartmouth Club there in New York, but not for long—he seems to be in the obeying stage still and apparently likes it too—any reference to the Mrs. brings forth plenty of smiles.

Ran into George Piret in the Grand Central—had quite a long talk with him. He's with a printing concern now and doing his darndest getting contracts. Happily married, too.

See Eddie Reece quite often, as he's working for the Fawnes Glove concern, and for a time I called on the same department stores as he. He's doing darn well. Bob Tunnell is also in New York making the round of the department stores, and is, I think, getting somewhere in spite of this here depression.

Saw Gerry Updyke in Newark, N. J., in February, but only for a moment. He's in the sales end of some business, but I can't just recall the name of it.

Saw Eddie Walsh a couple of times at the good old "44th Street Club" in New York- he's with the American Can Company in Jersey City and likes it. Also have bumped into Herb Wollison there a few times.

The other gents I have seen around in Boston, such as Bill White, Chris Born, Squeak Redding, Red Ardiff, Herb McCreery, etc., you no doubt see often yourself, so I won't bother to pass any remarks on any of them.

As for myself, I still find my work interesting and feel that I'm getting a whole lot of worth-while experience. Whether or not it will help any remains to be seen, but at any rate it's darn interesting trying to get it.

Hope you can get a little something out of this letter, Bill, and until I see you why I'll call this enough for the present.

As ever, PHIL DINSMOBE.

Middleboro, Mass., April 6, 1932.

Dear Bill: In reply to your message of March 31 will say that I don't know as I can contribute so much to class news, but here goes—was married to Virginia Phelps of Brockton about a week after graduating and am now living in Brockton. At the present time we have a little girl over a year and a half old who keeps things moving, even though there isn't much doing in the old town.

As you can see by the letterhead what I'm doing (Colonial Brass Company, metal workers since 1847, architectural and ornamental bronze), it won't be much use to go into the matter further, and it is the same story with us as all businesses today.

Pres. Randlett dropped in here the other day, and he is selling insurance. He is a little thinner, but still has some ways to go.

Frank Dudley is manager of the W. T. Grant store in Bangor, Pa. Art Clifford is studying actuarial work with some insurance firm in Baltimore, Md. Ed Carpenter is in the slate business in Fairhaven, Vt. Johnny Quebman is with Firestone Tire in Attleboro. Paul Kelsey operates a restaurant in Newark with his father.

That's about all the news I can think of now, so will have to close.

Best of luck, JOHNNY DAVIS.

New York City, April, 1932.

Dear Bill: It was a blessed event to hear from you, though your tune is a doleful one. If I were plighting my troth (you know what that means by now—thank Heaven I don't regards to Kay) to you alone I should know what to say, but playing as I must upon the heart-strings of 400 cutthroats and brigands; parading a dessicated soul between the advertisements, for the delight of the other morbid curiosity-seekers of our liberal and enlightened group, is too much. My delight in the writings of the others has been too keen to relish my turn. I almost feel like a Christian in Rome rather than a banker. However, forasmuch as the Democrats speak through Walter Lippmann, and the New Hampshire Farmer-Laborites through Dud Orr, it behooves me to seriously advance the plea, and plank, of our dwindling minority, the die-hard Republican bachelor club of New York, series of 1929. And yet there is little enough to say. The esoteric exploits of the pasty-faced clerks have filtered through the august periods of this historic tome which you edited so ably and so broad-mindedly for the past several months. Any descriptive effort now would be merely cumulative even our dreams and imagination are shrouded by the dusk curtains of this City of Dreadful Night. "The joys of all our life are -said and sung." Speaking of song—a bright blade of sunshine nestled among us during the last few days in the form of that last of the troubadours, Thomas La Salle. (Ed. note: Maynard.) He quite dazzled, like the daffodils, that solitary, blissful inward eye (the whole English department couldn't draw Wordsworth out of that!), but has now withdrawn him to the mountains to brood Nietszche—like on the hither—whither. What I started out to say is that we are all well, thank you, and already settled into our rutty orbits where nothing ever happens, prepared to run our allotted span-—that news I know will hearten all my happy classmates. (Yes it will! What you'd like to hear is something dripping with gore, but I assure you all that the rumors are unfounded, and if you want the true facts, a self-addressed envelope mailed to the Times, Box 363, will bring fascinating results—and then Keyes will sell you some stock in it, and we'll incorporate.) This is my swan song until the 5th—my parched lips can hardly form the numeral. Yours,

Mo HEATH. March 9, 1932.

Dear Bill: Your letter inquiring as to my activities since leaving college so encouraged a none too latent eagerness for discoursing about myself that I am replying almost immediately. However, a few minutes' reflection leaves me with the rather chilly conclusion that I have little of interest to report, and that I have accomplished little that would even command my own applause.

But since you have let yourself in for it, I shall give you the story. First, and perhaps foremost, I have pursued the angular Mistress Law, day in and day out, with a desire which, if not passionate, has at least been determined. The customary scholastic barometer has rated my efforts at some point in the nineties. Yet, as the fatal moment approaches when I shall be tossed from the graduate cradle out into the stilly depths of the business world, my faith in the accuracy of grades as an index of knowledge is somewhat shaken. Be that as it may, I am looking forward with keen anticipation to the day when I shall be associated with my father and his firm in the practice of law.

As a corollary of legal study, I have done considerable debating, meeting schools from various parts of the country. Last month, I was scheduled for a trip east to meet Columbia, Pittsburgh, and some other schools, but unfortunately, I had to give this up because of my campaign for the state legislature. I regretted losing the opportunity of seeing some of the many Twj|ntyniners located in New York.

Just now, I am engaged in a rather active campaign for the state legislature, running on the Republican ticket for the office of representative of the district in which I live. Each night I spend calling on some of the six thousand Republican voters in my district. Some of my experiences have been intensely interesting, for the people are of all classes and nationalities.

In addition, I have managed to enjoy a few rounds of golf, squash, and other extracurricular activities so to speak. Omaha has a large number of Dartmouth grads, and a weekly luncheon meeting gives us a fine opportunity to keep in touch with the school. Last week, we had the pleasure of having Dean Laycock with us. It was the first time I have ever anticipated hearing him speak, because I knew that there could be no danger of disciplinary action.

Thank you for your letter, Bill. I certainly wish you the best of success in your law career. Please be kind enough to give my regards to any friends of mine at Harvard or in Boston. I would give anything if we could all be back there together for just one more of those wonderful Hanover springs.

Sincerely yours, STAN

Stanfield B. Johnson,123 No. Happy Hollow Blvd.,Omaha, Nebraska.

P. S. If at any time you should stray as far west as Omaha, I should appreciate your looking me up.

Secretary, 20 Prescott St., Cambridge, Mass.