Princeton University - Nassau Herald Yearbook (Princeton, NJ)

Page 19 text:

Class Prophecy believing that I was Frank Ford, and of course as soon as I was convinced that I was he, I fell asleep immediately. True to my determination, right away I imagined that I was in the metropolis. But it was a very, dierent New York from the one I had known. Everything was as unfamiliar to me as the inside of a church to Mike Ross. But I lost no time in making tracks for Broadway, and once there, I was on fairly familiar ground, due to having gotten all the dope on that famous street back in the student days from Don Smith and Laidlaw Dewey. I wandered along feeling about as happy and congenial as Fat Kinnan at a dance, when whom should I run into but Cabot Brewster, whom I immediately remembered as the in- veterate woman-hater of the Class. Cabot, you know, is one of those boys who will start running when he sees a girl four blocks away-and keeps on running till he catches her. We greeted each other, and exchanged confidences. I-Iow are things coming, Cabot ? I asked. Cabo-t allowed that they were coming pretty well, I asked him what he was doing for a living, but the sole effect of the question was to cause him to get as red as one of Karl Smith's neckties, and try to dig a hole in the pavement with his toe. f just then Bud Cowan rushed up. I-Ie had gotten very thin, but I knew it was Bud because he had four assorted dogs fol- lowing him, and carried a physics syllabus under each arm. Bud,': I questioned, why is Cabot ashamed to tell what he is doing for a living? Bud grunted. I-Ie ought to be, he said. I-Ie's been working for twenty years as professor of Framed Structures at Ogontzf' This Haunting statement was too much for Cabot, and he tied precipitately, and was out of sight in less time than it takes George Whittaker to get from a 12.30 to the Nass. So I accepted Bud's offer to walk on a ways with me. We might go and call on Mayor Scribner, suggested Bud. Not our own Charles ? I questioned. I9

Page 18 text:

5 7' 3 x , CLASS PROPI-IECY CHARLES DANIEL ORTH, IR. Ladies and Gentlemen, lllemlvws of the Class of IQI3, and Cam Hawkins' After carefully studying the brain spasms of my predecessors in this disreputable post, I have discovered that the only decent thing for a class prophet to do is to fall asleep and dream something. Usually he dreams that the class has been whisked away to some distant clime, and then he begins to pick on them. 'Way back in the dark ages, they used to take them all over the known world, including Trenton, but lately two places seem to have been popular: one is I-Ieaven, and the other is I-Iell. Now, I haven't the heart to carelessly consign all these handsome young men to the lower regions, and since I'm perfectly certain that none of them will ever get to I-Ieaven-except maybe Al Paine-I decided to choose a place midway between the two, and lay my Great American Drama in New York City. The next thing to do was to find some way of getting put to sleep. I tried every know means, from picking a scrap with Tom Wilson to listening to Bip Sealy tell about some of his exciting parties, but I couldn't get to sleep for the life of me. But at last a brilliant idea struck me: by at bit of auto-suggestion, I kidded myself into 18

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The N assau H emld None other, was the reply, he's now universally ad- mitted to be the most wonderful man in New York, I'm not surprised, I saidg back in the student days he used to admit it himselff' We were passing the Metropolitan Opera House by this time, and I noticed a vaguely familiar figure coming out of the stage door. I asked Bud who it was, and he told me that it was none other than Cam Hawkins, now known as Signor Screechi, the worldls greatest tenor. Bud said that he was supposed to have the biggest repertoire of any living singer and I had to admit that he 'was getting fat. Cam had spied us by this time, and came up with his well- kniown smile, which was trying to meet itself in the back of his head. X Say, boys, he gurgled, have you heard the story about- ' For I-Ieaven's sake, Cam, wait till these girls get by, I whispered. Cam looked injured. You wrong me, he observed, all my stories nowadays are Boutonized. This one's about Si Perkins. Where on earth is Si now'?,' I asked. That's the story, said Cam. I-Ie just fiunked Sophomore Latin for the 38th consecutive time, and he's dropped back to the class of IQ43.H This was a blow to us, Si's former classmates. Let me remark in passing that Si probably has more classmates than any other college man in existence-if he counts all his classes. But we hadn't much time to discuss the matter, when I caught sight of Bob Ober coming down the street. I-Iey, boys, he yelled from afar, has anybody got- No, but I've got the makings, I shouted back, heaving him a bag of Bull as he came up. He rolled a gussie, and I accepted his invitation to pay a visit to Broadway's latest lobster palace, so he led me around the corner, and We entered a gaudy portal with Maison Chap- lin in pink letters over the door. Pretty fine place, I comm.ented. It ought to be, remarked Bob, it cost Max Chaplin a 20 ,.