Princeton University - Nassau Herald Yearbook (Princeton, NJ)

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C lass Prophecy his rnonacle jump around in his eye in the torrent of his abuse. It seems that Tom Rutter had just informed him that his hat was at least two weeks out of style, and that his cravat was about as fit for publication as one of Fran Phillips' stories. I tried to start a conversation, but Art was splashing about in such a whirlpool of righteous indignation that all he could do was to sputter and babble. After finally per- suading him to stop talking like the Daily Prfincetoniavfz, I gathered the information that he wasn't doing much of anything beyond delivering a men's rights speech now and then. Nei- ther did he know of anything about any of the boys, but he said that if I went around to the Times office, I'd probably find bunches of them. 'I went, and Art certainly made good. Out on the curb was Puss Adams, all gussied up in a Salva- tion Army rig, telling the boys with lots of youthful vigor what they should do to get to I-Ieaven. Next to him was Hank O'Donahue beating a bass drum and Cap Nebeker yelping out something which he meant for a hymn, but which sounded more like a Hindu baby telling his mother he had the colic. All this display of evangelistic fervor touched me deeply, until I noticed that Cap was slipping Puss the pennies that sympa- thetic citizens were dropping in his tambourine, and Puss was in turn handing them surreptitiously over to I-Iank, who dropped them into a large bag at his belt labelled, Fund for the Irri- gation of Arid Districts .' It was a fine charity, and I felt a thrill of pride at the good Work the boys were doing. But I tarried no longer, and dived into the big newspaper office to see what I could see. There was a little room on the left as you entered, marked Janitor , and I stuck my head inside to see if any old Princeton acquaintance might be holding down that lucrative post. The only occupant of the room was a fat, smiling infant who was engaged at the time in rolling around the iioor, and beating the eternal daylights out of the cat. The combination immediately suggested the personality of A. Bluethenthal, Esq., and I wasn't mistaken in my surmise, because Blooey himself soon entered the room, a little fatter and a little happier than ever, but the same Blooey. 25

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.The Nassau Hera-ld bers are Herb Richards, Truman Handy, Sam Markham and Mic McKee. I made haste up the street, and soon spotted the A. B. C. It was quite an imposing edifice: there was a beautiful carved shield over the door, with the arms of the organization on it. It consisted of an Ace of Spades rampant, on a field of Lilies, and below was a Queen of Hearts, couchant, on a field of cactus. She looked awfully uncomfortable. Surmounting it was the motto Sine Ponte, moremus , which means, Witli- out Bridge, leave us croak . I passed through the door into what I suppose was the main club-room. There was a table in the center, and the four of them were sitting around it,-Markham, Handy, Richards and McKee-each with a fist full of cards, and apparently quite oblivious of the fact that there was a month's dust on them- selves and the rest of the furniture. I sneaked up to the waiter who was leaning against a door- post on the other side, with a forlorn looking tray of glasses and bottles in one hand, and a beautiful spider web in the crook of his other elbow. Don't these fellows ever move? I asked in an awed whisper. Oh, yassah, he answered, yassah. Dey've been quite restless lately. Mr. Handy, he took a cigarette out of his mouf ten days ago. ' Ten days! I exclaimed. Yassah, he replied, but it's Mr. Richards dat's worryin' me. Ah brought dis ginger ale fo' him three weeks ago, an' it's gettin' all stale while Mr. Markham decides whether to make it Lilies or No Trumps. I though-t I might as well sit down and wait for Sam to de- cide, because I knew that once he was started talking, he never would stop till he had told me all the scandal. But suddenly I heard a round of loud and hearty curses on the street, and I rushed for the door, my heart cheered at the prospect of seeing old Joe Parsons again. But I was mis- taken, it was Art Trowbridge, who was positively making 24

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The Nassau H effald What a wonderful child, Blooey, I bootlicked. Going to toll-ow his illustrious dad, I suppose, and go to Exeter and Princeton F Blooey muttered something about Briarcliff and Smith being more to the point, and offered to hit me if I insulted his offspring. I declined the favor, and went upstairs to see whom else I could find. Up a couple of flights, I ran against a big door with Managing Editor in big letters on it. I went in on a hunch, and sure enough, I was right, for there was our own john Larkin at the big desk, just as busy as he ever was, writing a play with one hand, and rubbing onion juice on his head with the other, lest he become totally bald. I-Iello, Jack, I ventured, timidly. 'iDon't bother me, he growled, I've got to get two plays written, finish six articles for the Outlook, and get out two issues of The Ladies' H 0144112 Journal before to-morrow night. I was completely awed by this recital, so I sneaked out and went up the wall a way, until I hit a door marked Poetry Editor . This appealed to me, so I went in. There at the desk was a long-haired genius whom I took to be Bill Barnett, whose exotic love lyrics in the Nassau Lit. used to make Keats and Shelley turn somersaults in their graves. At first, I wasn't quite sure whether it was Bill or his artist brother, as Mac Read aptly put it, Bill's brother looks more like Bill than Bill does himself. But when the busy editor looked up and said I-Iowdy do, I was sure it was my classmate, be- cause nobody except Bill Barnett could possible have taken such a long time to say two words. Of course Bill was for reading me his latest effusion, which began: t'Ah, sweet, my love I cannot tell, My love I' cannot tell. My love, ah sweet, I cannot tell- I cannot tell my love. I-lere he got stuck, he said, because he couldn't think of a short, 26