Class of 1914
The Boston alumni dinner brought out a good crowd. You will find a general account on another page. Here is a word or two about the Fourteeners present.
Reading from left to right: Doctor Wallace, "Ducky" Drake, who tore himself away from the flu epidemic to relax for a few hours.
Hal Brown, with anecdotes of his last year's cruise to Puerto Rico, where he met our classmate Guarch, and basked in the patio and the hacienda, or maybe both, it being a long time since we studied Spanish to the despair of Bill Murray.
Ernie Kimball, with impressive statistics in re wool, a commodity which he will quote you in millions of pounces in case your distaff side is knitting-minded.
Gus Fuller and Bill Taft, steel and utilities, both of whom we sort of gathered still have vague Republican leanings. In the first place, we met Gus in the middle of Copley Square paging Bill. Must have caught up with him, however, for they came in with the soup. Fortunately for the wanderers somebody was always moving around, and by sitting a course here and there they seemed to do all right, including an allegation that Bill had two steaks.
Cap Lawrence, down from Groton, reporting all well and merely waiting for the spring and golf. Cap seems to have added a pound here and there.
Sherm Saltmarsh, representing the dignity of the law and looking right fit withal. Ev Barnard, in town between long selling trips, and to whom we are indebted for a ride home.
Field Marshal Snow and John Burleigh, parked with a table of raw and raucous Fifteeners and in no time at all bringing order out of chaos for the balance of the evening.
Abe Newmark, with his usual dry humor and comments on the state of the world in general.
Charlie O'Connor, arriving a bit late and making a table abaft the rostrum or podium,—well, right down front.
Ham Barnes, getting stout and looking fit. Come around to the class affairs more often, Ham, now you know the way.
Herb Austin brings up the list. Reports everything well under control in Wellesley and Hanover, where his son is a freshman.
Bill Slater sat up with the wax-works representing the Alumni Council. Bill, by the way, was reelected to the Council for three years, representing the Boston district. Congratulations, Bill, and we know you will do the job well.
BLESSED EVENT
Congratulations to the Bill Washburns of San Francisco—a daughter, Mary Eleanor, who arrived December 14, making her just old enough this summer for Papa Bill to pram her across the Golden Gate Bridge of a pleasant Sunday afternoon.
Nineteen Fourteen is just all over the metropolitan pages these days. We scan a full page devoted to the U. S. Civil Service, just to get the hang of things in case we should want or have to live this life a bit more abundantly, and there is a cabinet photo of L. D. White being sworn in as commissioner thereof;—a bit more portly, but L. D. OK and the old smile.
Winter Carnival starting today, we note a group picture of the Dartmouth Ski Team in the Herald Tribune and pause to read the adjoining column. Is it about the ski team? Well sort of and after awhile. First, a long and complete accolade to our good old John—they call him the Maestro of Wax—Well, we scooped the H. T. about two years on that one. They allow that John's prowess as a snow and ski diagnosti- cian has become so marked that byliner Fred Hawthorne states our John .. . can step out on the street, scoop up a handful of snow, rub it between his fingers andthen announce the best combination ofwax, suitable to the day and hour." More power to your fingers, John!
Our last month's space-filler on how one of the other half of the world labors at high tempo evidently caught the eye of another Fourteener, who has reported a recent adventure on the Life of Reilly led by another one of the "half."
It seems that our reporter has been having trouble with the lawn on his estate, and journeying westward through Amherst he called at the Agricultural School to seek information. Apparently they were just fresh out of stock and told him that stopping off at Pittsfield he could get all answers at the Agricultural National Bank, they having had a great deal of experience with land in its various forms.
But let our reporter ad lib: "I entered the bronze doors of the Agricultural Bank about quarter of three—but don't let that name fool you. I didn't see anyone who looked like an agriculturalist all afternoon, but I did espy Ken Fuller who, the minute he saw me standing in my naturally hesitant way, came out of a huddle just like Mutt Ray used to. The remaining ten dispersed to their respective desks. to await further call. This temporarily elevated me to the plane I recognized Ken to be on, and with but a slight tremolo in my voice I apologized for interrupting what looked like an all-Pittsfield bankers' convention. Ken laughed it off modestly, and if I had been a brother Chi Phi I would not have asked for more cordiality.
"He, of course, had to settle whatever bankers have to settle when they get into a huddle, and so ushered me into a room furnished with magazines and ticker tape and I was like a kid let loose in fairyland. I tried to read the tape but the symbols bothered me, so I gave that up.
"In one respect Bill Slater has it on Ken, for Bill looks right out on an electric lighted gridiron while lights go on and off and funny little figures pop in and out, which Bill told me didn't mean a thing. I thought at the time Bill was merely jesting.
"But to return to Ken, he has it on Bill also in that he talks louder to his clients than Bill does. Bill mumbles and I have difficulty getting any tips off the record from him. And Bill talks in symbols too. Ken at least comes right out and lets the world know that he will take full responsibility for underwriting that $300,000 loan. To me that is courageous, and I hope like Sam Hill that Ken is right in the stand he takes on that question.
"I got an awful thrill in being inside the bank when it officially closed its doors to the common man on the street, and I was expecting every moment that secret doors would silently open or something would happen to substantiate what I always imagined happened when the great outside bronze doors quietly closed. I was a little disappointed, for about all that happened was the springing into action of a brigade of scrub-women.
"About this time Ken cleaned up the few hundred thousands more of somebody's Faith in America and called it a day. He even locked the treasurer's doors just like I open the garage at home. Then we were out in the world again, having left hundreds of thousands of dollars being changed from one source to another. Six months from now Ken will have to change them back again.
"Don't you agree with me, Ed, that Ken and Bill and Ray Trott live almost as monotonous lives as does Sig Larmon?
"I have been having a little trouble with the rusting of the steel in my house and this will give me an excuse to call on Voorhees for I am getting so I can now talk the language of these financiers even if I don't understand any of it."
Well, we seem to have a very extensive "other half," and the Secretary is deeply grateful for the help of these chaps who bump into our famous "other half" and enlighten us on the activities of these harried men. We hope that others will be in- spired to report even more interesting adventures.
Secretary, 367 Boylston St., Boston
