Not So Long Ago
AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS, the bewilderment of that freshman September still lingers. The class of 1920 swarmed upon Hanover in the largest numbers (more than 500 half-lost souls), and in the greatest variety of shapes and sizes the College had ever seen. How to know one's fellows? How to avoid the ignominy of confusing Bob Moore with Bus Moore or John Moore? How to sort out the tangle of Art Smith, Kel Smith, Chet Smith and Don Smith; Lloyd Smith, Tom Smith, Bill Smith and Wade Smith? Who was who among C. C. Johnson, Frank Johnson, P. A. Johnson and Steve Johnson? The all-saving grace of the current greeting, "Hello, boys," covered many a possible embarrassment; but the cataloguing mind and the salesman's memory for faces were necessary attributes of the good Dartmouth man. One should know the first, last, and even middle names of one's classmates; preferably, too, the places of their origin. One attained preeminence only when one could do likewise for the college as a whole. Amos Blandin, so legend had it, could name the middle name and state the place of birth of any man crossing the campus.
Gradually, somehow, they got acquainted. Beardless Al Frey and burly Tommy Thomson dominated the social life of Reed. Diminutive, but barrel-chested Bill Carter matched strides over hill and dale with his namesake, Charlie, who later graduated to major-league cross country running under the banner of Cornell. Here and there men were pointed out for their sartorial splendor: Maury Dewey for his careless tailored elegance, Ed Lindsay for his neat, wellgroomed appearance, Carroll Swezey for the height of his collars and the sweep of his pompadour, Dick Charlock for the razoredge
part down the middle of his crown. Reed Hall, New Hamp and Middle Fayer were pretty thoroughly undermined by the 1920 tidal wave, with the last topping the list according to statistics recently exhumed. Fifty-two of the young and green found shelter beneath its ample roof.
Reed and New Hamp come back to mind as particularly resentful of each other's existence. Between their freshmen contingents, on the soap-slippery steps of New Hamp, battle was waged for all of an hour on an otherwise peaceful October night. Neither buckets of hot water from the showers, nor a vast store of ripe fruit and vegetables held as ammunition, greatly affected the issue. The invaders gained the first landing, backed by an irresistible force: beyond that the way was successfully barred. A tangle of arms and legs clutched and swayed on the stairway until eventually the retreat was sounded. Why was no one decapitated or eviscerated? Did "Art" of New Hamp clean up the mess singlehanded? Memory falters.
In time the word went around that this inchoate mass, the class of 1920, was to be made aware of itself through the medium of its first class meeting. Zack Jordan's name was fired at the gathering. He rose and beamed and sold himself immediately to the mob, thereby bringing the backstage managers a reward for once well deserved.
Wheelock Youngsters Do Their Stuff—September, 1916
