Collier's Magazine From January 3 1953 To February 28 1953

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Digitized by^^Tnternet Archive in 2013 http://archive.org/details/colliers131janspri

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Collier's AFRICAN SAFARI Robert Ruark Shoots a Lion JANUARY 3, 195 3 FIFTEEN V xcsds jnva awvsMnyn- usn 9n<< swvon nun

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3 ! ‘"7 1 :s‘ 1st Lieutenant Llovd L. Burke L S'. Arm v j Medal of 1 lonor Blazing with mortar and automatic weapons fire, the Red Korean stiongpoint had stalled our 5th Cavalry’s attack. Lieutenant Burke saw that to save the assault from disaster, a Breakthrough must be made. Rally¬ ing 35 men. he crept close to the enemy bunkers. He laid down a grenade barrage. Then, lea\ing the men under cover, he ran forward to an exposed knoll and opened a one-man pitched battle. He turned a light machine gun into the Red position. He caught live enemy gienades in mid-air and threw' them back. Once, when surrounded, he hilled three men with his pistol. Before sunset Lieutenant Burke and 35 men had defeated 300 w ith¬ out one serious American casualty. Now, speaking for all our sen ice men, the lieutenant says: “Every day, men who fought in Korea are coming home to civilian lives again. They're finding jobs and opportunity — partis because they and \ ou and 1 own nearly .>0 billion dollars worth of savings in l . s. Hefense Bonds. For our Bond savings — which defend our country and protect our own families financially are also helping all Americans In building the biggest backlog of national prosperity ever known. 1 think that’s reason enough for investing in more Bonds — don't you?" ★ ★ ★ Now E Bonds earn more! 1 ) \ 1 1 Series E Bonds bought after May L 1952 aver age ^c/r interrM, rom pound rd Mini- annually! I unrest now stait* after ft month* and i* higher i n t Ii early year-*. 2) All maturing A Hands automat i» ally go on earning after maturity and at the new higher Intne-t’ lodav. "tail invent¬ ing in hettri paving Serie** F Bond* through the Pavroll Saving** 1’lan where vou work! Oi impute at vonr hank ahont tin* Tirasutv A new bonds, Series H, J, k Peace is for the strong! For peace and prosperity save with L. S. Defense Bonds! The U. S. Government Jot ', not pin Jor ihrs advertisement. It is donated by this publication in cooperation nrth the Advertising < aum 1/ md the Magau Publishers oj America.

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s uses their hair SUAVE the hairdressing created for the one man infourwho'd rather pay a little more to get a lot more In grooming satis-, faction. The kind of hairdressing you've always wanted, but never found before.. The only hairdressing in the world with secret-formula Curtisol -insures perfect hair grooming naturally. To look suave, use Suave daily. In alligator-grained plastic squeeze flask £ Travel size 60c The Luxury Hairdressing ALBERT E. WINGER Clialrtnon of the Board CLARENCE E. STOUCII President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CHAPLIN, Assistant Publisher CORDON MANNING, Managing Editor DAVID MANF.SS, Assistant Managing Editor WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director ALLEN CLEATON, Senior Associate Editor GURNEY WILLIAMS, Cartoon Editor JAMES THRASHER, Editorials JAMES A. QUIGISEY, Photo Editor MACLENNAN FARRELL, Fiction Editor Associate Editors « JEROME BEATTY, JR. ♦. WARREN BROWN ♦ JEAN B. CAMPBELL SLY CI1ASSLER • HOWARD COHN • WALTER DAVENPORT ♦ BILL DAMDSON HELEN WORDEN ERSKLNE • E\ ELYN IIARVEY - DIANA 1IIRM1 • HOMER JEN KS JERRY KORN • ALFRED M. LANSING • JOHN LEAK • FRANKLIN C. LO RANGER TOM MEANY • JOHN C. PELLEW ♦ ROGER P1PPETT • ELEANOR PORTER CORNELIUS RYAN • JANET S11EPS ♦ FRANCIS WALLACE • WILLIAM WEAVER MARTHA WEINMAN • ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research • ROSANNE Me V AY, Chief • MADF.LI.N ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS ■ ALAN M. LEVENSOIIN • JANICE MOSES • JOHN NEW1IOUSE Bureau 3 WASHINGTON i JAMES C. DERIEUX, Chief; TODD WRICIIT WEST COAST (Los Angeles): THEODORE STRAUSS, Chief; ROBERT CAIIN, JOHN FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR FRKIDIN, WILLIAM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): CHARLOTTE KMCIIT, PETER KALISCIlElt January 3, 1953 ARTICLES Ruark Shoots a Lion . . .ROBERT C. RUARK 9 (Beginning AFRICAN SAFARI) The Battle of the Bulge . GUENTIIER BLUMENTRITT 16 How to Spot a Bank Robber . Robert DE roos 27 Which Is Glamor? . collier’s color camera 31 The. X-Ray Cannon and the Rotating Chair . I. D. RATCLIFF 36 Calendar Art . RALPH REPPERT 58 IVashington's Third Party — The Cocktail Party . ANDREW F. TULLY 60 Where Have All the Handy Men Gone? . CARLE hodge 62 Wally Cox h “Mr. Peepers ” . JAMES POLING 66 FICTION The Beginning of Something New . JOHN Campbell SMITH 12 The Shoe Box . JOAN AUCOURT 26 (THE SHORT SHORT STORY) Date for Another Spring . MAURICE BAKRANGON 30 Celluloid Nude . HANNIBAL COONS 40 Favorite Son . WILLIAM R. scott 46 Water in the W ilderness . PAUL horgan 52 48 States of Mind . Walter davenport 7 Attic Safari . STANLEY AND JANICE berenst IN 43 Never Mind Me . PARKE CUMMINGS 65 Editorials . 70 Cover . CYDNEY The chorocters in all stories and serials in this magnxine nre purely imagittnry. No reference or allusion to any living person is Intended. Subscription Deparlmenl, 204 W. High Slreel, Springfield, Ohio Edilorial and Execulive Offices, 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIER'S Tub Nationai. Webkly. Vol. 131, No. 1. PUBLISHED WEEKLY by The Crowell-Collior Pub- liabiug Company. SpmiKtioM. Ohio. U.M.A.. Publishers of Collier's. Woman’s Home Coinpnmoit, The American Mag¬ azine. Executive and Editorial Offices. 0-10 Fifth Av»., New York 19. NY. Albert K. \V i tiger, Chairman of the Board; Clarence K. S touch, President; K. A. Schirmur, Executive Vice-President. T. I,. Brantly. Peter J. Dennerlein. Edward Anthony. Robert T. Me*«.|er. E. P. Seymour, Ralph G. South. John W. MnPhernn. Will. A. S'lttig. Vice-Presidents ; Denis O'Sullivan Secretory; G. F. Norsworthy. Treasurer. SUBSCRIPTION PRICES: United States and Posses- sions, Canada and Philippine) Island*. I year $5.00; 2 year* $8.00; 21 year* fl30 issue*) $9.00; 3 year* $10.00; 4 year* 812.00. Pun-Ameriotm countries in the Postal Union. 1 year $6.00. All other countries. 1 year $9.00. Payments from foreign countries, except Canada, must lie in United States fund*, and addressed to The Crowell-C oilier Publishing Company. Springfield, Ohio. ENTERED as eeeond-class matter at the Post Office, Springfield. Ohio, under Act of March 3. 1879 Authorized as Bccond-clans him il . Post Office Department. Ottawa. Canada. MANUSCRIPTS or art submitted to Collier’s. The National Weekly, should bo accompanied by addressed envelopes nud return postage. The Publisher assumes no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscript* or art. The Cover The little girls on icc skates arc a se¬ quel to artist Cydncy’s first experiment in putting children on eanvas for Col¬ lier’s ( Boom in Ballet, April 21 , 195 1 ), to reeord what he calls the wonderful appeal of their innoeencc and uncalcu¬ lated motion. Even in awkwardness, Cydney says, the very young have un¬ challenged eharm. We arc happy to report, by the way, that the afore-men¬ tioned ballet pictures are now best sell¬ ers in the United States and Canada. Week’s Mail Obsolete Ammo Editor: You are to he complimented upon your article, “We Are Hit and Sinking!” (Nov. 22d), except for one thing. The one thing is the utterly erro¬ neous use of the word “shrapnel.” The captain under the illustration states that the vessel is shipping water through “shrapnel holes.” In the sec¬ ond paragraph of the text, one finds the statement that “shrapnel” tore through the machine shop. In the first place “shrapnel” was never capable of holing a ship’s hull, and any¬ one who did not serve in the armed forces baek at least as far as the First World War probably never saw shrap¬ nel. In the second place shrapnel was a special type of ammunition used against personnel — not against mate¬ rial. Most especially not against ships. I speak from more than 44 years’ experience with the armed forces and the weapons used by them. Shrapnel has not been used since World War 1. The term has been loosely applied by uninformed persons to shell, bomb and grenade fragments. John H. Schaefer, Col. AUS (Ret.), Los Angeles, Cal. Glamor or Efficiency? Editor: What do you mean, shortage of secretaries? In your Nov. 8th issue you publish an article (Home on the Typewriter) setting forth the trials and tribulations of employers because of the fact that there is an alleged shortage of efficient secretaries. 1 beg to take issue with you on this. Are you aware that the great majority of employers stipulate, when applying to employment bureaus or like ageneies for secretarial help, “Not over thirty- five”? In fact, employers will not even grant an interview in most eases to an individual, regardless of how highly reeommended, whose qualifications more than meet the requirements of the position available and who is more than capable of filling the vaeancy, if she is over thirty-five, and particularly if she has reached the ripe age of fifty years. There is no dearth of representative secretaries around the age of forty- five and fifty who are capable of work¬ ing eirclcs around the younger gals; in fact these more mature women do not have their minds on evening dates, young husbands or prospective hus¬ bands, possible pregnancies and many other distracting items, and absentee¬ ism among the more mature office em¬ ployees is practically nil. All these, it would seem to me, would be an advan¬ tage in favor of the employer. Is it volume of work, correctly and i CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reoch us five weeks in advance a r of the next issue date. Give both the old and new addresses. 1 COPYRIGHT, I9.>2, BY T1IE CRO WELL-COLL1ER PUBLISHING COMPANY (All right* reserved) Publishers of Collier’s, The American Magazine, Woman’s Home Companion

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5 Never pass on curves! Thousands of accidents , costing many lives and property damage , are caused every year by reckless passing on curves . Drive safely ! How much do reckless drivers add to your auto insurance bill ? Year after year, approximately 15 to 20 percent of all motorists on the road have approximately 80 percent of all accidents. Obviously, an auto insurance company which avoids the “careless 15“ and concentrates on the “careful 85“ can afford to charge low rates for automobile insurance. That’s what State Farm Mutual does. It can charge low rates, while offering maximum protec¬ tion and service, because State Farm aims to insure only careful drivers. If you drive carefully, you may be paying more than necessary for sound auto insurance. Why not find out? Look up “State Farm Insurance” in your classified phone book. Other benefits of State Farm membership 1. Semi-annual premium payments. Wouldn’t it be easier on your budget to pay for your automo¬ bile insurance in two small payments each year, rather than in one lump sum? Advanced State Farm billing and bookkeeping practices make this possible for State Farm members -at no increase in cost. 2. Mutual benefits. State Farm is a mutual com¬ pany. Savings from low claim costs and high oper¬ ating efficiency are passed on to members, who actually own the company, in the form of low insurance rates. On the other hand, State Farm policies are non -assessable. You never pay more than the established rate for any period. 3. Fast , fair claim settlement. More than 6,500 State Farm agents and claim representatives stand ready, day or night, to come to your aid in case of accident. State Farm cuts red tape— pays an aver¬ age of one claim every 12 seconds, every working day. 4. Established leadership. State Farm now writes more full-coverage automobile insurance than any other company, with more than 2.400,000 members in the auto company alone. And new applications for State Farm insurance are averaging 2.000 every working day! Look to State Farm for Life and Fire Insurance , too. See your agent! State Farm Insurance Companies State Farm Mutual Automobile Insurance Company State Farm Life Insurance Company State Farm Fire and Casualty Company Home office: Bloomington, Illinois • Branch offices: Berkeley, California • St. Paul, Minnesota • Lincoln, Nebraska • Marshall. Michigan • Dallas, Texas • Charlottesville, Virginia • Toronto, Ontario • Field claim offices in more than 250 principal cities Hear "Cecil Brown News Commentaries Saturdays and Sundays over Mutual Broadcasting System stations. Check local radio listings.

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6 Week's Mail CONTINUED efficiently done, less absenteeism, more loyalty and greater interest in the work they desire and are looking tor in a secretary, or is it an ornament to the office, one who is a drawing card be¬ cause ol her youth and physical at¬ tractiveness7 Just what do they want? Kona C. Pa m rson, Sacramento, Cal. Other Coronations Editor: I have read I here’s a Great Day Coming! (Nov. 15) and think it is a splendid article. However, there are one or two statements I can’t reconcile with historical dates as I understand them. One is that Richard IPs crown tum¬ bled from his head and rolled into a thornbush at the battle ot Bosworth Field. He must have been a pretty spry old fellow at well over one hundred years old. I low' about its being Rich¬ ard III who was killed in that battle? The other question 1 raise is about the plague. Ol course England was devastated at dilTercnt times over a good many years with this disease but usually a reference to the plague means the Great Blague of London, which I believe was around 1663 to 1665. That would make it in the reign of Charles II, not that of James I. Mary I. Rusti nr, Rutland, Vt. Miss Rnslcdt has her Richards correct, and we were in error. And it is true that the Great Plague of London began in 166 L Rut there was also a plague in 1 603-1601, whrn James I was crowned, which took the live* of 30,578 persons in London alone. Trade & Tariffs Editor; Regarding your editorial, Break Down Those Barriers (Nov. 2 2d ) : Suppose American business agreed. Just what do you suppose American labor leaders would be do¬ ing? I widdling their thumbs, with cuts in wages in prospect as a result of im¬ ported goods produced hv cheaper la¬ bor and priced accordingly? Understand, I am not against trade with the rest of the world, and was in favor ol a reasonable program long ago. Nevertheless, at the first prospect of such a thing, the Hood of propaganda will begin -dire predictions of Ameri¬ can children being deprived of their milk and all the rest. 1 know, and you must know, that lowering trade barriers is the real way to peace. Try and convince the mil¬ lions whose brains have atrophied from disuse since they shifted their responsi¬ bilities onto government in return for promises— the millions who dust their brains oil only once each four years. Mrs. G W. Em und, Cambridge, Minn. , . . Your editorial is a packaged kind of statement, hard to pin down. Almost every statement is hedged with words subject to interpretation. For example you state: “We have enough faith in the resourcefulness ol American indus¬ try to believe nobody is going to be ruined by a reasonable trade policy.” What is ‘reasonable, *’ and please define ‘ruined.” ”1 rade. Not Aid” appears to make good sense. I have to agree that the people of this country have not put the slogan into practice because it is a po¬ litical issue, namely, whether we should assist other countries, particularly Eu¬ rope, in their recovery. I believe our country is united in thinking that such aid should diminish, and most foreign countries are eager to be on their own feet. F. G. Rruss, Vineland, N.J. . . . I was most interested in your edi¬ torial concerning “Trade, Not Aid.” It happened to be the subject of discus¬ sion in my home quite recently. A young man from Norway, here to ob¬ serve the “American know-how” in his particular field, brought up the point that, in many of the countries he had visited, feeling was very high over this matter. He specifically mentioned Eng¬ land, France, and his own Norway. He stated that they were all proud peoples, and that they did, as you say, resent charity. 1 hey need help, ves, but they sincerely wish to help themselves, bv production and trade with other na¬ tions. How can they do this, if they have not the dollars to buy our mate¬ rials, and cannot sell us their goods, due to prohibitive tariffs? Mrs. A. J. Upton, Webster Groves, Mo. .1 am a farmer’s wife with a farm¬ er’s viewpoint and your editorial on tariff barriers disturbs me. Why pick on agricultural products as examples lor tariff reductions? All edi¬ tors do! Already an undue proportion of our imports arc products of the land. A modern farm is a highly mechanized factory; equipment, repairs, labor arc all costly. We cannot compete with the low wages of Europe. Farmers are entitled to the same returns on their investment for their labor and “know¬ how,” as other Americans. And we do not want subsidy handouts. Maybe we should buy more from Eu¬ rope: but how can we do it and main¬ tain our high standard of living? Mrs. Ei mek L. Morris, Fortuna, Cal. . . . Your Break Down Those Barriers editorial is just another exposition of the Adam Smith economic philosophy written in 1776 to explain and justify the British national economy and the policies needed to make it work. 1 he foreign and domestic economic policies of all nations are realistically dictated by the ratio of domestic raw materials production to the needs of populations. Each nation ought to im¬ port needed supplies duty free and tax competitive imports to protect home in¬ terests. even as the British Bal i T. Bi ardsi i y, Lawson. Mo . . . I question the sense of your edi¬ torial on admitting European goods without tariff barriers, lust plain rea¬ soning will tell you that il you are to compete with loreign goods you have to pay loreign wages and if you pay foreign wages you have to live on the foreign standard. If you want to do that you arc wel¬ come. 1 do not, B. W. Brintnall, Tacoma, Wash. She Is So A Lady Editor: Love the photographs of your red tabby illustrating the precise and subtle contortions of a cat washing (The Cat’s Whiskers, Nov. 15th), There’s just one thing on which I take issue with you. Never, to my knowledge, have lady tabbies been red (or red and white). All that 1 have known were red, white and black. I his laddie you show is obviously a charming young dandy — but he’s no lady. J. O'Brifn, Bhiladelphia, Pa. A canvass of the office ha* disclosed tli.il one of nnr editor* own* a red and white tabby — not a spot of Idnek on her — vs ho has produeed several litters of kittens as proof of her femininity. He witched & Bewildered Emmie It is impossible for me to be¬ lieve that the Russians were so com¬ pletely bewildered by the two American teen-agers as the article 1 he Soviets and the Bobby-Soxers (Nov. 22d) would have us believe. The story has the flavor of two imaginative young minds. Having recently lived in Berlin with my husband, who was part of the army of occupation, I was personally ac¬ quainted with persons taken into cus¬ tody by the Vopos and later turned over to the Russians for a short period of time. They too had accidentally strayed into the East sector. Although the article contains a lew items of logic, I am very much in doubt that a Russian general, or any general, would be bewitched by fifteen-year-olds in blue jeans. Truth or fiction— -either way the ar¬ ticle would be hard to swallow. 1n(jI noi«i Gramiak, Rochester. N Y. Just Like Being There Em tor: After reading Richard Wilkin’s article. How Flight 932 Got to Baris (Nov. 1st), I can honestly say it was as though I were sitting in his place viewing all that took place. It was mar¬ velously written. I have flown very lit¬ tle. but now led as though 1 can include in my llights this one to Baris. Articles such as this one are what America needs. Everyone, I believe, is interested in what’s behind the scenes. Ji an E. Ni \i , Indianapolis. Ind. Collier's for January 3, 1953 True to Frontier Life EDITOR: My congratulations to Collier's ami to Mr. Paul Morgan and artist Edwin Dawes, for the story and tin* masterful two-page painting. Duty (Nov. 22d ). I was horn in 1881 in the NY/ IVree Indian eoun- lr> of Idaho. My father was a veteran of the Nez Perce enmpaign in 1877, in vvhieli lie was twice wounded, three years after his graduation from West Point, and mv memory, as a child of four years and on, is crystal-clear of those early Army day* when I lived in Fort Sidney, Nevada, dining the last of the Indian-fighting days. lienee, I believe that I am one of only a few liv¬ ing sons of the Army men whose memory is still clear as to details depicted in Mr. Dawes's masterful pic¬ ture of mounted cavalry trooper* of those days and of the faithful mounts, likewise of the atmosphere of the kmdseape. True, I lived in Nebraska, not Ari¬ zona. But from other sources I have absorbed a very clear picture of the Indian country, and this story and the picture are classics of their kind. MAJOR CHARLES L. WILLIAMS (USA, RET.), Glens Falls, N.\ .

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7 41 11 STA VES OlWiXi* m By WALTER DAY EXPORT We are surprised to learn from sev¬ eral apprehensive contributors that on New Year’s morning quite a number of residents in these 48 will not be feel¬ ing well. During the preceding night they will have been celebrating the ar¬ rival of 1953 with a vigor suggesting they had doubted the world would sur¬ vive 1952. We are asked to prescribe for such suffering celebrants who may be feeling like the Atomic Energy Com¬ mission had been fooling around in their heads with a successful H-bomb. With our usual alacrity we gallop to the aid of the party survivors. ★ ★ ★ Pay no attention to the patient’s re¬ quest that he be carried out and quietly buried without benefit of clergy. Give him a comet’s tail — an easily thrown- together elixir: a bottle of Worcester¬ shire sauce and a well-beaten egg. The patient should swallow this hastily while standing as nearly erect as pos¬ sible — with help if necessary. If that doesn’t work, try a mule ear. This is a large glass of gin with enough (but no more) milk to render it slightly opaque. Mule car may have to be administered intravenously. In extreme cases a Ro¬ man candle has been known to help. It’s really nothing but sauerkraut juice, beer and tabasco in even parts. One pint should suffice. Any more may leave the patient with a slight cast in one eye. There arc people who swear by frog blood. You take a tall glass of clam juice, dilute with cream, red wine and tabasco. Frog blood, if taken early on New Year's Eve, will have you bright, brisk and beautiful next morning be¬ cause you will not have been able to celebrate. Tomato Zombie is said to be pretty good — ice cream and ketchup, about fifty-fifty. Or, finally, you might try workhouse Eddie. You enter the nearest diner, order a heavily buttered pickle and a cup of cold coffee — with egg. Then, while the man is calling the cops, you fall asleep on the counter. The cops will do the rest. We hope you'll be feeling better. ★ ★ ★ And now to business. We hear that a citizen named Zeph Yoakum was showing a wintering Yankee the mys¬ teries of Sharkey County, Mississippi. “What's that?” demanded this Yankee, pointing to a man sound asleep in the branches of a large oak tree. “Oh, that's nothing,” replied Mr. Yoakum. “That’s only Crosby Eakings. Crosby laid Collier’s for January 3, 1953 himself down to sleep on the ground a few years ago. Didn’t notice he was laying on an acorn.” ★ ★ ★ One of the permanently profitable things you can learn at Pennsylvania State College is how to conduct your¬ self at a tea. This includes instructions in how to hold your cup in one hand, a plate of cakes or sandwich wedges in the other and. at the same time, stroll about the room with the proper savoir- faire swapping crisp bon mots with the rest of the crowd. Same course tells you how and how much to tip a waiter and return another evening to the same table with reasonable assurance you won't get the soup in your lap. Two thirds of the thousand students taking the course are men. ★ ★ ★ And North Carolina State College offers a course in Advanced Sewerage. ★ ★ ★ She was about nine years old. She was having lunch with her mother in a St. Louis restaurant. After her fourth glass of water she confided to Mother that she’d had all the water she could manage. Why, then, her mother wanted to know, didn’t she stop drinking it? She explained that she didn't want to hurt the waiter’s feelings. It was so nice of him to fill up her glass the mo¬ ment she emptied it. ★ ★ ★ All this talk about our new and oblit¬ erating H-bomb has caused Mr. M. Mortimer Pate, of Terre Haute, Indi¬ ana, to recall what Sir G. G. Justinian Marplotte of the King’s Own Light Foot Archers said when firearms were first introduced into warfare in 1446. Sir Justinian made bold to say that this probably would mean the end of wars forever because the world could not survive the resulting carnage. ★ ★ ★ Lady in Louisville, signing her note Miss Lou, would like us to note the in¬ creasing number of girls who arc wear¬ ing Mamie bangs. Noted. But as we IRWIN CAPLAN peer out from our dark cubicle we also must take note of the increasing num¬ ber of men who arc going banglcss, like Mamie’s husband. ★ ★ ★ Happy New Year. Jk.jkk.Jk. 'TtovJ Ok, What is the real meaning of marriag Here is the saga of Eleanor and Mi Pierce who face life together. . .from sm; apartment to owning a home... from peace war to peace again.. .from childlessness to t rearing of a son. And how aching separatii and illness, quarrels and hard silence, d appointments and talk of divorce almost for them to the breaking point. But never qui And of the rich reward they win when the t\ become one. Complete in the January issi \ / COULD YOUR MARRIAGE PASS THE IICGEST ' f Outsiders can be fooled, but the chib of an unhappy marriage know! , I here's how their behavior gives s couples away. LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT: After 10 year blindness, imagine being able to sec 3 Let Paris designer CHRISTIAN DIOR ...prove ANY WOMAN CAN BE BEAUTI¬ FUL! In five full pages ihis famous stylist gives his fashion philosophy, and lells how every type of woman, tall, short, plump or petite, should dress for every occasion to give the effect of beauty. And gives you glamorous examples from his cur- renl New York and Paris collections. You'll save I precious shopping dollars, and like a Cinderella discover your best self in this inspiring interview L with a fabulous Frenchman. %fo*'U Jlooe the. flanuoMf. only 254 husband and four children for the time! That's the thrilling true story of mother who had two kind people her their eyes. Piut. Houses Alike? Picture Compan Lacy-Top Cake You’ll Wear Prints E This Year. Hollywood. Plus other spiring features on Sewing. Decorat Hairdos, Cooking, and Child Guida ©OMPANIO H

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8 CHAMPION SPARK PLUGS TOP ALL OTHERS '“EUROPE * Am EkfCA / , Spark Plugs that Perform like this Will Make your car Perform Better Every major European Grand Prix in 1952 was won by cars equipped with Champion Spark Plugs the vast majority of them by the new World's Champion Driver, Alberto Ascari, in Ferrari cars. Spark plugs that perform like this will obviously make your car perform better! Follow the experts and demand Champions for your car! CHAMPION SPARK PLUG COMPANY, TOLEDO 1, OHIO GRAND PRIX ENGLAND GRAND PRIX HOLLAND GRAND PRIX BELGIUM GRAND PRIX FRANCE GRAND PRIX GERMANY GRAND PRIX PARIS GRAND PRIX PORTUGAL GRAND PRIX PAU GRAND PRIX CO MMINGES GRAND PRIX MONTE CARLO GRAND PRIX DES SABLES D’OLONNE GRAND PRIX SWITZERLAND GRAND PRIX ITALY GRAND PRIX NAPLES GRAND PRIX TURIN GRAND PRIX MARSEILLES GRAND PRIX MONZA GRAND PRIX SICILY GRAND PRIX LABAULE GRAND PRIX RHEIMS GRAND PRIX MONACO CHAMPIONS Better by Far for every car Regardless of Make or Year

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Collier's. January 3, 1033 Author Ruark (1.) who did the firing, and hunter Harry Selhy who did the advising, pose with %4the biggest and deadest lion** Selby ever saw AFRICAN SAFARI Ruark Shoots a Lion By ROBERT C. RUARK "A lion lias always liccn tlio symbol of challenge,” says l lie adventurous columnist as he starts the story of a great trip. "You gel the lion, or the lion gels you" THE hunter’s horn sounds early for some, late for others. For some unfortunates, prisoned by city sidewalks and sentenced to a cement jungle more horrifying than anything to be found in Tanganyika, the horn of the hunter never winds at all. But deep in the guts of most men is buried the involuntary response to the hunter’s horn, a prickle of the nape hairs, an acceleration of the pulse, an atavistic memory of his fathers, who killed first with stone, and then with club, and then with spear, and then with bow, and then with gun, and finally with formulas. How- meek the man is of no importance; some¬ where in the pigeon chest of the rihbon clerk is still the vestigial remnant of the hunter’s heart; somewhere in his nostrils the half-forgotten smell of hlood. There is no man with such impoverish¬ ment of imagination that, at some time, he has not wondered how- he would handle himself if a lion broke loose from a zoo and he were forced to face him without the protection of bars or handy, climb- able trees. This is a simple manifestation of ancient ego, al¬ most as simple as the hreeding instinct, simpler than the urge for shelter, because man the hunter lives basically in his belly. It is only when progress puts him in the business of killing other men that the hlood lust surges upward to his brain. Hunting is simple. Animals are simple. Man himself is simple inside himself. In this must lie some explanation for the fact that zoos are crowded on Sundays, and museums which display mounted animals are thronged on weekdays as well as holi¬ days. 1 his fact must explain the popularity of movies which deal with animals, and the lasting popularity ol the exploits of Tarznn of the Apes, the half-animal figure created by Edgar Rice Bur¬ roughs. Man is still a hunter, still a simple searcher alter meat for his growling belly, still a provider tor his helpless mate and cubs, f rom the moment he wakes until the moment he closes his eves, man's prime concern is the business of making a living for himself and his family; hrmxinx home the bacon is the modern equivalent of hanging a curly mammoth over the head with a big sharp rock. Man has found it exceedingly difficult lately to decipher the weird incantations and ceremonies which surround the provision of meat and shelter for his spawn. He is im stifled by the cabalistic signs ol the economist. He does not understand billions ol dollars in relationship to him and his. Rarity bailies him; the administration of ceilings and floors and controls and exercises and sup¬ ports does not satislv his meat-urge or his aesthetic response to the chase, when lhe hunter’s horn of 9

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Ruarh used his pen tis well as his typewriter . On the trip he did his first serioug Author***! sketch of a lion. Trucking simba recalled gnu battle Ruark once had in Italy necessity rouses him. Blit he can understand a lion, heeause a lion is life, in its simplest form — beautiful, menacing, dangerous and attractive to his ego. A lion has always been the symbol of chal¬ lenge, the prototype of personal hazard. You get the lion or the lion gets you. Personnel of the Hunting Party 1 was in Tanganyika, East Africa, getting ready to hunt a lion. Our party consisted of myself, my city-slicker wife Virginia, 15 strange black boys and a professional hunter named Harry Selhy, who was not yet twenty-seven, but he has been an able pro since twenty. Our camp was on a grassy knoll overlooking the Grummetti River. We had pitched the tents the day hetore beneath big thorn acacias. Up the river a leopard sawed. Over the hill a lion spoke. The baboons came to call to sec that we were doing everything right. Halfway between the camp and Harry’s favorite leopard trees was a big anthill, 12 leet high. Somewhere along the marsh there would be a couple ol juvenile twin rhinos, especial friends ol Harry's. We slept late that morning, bone-sore from the three-dav drive that had hrought us to our camp¬ site, and along about eleven o'clock Harry said we’d best go and sight the guns in, We left Mama in the camp to repair the ravages to her heauty. Virginia missed a lot of hunting trips heeause to he* the lure of the beautician is more compelling than that ot the horn ol the hunter. It is no secret that Virginia is considerably hlonder than she was horn. Virginia got her hair hleached many years ago and she was still plati¬ num, even in the Tanganyikan bush. And to stay hlonde when you are hasicallv brunette takes work. It means a weekly anointing with some mysteri¬ ous ju-ju from a hottle. Eridiiy was hair day, and Juma, one of the na¬ tives, using white man’s magic, turned the mem - saab's hair trom black to white. Usually a crowd ol locals trom the nearest village gathered to watch the miracle. We had had a hard time explaining to Juma the nature ol the trick. Harry consulted long with Virginia, and then mapped his lecture in Swahili. He finally got Juma to understand what he was to do. “ Nilio Juma said, wondering at the mad¬ ness of white people, who keep the heads and horns of animals and throw the meat away, who continually court death and disaster lor fun, and whose women wish to look old and therefore change their hair from black to white. Nothing a white man ever does is surprising to the African, unless he docs something that the African ex¬ pects him to do. Our camp was cuddled in the crook of a low mountain’s arm, but behind was plain, a brilliant yellow plain dotted with a bluc-and-white primrosy sort of (lowers. Wherever you looked there was life. Five thousand wildebeest, there. Five thou¬ sand zebra, yonder. Two hundred impala, here. Five hundred Grant’s gazelle, there. A thousand Tommies, a smaller type gazelle, there. A herd of hufTalo on the river. Harry’s twin haby rhinos. A shaggy-necked, clky-looking watcrbuck with his harem in the green reeds. The animals looked at us casually and with little curiosity. We stopped the jeep beneath a thorn- bush for Harry to sight our guns. He sighted them all: the .375, a highly effective lion gun; the .30-06, an American caliber popular for deer and leopards; the .220, a high-velocity var¬ mint gun designed by Winchester; and the big ugly .470 double, a staple for one who would face a charging elephant or rhino. I shot them all after¬ ward. They all seemed to kick. The big ,470 had a push, but it pushed you back two feet. I was be¬ ginning to feel nervous, having rarely shot anything more serious than a shooting-gallery duck with a rifle. These guns seemed to make an awful amount of noise. We climhed back into our jeep and aimed for the camp and lunch. A herd of Grant’s gazelles looked at us and ambled slowly aw?ay, walking gin¬ gerly on seemingly sore feet. “See the old boy, the last one, just over there,” Harry said. “He's an old ram and ahout ready for the hyenas. He’d be tougher than leather and his liver is full of worms and his meat is measly, but the leopards won't care. Get out and wallop him. 7 On .30-06,” he snapped over his shoulder to Ki- dogo. The Nandi gunbearer slid the bolt of the little Remington and handed it to me. I slid out of the car and crawled to an anthill. The jeep went away, One does not shoot from cars in Africa, nor until the vehicle is a good 500 yards away. The game department puts car shooters in jail. I have shot at submarines and I have shot at air¬ planes and I didn't shake, hut now I shook. The sight of the rifle was revolving like a Catherine wheel. I was panting like a sprint horse extended out of class in a distance race. My eyes blurred, I aimed at the gazelle’s shoulder, waited until the rifle stopped leaping, snatched at the trigger and heard the bullet whunk. I aimed at the shoulder, and I hit him in the hind left ankle. Great begin¬ ning, boy, I said. Steady rest on 135 pounds of standing animal and you hit him in the foot. 1 shot five more times, carefully. The last time ! shot he jumped into the hullet which broke his neck. He went over on his horns and the jeep drove up to get me. “Nice shooting,” Harry said. “Nuts,” I said, “It looks like I am a shotgun man.” “You hroke his neck,” Harry said. “I was aiming at his rear,” I said. “It's like that for everybody at first,” Harry said. “The light, you know. Everybody misses at first.” We drove on, and after a while we saw a hyena watching us, his big dog's face mean and sullen, his lion’s ears pricked, scabhy hide ugly in the sun. As we approached he galloped slowly away, his crip¬ pled hindquarters sloping down from his bear’s hody — a dog's head with a lion's ears on a bear’s hody with the hindlegs of a crippled beggar. Spotted and stinking and no friend to anyone. I shot him. I shot him nine times with the .220 Swift. I hit him every time, and every time the hullet splattered on his outside. One time 1 hit him in the face and took away his lower jaw and still he didn't die. He just bled and hegan to snap fruit¬ lessly with half a face at his own dragging guts, 1 spoke my first command in Swahili. "Ttni bandouki m'kubwa” I said. “The big one. Gimme the .470,” The gunbearer snapped the har- rcls onto the elephant gun and slipped a couple of cigar-sized shells into it. I held it on the gory hyena and took his head off. “They say it’s a good woodchuck gun, the .220,” Harry said. “I'm inclined to believe they may be right. But for pigs and hyenas and such it ain’t much gun, is it?” “I just fired it for the last time,” I said. “I wouldn’t even use it on a woodchuck. Or a skunk. Or anything else I had any respect for. Give it to the deserving poor.” Just hefore we got back to camp we remem¬ bered that I was supposed to shoot a Tommy, a small gazelle, for our table. There was a likely- looking one standing and switching his tail. I got out of the jeep with the Remington and shot at him. I shot at him 14 times, and missed every time. My wife killed him three days later. I did not speak much during lunch. I don’t think I ate any, as a matter of fact. All I could think of w'as the fact that the guy who couldn’t hit a Tommy was supposed to shoot a lion. After lunch, leaving Virginia in camp, we drove slowly along the wet edge of the high green reeds and we flushed a herd of watcrbuck, but the bull wasn't much and they're not good eating, anyhow, so we pushed on, and then Kibiriti, one of our boys, said something rapidly in Swahili. “1 he old boy’s come down with one of his hunches,” Harry said. “He’s feeling lion-y. He says that the way the moon is and what with the rains and all and the state ot grass and economics among lions in general, he feels as if a lion ought to he about three miles from here.” “Heaven preserve us!” I said. “Let’s hope this lion-fancier is wrong. Today I would hate to go up against a bull butterfly.” “You’ll change your tunc when you see your first shootahle simba” Harry said, “You'll be aw¬ fully hrave. You’ll probably be so scared you'll mistake fear for bravery and do everything right.” King of Beasts Takes Afternoon Nap Finding the lion was simple. We traveled about three miles. There was a rocky hill alongside a marsh. And there in a clump of thorn w7as a lion, catching a nap in the afternoon sun which slanted under the umbrella tops of the trees and struck some golden sparks from his blackish-yellow hide. Harry unhuttoned the left door from the jeep. He tossed it onto the grass. He said something to Kidogo, the bowlcggcd gunbearer. It sounded like wapi luipa iko simba Jio pandi hi m’kubwa ban¬ douki bwana pig a bloody mugit. I didn’t really lis¬ ten. I was sending my soul away again. I hoped it was at Toots Shor's having a drink with friends. ‘‘We saw a hyena — his big dog's face mean and sullen and bis scabby bide ugly i» the sun Colliers for January 3, 1953

Page 15

fetching since college “We will collect this sin\ba like this,” Harry said sternly, like an overyoung professor lecturing the class. “Kidogo drives the jeep. I sit in the middle. You sit on the outside. We will drive as close as we can without annoying this creature overmuch, and taking care to observe the government’s rule about 500 yards away. When I nudge you, fall out of the jeep. Fall flat and lie still and then we will crawl as close to this simba as we can and when I tell you to shoot him you shoot him. The idea is to get close as you can — less danger of wounding him that way. You wound this chap, old boy, and he gets into those reeds, and wc will all have a very nasty time. I’d not wound him, if I were you. When you've shot him once, shoot him again, and then shoot him once more for insurance. Very sound rule. All set?" Reflections of a Nervous Nimrod I couldn't say anything but yes. Kidogo had taken the telescopic sights ofT the .375. I slid back the bolt and caught the comforting glint of the bul¬ lets in the magazine. There was one in the cham¬ ber. Good-by, Mother, I said to myself. Et up by a lion in the bloom of youth. “Well, let’s go shoot him,’’ I said. “What are we waiting for?" “That’s the spirit," Harry said. The jeep began to roll, Kidogo obeying motions of Harry's hands. We approached the lion devi- I ously. We seemed always to be going away from him, but actually we were growing closer. Kidogo took his foot off the gas. Harry hit me in the ribs with his elbow. I fell out of the jeep. I remem¬ bered to fall with the gun protected and pointing away. Harry tumbled out behind me. He had a dirty, rusty-looking .416 Rigby bolt-action rifle in his hand. He had told me once that it could not hit anything but lions. I was on my belly in the stiff, coarse yellow grass, and the lion was looking enormous now. A lion's hide is not tawny. Jt is ycllowish-black. This one flexed the muscles of his forelegs, hooking his claws, and flicked his back hide to express annoy¬ ance at the camel flies that buzzed around him. I was humping along on my elbows with the gun pushing out ahead of me. I seemed to have done it before. I had done it before — in an Italian town, a long time ago, when a shot spurted at me from out of an alley along the Corso in Bari, and I had fallen to the cobbles clutching and cocking a Walther P-38 which I had bought for a carton of cigarettes from a Scottish paratrooper who had killed a German paratroop Leutnant at Tcrmoli and who had lib¬ erated his sidearm. Some more shots spurted from the alley and I shot back at the shots, moving the P-38 gently from left to right and shooting out the full magazine. No more shots came from the alley. There was nothing in the alley but a dead co¬ belligerent. We used to lose a lot of allies in those days, before we disarmed the cobelligercnts. I was feeling now like the lion was a cobelliger¬ ent in an alley, and the feeling flooded over me as it is when you come in from a long day in the snow, and the fire and the whisky both start working on you at once. The Winchester was as light as the Walther P-38. We were close to the lion now. I could count flics on him. Harry reached back and touched me, pressing me down behind a hummock. The lion turned his head and looked straight at us. He was a little scruffy on top, but he had a fine dark mane below. His feet were as big as Satchel Paige’s feet. His head was as big as a bale of hay. He yawned and I saw he had his right canine teeth broken off. He was huge. “Wallop him," Selby whispered. I got up on one knee and went for just behind his ear. He flopped over like a big dog, kicked once, roared once and stretched out. I never did hear my gun go off. I felt no concussion. Collier’s for January 3, 1953 “This is the biggest lion I ever saw in my life," Harry said. “Also the deadest. But I should slip another one into him just behind that shoulder blade, if I were you. 1 keep telling you, these dead animals are the ones that get up and kill you. Bust him again.” I busted him again. You could tell he was dead from the sound of the bullet hitting him and his bodily reaction to the bullet hitting him. The boys know the script well. They all gave me the special handshake, grasping the thumb, roaring asthmatically, and telling me that I was the onc-shot bwana , the mighty simba player, the pro¬ tector of the poor. I agreed readily and then went over behind a bush and vomited just a little bit. Later I told friends the vomiting was because of something I had eaten disagreeing with me. Then I went to look at my lion. He looked awfully rum¬ pled. A dead lion has no dignity. All the majesty leaks out of him with the blood. He looks like a moth-eaten rug. The top of my lion's brainpan was off. We walked off his measurements and he was ten feet six. That is a lot of lion. His paws were as big as pumpkins. It suddenly occurred to me that I had crawled up on this thing as close as I had to get and when 1 had to shoot him I shot him and didn't wound him and of a sudden the boys were admir¬ ing me and Harry was kidding me and I felt real good. 1 hadn’t spooked. I hadn’t hutched it. I hadn’t looked bad in front of the boys. “I am a hell of a fellow," I said to myself. “I am a slayer of Simba, Lord of the Jungle. And any¬ how I didn’t run or fire into the air. Whisky is indicated." We wrestled the corpse into the back of the jeep, on a matting of rushes so he wouldn’t bleed up the car. I talked a great deal on the drive back to camp, and accepted congratulations freely. One of the camel flies bit me painfully, and I didn't care. I was suddenly free of a great many inhibi¬ tions. Every man has to brace a lion at least once in his life, and whether the lion is a woman or a boss or the prospect of death by disease makes no difference. I had met mine and killed him fairly and saved him from the hyenas which would have had him in a year or so if one of his sons didn't assassinate him first. Celebrating (with Tips) at the Camp When we hit the camp the boys knew. They surged over the jeep and me and mauled us all and waited for the monev tip to the whole camp. They did a sedate lion dance and ran me for aider- man of metropolitan Ikoma. 1 went down to the tent to collect the hero's bride. She was taking a nap. “Get up, you Iaz\ gal," 1 said. “While you are sleeping your life away I have been out slaying lions and protecting the honest poor. Come and see what Father done done with his gun. And bring your camera." Virginia came with the camera. We posed the defunct simba suitably, his chin arrogantly on a rock. The blacks told me again that I was one hell of a bwana. Then the lion's e\es opened. Then his ears twitched. 1 hen he uttered a grunt. Then 1 found myself alone with a lion and Mr. Selby. The admirers had achieved trees. 1 am not ashamed to say I shot my simba once more in the back of the neck. Like Harry says, it’s the dead ones get up and kill you. He sure to pet next week's Collier's so l lint you won't miss the second exciting chapter of Robert Ruark's African safari . The articles are part of a hook to be published in the spring by Doubleday 11

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Lois was at Smith. She and Sonia talked about school, and Lois asked questions about what it was like to work for an advertising agency. I AS FRANK CRAWFORD had expected, Sonia IJL was dressed and waiting when he arrived at ^ her apartment. She looked very lovely. She was small, and she had a thin face, with high cheek¬ bones and very large, gray eyes, it was an unusual, exotic sort of lace, and Crawford was in love with it; but now he wished for the first time that it was a little more ordinary, a little less different. “Do I look all right?” she asked. “You look beautiful.” Fie sat down in the easy chair in one corner of the room. “The cab’s wait¬ ing,” he said, “blit we have time for a drink.” “You want a drink?” Crawford nodded. He was a big man, with a square, heavy, intelligent face which impressed clients of the advertising agency for which he worked. “A drink is just what I do want,” he said. He sighed and lighted a cigarette. Sonia stood staring at him. “Do you think he'll like me?” she asked. She was wearing a new' dress, cut low in front. “Of course he'll like you.” She laughed apprehensively. “I'm scared,” she said. “1 didn't think I’d be seared.” “You look beautiful,” Crawford said. “And stop being scared.” When she w'ent into the kitchen to mix the drinks, Crawford closed his eyes. It was ten o’clock, and already it had been an eventful evening. He felt tired and a little confused. “Where are we going to meet them?” Sonia called from the kitchen. “A place on Fifty-third Street,” Crawford said. 12 Crawford had postponed Ids own happiness for years, for Ton se He did not open his eyes. “A bar Tom suggested.” Sonia came back into the room. “What is he like, Frank?” she said. Crawford stood up and took a glass from her. “He’s a nice kid/' he said. “He’s very nice. I told you all about him.” “1 know. But it doesn’t help much.” “No,” Crawford said. He smiled wryly. “I guess not.” “1 thought you didn’t want me to meet him yet?” she asked, as she sat down across from Crawford. There was something appealing about her posture and the stare she directed at him. She seemed fragile, as though she might he easily hurt. “I thought you were going to wait until sometime this summer?” she said. “1 was,” Crawford said. He frowned. “It was Tom’s idea. He surprised me." He might have explained further. He considered doing so, but it would have been far too difficult in the time that they had, and, besides, he was not certain that it was one of those things you can explain. He finished his drink quickly. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s not keep the cab waiting.” As he settled against the cushions in the back seat of the taxi, he looked across at Sonia and won¬ dered what she must he thinking. She knew only the barest outline of what had happened, after all. It was not much for her to go on. IT HAD all started with Tom’s call earlier that same evening, at a little before six. Crawford had been working late, and he was just about to leave the office when the telephone rang. The familiar voice, and the information that his son was in New York, had been something of a shock. Tom was nineteen and in his second year at Yale. Craw¬ ford had had no reason to expect that he would be in town that week end. They had not said very much over the telephone. Crawford had arranged to meet the boy for dinner at Christ Celia's; and then, realizing that he would have to break his engagement with Sonia, he had called and explained the situation to her. “Will he be here for the whole week end?” she had asked, her voice sounding faraway and faintly apprehensive. “I don t know,” he had said. “I didn’t really IllUSTRATEC

Page 17

i lired Sonia’s dress. Suddenly, with a feeling of surprise, Crawford realized that they were all relaxed — that they were having a good tinir And now he was afraid to face Tom with his decision have much of a chance to talk to him just now.” “You don’t think there’s anything wrong?” “No,” he had said. “I don’t think so.” There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line. “All right. I’ll be here all evening. You can call me if you do get away.” “Look, I don’t think I will,” he had said. “Don’t stay in, if you don’t want to. There’s that cocktail party at the Harveys’ you told me about.” “I’ll be here,” she had said. “I’ll call you sometime during the evening.” “All right.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t say that. Just have a good time.” He had hung up, feeling guilty. It was not, he reflected, an unusual situation, and the fact that he felt guilty surprised him. Tom knew about Sonia. He knew that Crawford was going to marry her sometime the following fall, in September or Octo¬ ber, after the divorce was final. Crawford had told the boy all about it six months earlier, and Tom had understood as well as could be expected. Crawford had been in love with Helen when he married her; but that seemed very long ago, and that girl was hard to remember. For her part, it seemed, Helen had never been in love with him. After the first couple of years, the complete fail¬ ure of the marriage had been apparent to both of them. It had only been a matter of time. If it had not been for Tom and the necessity of protecting him, it would have been simple. They would probably have separated years before. From the first, Crawford had been devoted to his son, a little too much so, perhaps; and Helen — who was, herself, the product of a broken marriage — shrank neurotically from the idea of letting the boy ex¬ perience the sort of thing she had known in her own childhood. It was an attitude that Crawford might have admired in her, if he had not realized that it had little to do with the boy himself, for whom, he suspected, she had never cared a great deal. They had decided that divorce could wait until Tom was grown-up enough so that it couldn’t hurt him too badly. It had been the right decision, Crawford felt, and they had held to it. Crawford had known Sonia for some time, but he had been in love with her for less than a year. By JOHN CAMPBELL SMITH The divorce had been agreed on by then, although Tom had not known about it. CRAWFORD was jolted from his recollection of the early part of the evening, as the cab he and Sonia were riding in turned a corner sharply, throw¬ ing her against him for a moment. He smelled her perfume, a faint, subtle odor that seemed to ex¬ hale from her hair. In a little while she would be meeting Tom for the first time, a meeting Craw¬ ford had not expected when the boy had called earlier that evening. Crawford cleared his throat. “Remember, he's only nineteen,” he said. He blushed. “He's re¬ markably grown-up in some respects, but . . .” Sonia smiled, reached out and took his hand. “You say it was his idea, my meeting him tonight?” she said. He nodded. “It's funny,” he said. “1 guess 1 still sort of think of him as a sixtccn-ycar-old. The whole thing was kind of a shock.” He stared thoughttully at the back of their driver's head. “It shouldn't have been, 1 suppose ” , “You were the one who told me not to worry.” she said gently. “Remember?” He looked at her familiar, lovely face, and he knew what she must be thinking. He loved those thin, alert features, and — reading the half-formu- 13 WELL KELLER

Page 18

14 latcd question in her eyes — he felt sorry. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.” “We’re meeting them at a place on Fifty-third Street?” “Uh-huh.” Automatically, nervously, he glanced at his wrist watch. It was only a little after ten. They would be there by ten thirty. AFTER his telenhone conversation with Sonia, . Crawford had left his office and gone straight to the restaurant. Tom had been waiting for him. Now, thinking back to it. Crawford could see that dinner had been a somewhat strained affair from the beginning. Sitting across from the boy, he had felt awkward and, for some reason, at a subtle disadvantage. Tom’s thin face had been relaxed and expressionless as he studied the menu. “Have the steak,” Crawford said. “If you’re really hungry.” The boy lowered the menu. “Sounds all right,” he said. “I think I'll have a drink first, though.” Crawford glanced up at him. He hesitated and then said quickly, in a voice that he hoped did not reflect his surprise, “A drink might not be a bad idea. What are von going to have?” “A Martini,” Toni said. “We ll make it two Martinis.” The boy lighted a cigarette, and Crawford said slowly, “Have you heard anything from your mother?” “A letter. She said she was enjoying herself.” Crawford was uncomfortably aware that he did not really have anything to say on the subject. He nodded. “She always liked Florida.” he said. “When will the divorce be final?” the boy asked casually. “May. The end of May.” “It takes a long time, doesn’t it?” “Not so long,” Crawford said, “when you think about it.” Again he felt awk- w'ard, big compared to the boy sitting across from him. Tom was like his mother, thin, fine-boned. “Divorce is a pretty serious business,” Crawford said, sounding hopelessly parental and platitu¬ dinous to himself, hopelessly inadequate. “I guess so,” Tom said. The waiter arrived with the Martinis. Crawford sipped his. “What brings you to New York right now?” he asked, try¬ ing to make it seem casual. “Fm sur¬ prised you could break away. Any special reason for the trip?” He waited, unable to dispel a slight anxiety. Tom’s answer, when it came, was un¬ expected. “I came up with a girl,” the boy said. “Her name is Fois Hunter. She’s from Michigan, and she’s never been to New York before. I met her at a dance.” “A girl?” lorn smiled. “She has an aunt who lives here,” he said. “Lois is at her house now. Fm picking her up later. You might say Fm showing her the town.” “I see,” Crawford said. He digested the information. “Maybe* you’d like to meet her?” C rawford thought about it. “It might he nice,” he said and frowned. “Yes,” he said, “1 think I would, Tom.” “She goes to Smith. Fve known her for almost a year. She’s a very interesting girl.” "Uh-huh,” Crawford said. “1 m picking her up at about eight,” Tom said, “and then we re thinking ol going to a bar that a friend ol mine at school recommended, a place on Fifty-third Street." He smiled. “Fois is a year older than I am. She s twenty, but she looks even older than that. And Fve never had much trouble get¬ ting served. The guy said this was a pretty nice bar,” Crawford had the feeling, suddenly, that he really did not know very much about his son. It was dis¬ turbing. “You look old enough,” he said. There was a pause. Tom sipped his Martini. “Look,” he said, “maybe you might like to bring someone along? How about it?” “Bring someone?” Crawford asked. “Yeah.” “You mean Sonia?” It seemed to Crawford that he was becoming inured to surprise. “Is that her name?” Tom said. “Sounds ro¬ mantic.” Crawford lighted a cigarette. He realized that when he had told his son about Sonia he had never, for some reason, referred to her by name. He had spoken of the woman he was in love with and wanted to marry. “Sonia Roman,” he said. “Her parents were Russian. Roman's the Anglicization of the family name.” “It seems like a good chance for me to meet her,” Tom said, “Better than one of these formal occa¬ sions.” There was another pause. “I suppose 1 could call her,” Crawford said, con¬ sidering the idea. “She works at the agency, doesn’t she?” “She works in the art department,” Crawford said. “She’s a very intelligent, very charming woman. I hope you’ll like her, Tom.” “How old is she?” “She's thirty-two,” “You want to call her up? We could meet at that place on Fifty-third?” “I could,” Crawford said. There seemed to be no good reason he could think of why he shouldn’t. He drained his glass. “I’ll call her after we finish dinner.” For a moment, he had wondered whether Sonia would he in. She might have gone to the She had heen very lovely. Bui, for a moment, he had wished that she looked a little more ordinary cocktail party at the Harveys’, after all. For just a moment, he had hoped that she would not be there to answer the telephone. But she had been there, as she had told him she would he. He had explained to her briefly what had happened, too briefly for it to mean much. He told her that he would get a cab and pick her up at her apartment. 1VFOW the cab was nearly at Fifty-third Street, and Crawlord found it hard to believe that less than two hours had passed since his conversation with the boy. It had seemed more than that, “We used to go fishing a lot,” he told Sonia, try¬ ing to make her understand how it had always been between him and his son. “Up to Canada some¬ times. Tom was crazy about it. Helen never cared much for that sort of life, and there were a couple of times when just Tom and I went. We had a great time. Tom’s quite a boy.” “He would seem to be, from your description,” she said. She smiled. “You must have been quite a father.” Crawford laughed. “A stereotype,” he said. They were at Forty-second Street, almost there. “Hell,” he said, “he’s grown-up. 1 guess I’m just getting used to the fact.” “Is it hard?” He did not answer. After a moment, though, he reached out and put his arm around her shoul¬ der. He wondered what the girl with Tom was like. She was pretty. She had dark hair and a nice smile and a soft, low voice. She looked, Crawford thought, like the sort of girl you might see playing tennis on a college campus — or the way you im¬ agine such a girl should be. She looked nice. Tom introduced her, and Crawford introduced Sonia. It was awkward and formal for a few min¬ utes. Then they all sat down. Both Tom and the girl already had drinks in front of them. Crawford ordered a Scotch and soda for himself and a Tom Collins for Sonia, and they all discussed what they liked to drink for a few minutes. Crawford won¬ dered whether the girl's parents knew she drank. She did not drink very much, she told them, only occasionally; but she liked whisky sours. Crawford was glad when his drink arrived. They discussed New York, and then they talked about a play that Tom and Fois were going to the following night. Crawford and Sonia had already seen it. The bar was dim and pleasant. Crawford kept trying to judge everyone’s reactions: Tom's, Lois’s, Sonia’s, It was hard. IOIS was in her last year at Smith. iShe and Sonia talked of school, and Lois asked questions about what it was like working for an advertising agency. They had another round of drinks. Lois admired Sonia’s dress. Suddenly, with a feeling of surprise, Crawford realized that they were all relaxed, having a good time. He lighted a cigarette and leaned hack in his chair. Both Tom and Lois were laughing at something amusing that Sonia had said. Crawford looked at Sonia. He felt a warm surge of affec¬ tion for her. He enjoyed, he discovered, sitting across from his son drinking Scotch; and the fact that he had not known earlier in the evening that the boy drank seemed incredible. He was quite a boy, he thought. And the girl was pretty. That pleased him. Tom should have a pretty girl. He had been shocked earlier by the discovery that there were things about his son of which he was not aware. He had been afraid of this meeting and of what might happen; but now he saw that he had been mistaken, that nothing was changed. It was just that Tom was older than he had given him credit for being. On an impulse Crawford leaned for¬ ward. “Just a suggestion,” he said, “but when wc finish these, how would every¬ one feel about finding some place where we could dance?” He waited. “It doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Tom said. He looked at the girl. She nodded. “Sonia?” Crawford asked, turning to her. “If everyone else would like to. I think it would be nice.” She was, Crawford thought, very lovely. He smiled at her. There was a moment, when they were waiting on the pavement outside for a cab, when Tom and Crawford were alone, lost in their own conversa¬ tion. Lois and Sonia had moved a few feet away. “I like her, Dad,” Tom said softly. “Sonia. I can see why you want to marry her.” Crawford looked at him. His son’s face was serious, mature, strangely unlike that of a boy. “Thanks,” Crawford said. It seemed to him, in the cab, that the city was Collier’s for January 3, 1933

Page 19

beautiful and fascinating. He had not felt that way about New York in years, not sinee, as a young man, he had thought of the city as a challenge, a testing ground, something against which to pit his strength. It was an illusion, but it was an illusion worth the having. He glanced at Tom and won¬ dered how he felt about it. Crawford had eomc to New York from a small town in Pennsylvania. Tom's background was different. He had been born here, and the city might not mean the same thing to him. It probably did, though, Crawford thought. He hoped that it did. He had suggested a place that he knew' to be quiet, a place he thought Tom and Sonia would like. Although he had not been there in some time, it was still pretty much as he had remembered it. THEY danced. Crawford danced with Sonia, and once or twice he danced with Tom’s girl. He was sitting at the table with Lois, admiring the way Tom and Sonia danced, when the girl said, “You know. I’m glad to have had this chance to meet you, Mr. Crawford. Both of you. I think you’re very niee,” Crawford smiled at her. “Well, thank you,” he said. “Tom’s told me a lot about you, about the whole situation. He’s on your side in all this. He really is.” For a moment Crawford was confused, and then he wondered whether she might be a little drunk. “We talked it over,” he said. “I think Tom understands it all.” “He’s sort of mixed up,” she said, “but that’s to be expeeted. It’s hard growing up with confused feelings toward your parents, knowing that they hate eaeh other. Tom told me about how he used to think it was your fault, and how he felt about you.” Crawford stared at the girl. “The psychiatrist he’s going to at school has really cleared up a lot,” she said. “Psychiatrist?” Crawford repeated. He felt dazed, as though suddenly he had had too mueh to drink. She blushed. “You knew, didn’t you?” she asked. He might have lied, but he had the feeling that she would have known. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t know about it.” She looked bewildered and contrite. “I thought you knew,” she said. “He’s been going for over a year, now.” She stared at him. “He used to have erying spells.” Crawford was watching Tom and Sonia. Tom was smiling, and Sonia was laughing at something he had just said. “It’s sort of a surprise,” Craw¬ ford said. He spoke slowly. “He’s over most of that now,” Lois said. “He’s really pretty well adjusted.” The number had ended. Tom and Sonia started back to the table. Crawford summoned a smile. “Let’s not say anything about it, shall we?” he said. “Since Tom hasn't mentioned it.” He felt a little bit sorry for the girl’s embarrassment. • Sonia sat down, and Tom asked Lois to dance, Crawford ordered another drink. “They seem so young,” Sonia said. “They’re very nice, really.” “Yes.” Crawford watched the way Tom held the girl in his arms. It was a slow number, and they danced well, “They do seem young,” he said. “Very young.” “Is anything wrong?” “I’m a little tired.” He turned to her and smiled. “Maybe they’d like to be alone,” he said. “Maybe,” she said. “You’re certain nothing’s wrong?” “Certain,” he said. “Do you think he likes me?” “I’m pretty sure he does,” Crawford said. “They both do.” “I think he does, Frank,” she said. “I really do.” Tom protested when Crawford told him that he and Sonia were leaving. Crawford overrode him. “You two stay here,” he said with a smile, “or Collier’s for January 3, 1953 find some more places. Explore if you want to. The evening’s young.” He looked at lorn inquir¬ ingly. “You have your key to the apartment?” Tom nodded. “Well, you can find your way home then, t won't wait up for you.” He hesitated and then smiled. “Don't get drunk.’’ I hey found a cab, and C rawford gave the driver the address of Sonia’s apartment. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt tired. “I think it was a success.” Sonia said. He looked at her. It had nothing to do with her, he thought. It was not her fault. For a moment, He told me , the girl had said, how he used to think it was your fault though, she seemed a stranger, someone he did not know. “Yes, I think it was,” he said. He saw the girl leaning forward aeross the ta¬ ble. Tom told me about how he used to think it was your fault , and how he felt about you. Crawford lighted a cigarette. He was remember¬ ing other times Tom had come home, remembering back to when the boy was sixteen, and the feeling he had had about him then, of responsibility, of his own strength compared to the boy's, of the ability to protect him from all the dangers of a complex and labyrinthian world in which it was easy to lose one's way, a world in which the sign¬ posts were not easily read, or had decayed and fallen. He glanced out of the window, and for a mo¬ ment the eity seemed bewildering, not fascinat¬ ing and wonderful as it had earlier, but strange, dark and menacing. Sonia looked at him. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” she said softly. “No,” he said. “No, there’s nothing wrong.” “But you act as though something was wrong,” she told him. HE DID not answer. After a moment she said hesitantly, "Do you want to come up for a while?” He felt that there was an appeal in the words. “It’s still early,” she said. She looked as though she might cry. “Not tonight. I'm pretty tired.” “All right.” He reached out and took her hand, surprised that it should be so warm. He had failed his son, failed him a long time ago, without knowing it. He thought of the boy’s crying spells, which he had never suspected, just as he had never suspected that Tom might be going to a psychiatrist. Tom was on his own, finding his own way. He had had to find his own way for a long time. “She's a nice girl, isn't she?” he said. “Lois. She seems pretty nice.” “I liked her. I liked both of them.” When they reached the apartment, Crawford 15 kissed Sonia quickly. I’ll call you in the morn¬ ing *’ he said. She nodded. He watched her dart across the sidew.dk and into the entrance of the building She turned and waved, and he thought that she looked t ro i f . a thin, vulnerable figure aga nst the solid mass of the apartment house. He waved back, and then he gave the driver his address. He considered the evening He saw that his failure was something he would have to accept. He eould not think of anything he might have done that would have changed things. It was in the past, and the truth was that lom had understood more than Craw lord would have believed. He told me about how he used to think it was vour fault arid how he felt about you. I he girl's words returned again — words that were an explanation of so much, of the evening, of the things about his son he had not suspected. Crawford smiled wryly. The boy was older than he had known, older than most boys of nine¬ teen. His knowledge had brought him maturity. Crawford remembered loin’s lace as they had stood on the pavement outside of the first bar they had gone to, the lace that had seemed to him so unlike that ot a boy. / like her. Dad. S onto. I can see why you want to marry her. It had been as though he were giving his approval. Craw lord had felt relieved. Yes, that was what he had wanted, his son’s ap¬ proval, the knowledge that he understood, lie’s on your side in all this , the girl had said. Craw lord had forgotten that part of her conversation. It came back, now, together with the memory ol Tom's face as he had stood there, staring at his father. He had been sincere, Crawford realized, as the girl had been sincere. IT CAME as a surprise, the idea that knowledge, which ean hurt, might, in the end, be of value. It was true that Tom was on his own. that their relationship had never been what Crawtord had imagined it to be, that he had failed his son. But it was also true that Tom did not blame him for what had happened. He had passed beyond that stage; he understood more than Crawford had until that evening. The boy was young, but he had made a good beginning, as good, perhaps. Crawford realized, with vague astonishment, as eould have been expected. Slowly, Crawford took out a cigarette. This was a beginning, he saw, a beginning rather than an end. He saw, suddenly, that a new relation¬ ship was possible, better than the imaginary one which had never existed, one in which he accepted the truth: that Tom was on his own, finding his own way, as Tom had. after all. accepted the facts about him and Sonia. Crawford became aware of a faint perfume that still lingered in the hack of the cab and of a mem¬ ory that he had been try ing to suppress, the mem¬ ory of Sonia’s face as she said. Do yon want to come up for a while? It's still early. Her lips had trembled. It had not been her fault, and she had not known what was wrong. He thought of that moment earlier in the evening when he had walked into her apartment and she had asked him, stand¬ ing uncertainly in the center of the room. Do you think he'll like me? She had been very lovely, but he had wished, for a moment, that she looked a little more ordi¬ nary, a little less different. I'm scared , she had said. / didn't think I’d he scared. He saw her standing in front of the apartment building, wav¬ ing to him; a thin, vulnerable figure. He leaned forward. “I ll get out here,” he said. The cab pulled over to the curb, and he paid the man. He walked quickly. It was a cold night, cold and damp, and there were a few scattered patches of snow at the sides ot the pavement, tt was late February, but as he walked back toward Sonia's apartment, Crawford had a sudden feeling of im¬ pending change. It was undefined, as yet, only a promise; but it seemed to him as though winter were almost over, that soon it would he spring, and the days would be longer.

Page 20

Field Marshal Von Rundstedfs Own Story ( Al last, after eight years, here is the German side of the vieious slrm'i'le in (lie Anh'iines Forest — the aeeomil of the senior military lea<ler of the Third Kricli who exeeuted Hitler's Imelv-lo-lhe-wall oll’ensivi* of 1911 — the franlie gamble to drive the Allies out ol Europe Bv GUENTHER BLUMENTIIITT j General of the Infantry, Germany, Retired IT WAS December 12, 1944, at Adolf Hitler’s new headquarters 100 miles behind the west¬ ern I rent. German armies were hard pressed in both east and west. And when we generals and high stall ollicers assembled in Hitler’s mountain¬ side retreat overlooking the Ziegcnberg Valley, most of us had no inkling that we were about to re¬ ceive orders to launch only four days later the last great German push in the west- — the offensive Al¬ lied historians were to label “the Battle of the Bulge.” Hitler still showed the effects of the nearly suc¬ cessful bombing attempt on his life the previous July 20th. He seemed near collapse. His shoulders drooped. His left arm shook as he walked to a card table. He sat down at the tabic w ith a grimace, as if it hurt. His opening words to us were halting and weak. It was only after he had been speaking some min¬ utes that he began to take on strength. He spoke for an hour, and the sense of what he said was: “Germany, located in the center of Europe and surrounded on all sides, can prevent collapse not through defense, but only by attack. . . . We must break out of the fortress Germany by making a decisive attack from both sides of the Eifcl moun¬ tains across the River Meuse on Antwerp. Thus there is a chance that we can strike the Allied troops in southern Holland and Belgium a decisive blow. Our main goal is to encircle the mass of Eng¬ lish and the northern wing of the Americans in the area cast of Aachen and north of the Albert Canal. The recapture of Antwerp is important, because this great port is the base of supply for the enemy. “If this operation succeeds, the western front will be shortened, and we will be able to effect a saving in our forces. These new reserves can then be used for further operations in the west later. “I want you to understand the importance of this decision. Every troop unit is to strike forward as swiftly as possible, without regard for its flanking units. It is necessary to show the enemy that we are not yet at the end of our resources, and that we still have the power to strike swift blows. 1 am sure of success, and this success will not be without effect on the British and American people. “The attack will begin at 0630 hours on Decem¬ ber 1 6th.” As Hitler saw it, the offensive was to be a blitz¬ krieg all over again — a lightning thrust against an outnumbered enemy, a move exploited by our overwhelming superiority in tanks. For the attack. Hitler was going to make avail¬ able crack units comprising 500,000 men — far more than the Americans had in this thinly held sector. He also was going to mass 1,000 tanks and tank destroyers against the 300 we believed the Americans had. In addition he was going to bring up batteries of rocket launchers never before used on the western front, and employ V-l guided mis¬ siles for the first time in a tactical operation. Hitler had ordered to be collected and carefully trained a force of saboteurs to operate in American uniforms behind the American lines. Rcichsmar- shal Hermann Goring, chief of our air force, had promised 3,000 airplanes; actually he provided 800, the largest number he had mustered in one fleet since before the Allied invasion of Normandy the previous June. Finally, the Fuehrer had moved up what with¬ out doubt he considered the greatest and most in¬ comparable German weapon of all: himself. He had come from the eastern front only six days earlier to mastermind this critical operation. With this impressive superiority of men and arms. Hitler believed the operation could not fail. The atmosphere was tense as Hitler finished out¬ lining the offensive to us. No one spoke. Field Marshal Karl Gerd von Rundstedt, commander in chief on the western front, looked pessimistic. Field Marshal Walter Model, commander of Army Group B, which was to lead the attack, appeared to be thinking furiously. But there was nothing any of us could do at this late date to persuade Hitler to alter his plans. The die had been cast. The West has since named the Battle of the Ar¬ dennes the “Rundstedt Offensive.” It is an erro¬ neous label. Hitler planned the operation against repeated opposition from his generals. Rundstedt not only did not take part in the original planning, but he opposed the move when he heard about it. Later he was to describe the operation in these terms: “It was a nonsensical operation, and the stupidest part of it was the setting of Antwerp as Throughout ray life, 1 have opposed lmieli writing. I still hold to this principle. Only with time will truth emerge. As more and more professional soldiers write about the Battle of the Ardennes (the Bulge) it will be astonishing to note that propa¬ ganda has mistakenly established as fact several falsehoods about the battle. At the urging of Collier’s, 1 have for the first time given »ny permission for the au¬ thor to write this factual report. I have read the treatise and it coincides with my opinion of the events. Nothing can be beautified or excused. Unfortunately, all of us make mistakes. Collier’s for January 3, 1953

Page 21

* BATTLE of the BULGE its target. Let alone try to reach Antwerp, we should have got down on our knees and thanked God if we had reached as far as the Meuse/’ Hitler had started planning the Ardennes offen- sivc back in August, when the German western front was being battered by the Allied forces that poured onto the Continent after the June invasion. As early as June, both Rundstedt and Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had sent Hitler, then in his field headquarters in East Prussia, behind the eastern front, extraordinarily sharp criticisms of the situation in the west. These documents are to¬ day in the hands of the Western Powers, But from East Prussia, Hitler could not form a real opinion of the situation in the west. He could not — nor did he wish to — believe that the weight of men and material from Britain and the United States was as overpowering as reported to him time and again. He could not imagine that the Al¬ lies had absolute air superiority in the west over the disappearing Lujtwa0e. Hitler Disparaged Allied Strength He did not, or could not, form a picture of the abundance of the Western Powers in technical know-how, munitions, material and fuel. He would not concede that division after division of the Ger¬ man army in the west had simply melted away, while the Allies had strong, rested, well-trained divisions. As a result, during the battles in the west after the Normandy invasion, the Fuehrer had busied himself entirely with the idea of a counteroffensive. Throughout the Germans’ fighting withdrawal of June, July and August, the commanders in the west had received urgent instructions from Hitler to undertake a new offensive. He hoped thereby to halt the Allied advance, and win time to make the disarmed “west wall” defensible. In August, he apparently became convinced that the fighting west of Germany’s western frontier was only a battle for time. He therefore changed his plans somewhat. He decided that his armies should pull back to the German frontier, where they could form a comparatively solid, short front. Hitler thus hoped for a breathing spell, during which he could bring up new units from inside Ger¬ many. After that, he planned to launch a new offensive to seize the initiative lost since the in¬ vasion. Hitler’s plans, by a strange twist of fate, seemed to have been made more feasible by the Allies themselves. To the astonishment of the German military commanders in the west, the ferocity of the Allied attack slackened sharply during Sep¬ tember. At that time, of course, the Germans didn't know why. They assumed there were differ¬ ences of opinion among the Allies concerning the conduct of future operations, or perhaps difficulties in bringing up reinforcements. Or, they theorized, maybe the Allies thought new German units had been brought up along the “west wall.” (EDITOR'S NOTE: The real reason for the slackening oj the Allied attack in September, 1944 , was the fact that the Allied artnies, especially Lieu - tenant General George S. Patton, Jr.'s, American Third , had run to the extreme limits oj their supply lines. They had to stop to let their supplies catch up with them.) Field Marshal Model was Commander in Chief West as well as commander of Army Group B at this time. Rundstedt had been retired temporarily from the over-all command in June by Hitler, who was irritated at Rundstedt's reports following the Normandy invasion. It was obviously impossible, in the critical Collier’s for January 3, 1953 INTERNATIONAL Hitler and Von Rundstedt map details of Battle of the Bulge — Germany’s last lilit/.krieg

Page 22

18 The Allies had a hand in bringing on the Bulge. The Nazis9 front teas crumbling , btiV About ^ f RU1VDSTEDT and BLEMEIVTRITT BLl MENTR1TT Guenther Bluinentritt was a brilliant professional soldier who became RundsiedGs closest friend. Early in World War II he was chief of staff for German forces fighting the Russians. Late in 1942 he was transferred to the western front and subsequently became Rnndstedt’s chief of staff. During the Battle of the Bulge, he was a field commander of infantry in tile northern sector. Bluinentritt was known for his wit and for openly criticizing Hitler at a time when it was dangerous to do so. Since the war, Rundstedt has li>ed on a small pension in a walk-up flat in Hannover, alone since the recent death of his wife. He has granted no inter¬ views and permitted only Bluinentritt to write for him. A strong bond ex¬ ists between the two men. Says Blumen- tritt: “The field marshal and 1 are going to show the world that here are two friends that can’t be separated.” VON RUNDSTKDT situation at the front, for Model to con¬ tinue at the head of both a strategic com¬ mand and a tactical one. So Lieutenant General Siegfried Westphal, Chief of Staff to C-in-C VVes't, asked Hitler to re¬ instate Rundstedt. Hitler, after some in¬ decision, said he would do so, provided Model agreed. The latter replied, “That is the best solution.” Rundstedt came out of retirement in Bad Tolz, Bavaria, in September and re¬ turned to the Western Command. Crumbling German Battle Lines Rundstedt’s first assumption on his re¬ turn was that the Allies would gather their power for a strike through the center of the western front against Aachen, and to the northeast through the Ruhr toward Berlin. The German front was ragged and broken at many points. The condition of many divisions was serious. The “west wall bluff,” as Rundstedt described it, was barely manned, and technically indefen¬ sible. On the west bank of the Rhine, there were no sizable German units. The eastern bank of the Rhine was neither for¬ tified nor manned. The route to the Ruhr and through the north German plains to Berlin was — for all practical purposes — wide open. As the Germans saw it, the Schwerpnnkt, or real strong point, was in northwest Germany, protecting the arms industry and the North Sea ports. But the expected Allied break-through did not come in September. Instead, the slackening of the Allied attack gave Hitler grist for his mill. Hitler’s personal headquarters staff worked on plans for the Ardennes offensive, which was to be given the code word, “Watch on the Rhine,” all through Au¬ gust, September and October. Yet the military commanders in the west who were to carry out the campaign were told nothing of the preliminary work. Instead Rundstedt was intent during this period on drawing up his armies into a solid, compara¬ tively short front, running generally from Antwerp, along the Albert Canal, past Aachen, Trier, Metz, Luneville, and west past Belfort to the Swiss fron¬ tier. He hoped his troops would have some rest and a chance to build fortifications during Septem¬ ber and October. At the same time he planned to form all remaining Panzer units into a reserve which could be thrown into the line at whatever point the Allies chose to renew the attack. But, Rundstedt told his staff, all these purely military efforts were useless unless Germany’s po¬ litical leadership used the time gained to do some political tacking. “In this situation,” he said, “the soldier can do nothing but buy time for the political leadership to negotiate. He can do nothing but preserve the mili¬ tary power as much as possible.” Such talk was an open invitation to disaster for a German commander. Hitler w'as morbidly sus¬ picious of all his generals. Every headquarters was honeycombed with his spies and informers. Usu¬ ally, it was only in his own small sitting room that Rundstedt would speak freely to his intimates of the hopelessness of the situation. On October 24th, Rundstedt’s chief of staff, Westphal. and Model’s chief of staff, General Hans Krebs, were called to Hitler’s headquarters in East Prussia. Both men were expecting promises of new troops to stop up the holes in the west. Instead they were instructed to sign special security oaths before the talks began. Then, for the first time, they were told of Hitler’s plans for the Ardennes offensive. The two chiefs of staff returned to their head¬ quarters on October 26th and informed their com¬ manders of the completely new situation. As Westphal outlined Hitler’s grandiose scheme, Rundstedt fingered his marshal’s baton and ex¬ pressed astonishment. Model also refused to be¬ lieve the report of his chief of staff. But both Westphal and Krebs insisted that there was no chance of Hitler changing his mind. Hitler did promise Rundstedt he would move in a new army group to strengthen Model’s Army Group B, in the middle, for the attack. And Hitler’s order went on: “Goal of the operation is to achieve a turnabout in the western campaign by annihilation of the enemy forces north of the line Antwerp-Brussels- Luxembourg. I am prepared to carry through the operation, taking into account the greatest possi¬ ble risk, even if an enemy attack on either side of Metz and the expected strike for the Ruhr should lead to great losses of terrain and fortifications.” Rundstedt was pleased at the prospect of rein¬ forcements, but warned he could promise no re¬ sults with the planned offensive. “The last word hasn't been said,” he declared. He pointed out that Antwerp could never be reached, and insisted there weren't enough troops at hand to secure the flanks for an operation ex¬ tended this far. If an offensive were to be under¬ taken, he said, it must be tailored to fit the troops available. Hitler wanted a big solution; his generals at the front more realistically counterproposed a small solution. Both Rundstedt and Model sent communications to Hitler outlining their small solution. They had General Hasso von Ylanteuffel, commanding the Fifth Panzer Army, do the same. At Rundstedt’s request, Colonel General Alfred Jodi, operations chief for the Wehrmacht General Staff, visited the field marshal's headquarters at Ziegenberg. There Rundstedt outlined his objections to the Fuehrer’s plan, and then presented his own idea. In the area east of Aachen, along the Roer in the Monschau-Dueren-Juelich area, and then west to Geilenkirchen, there were strong American and British units, estimated to total between 10 and 15 divisions, most of them from the U.S. Ninth Army and the U.S. First Army. Since these units had bulged out far to the east of the rest of the front, they were ripe for a pincers movement. Rundstedt’s plan w'as for the Fifth Pan¬ zer Army and the Sixth SS Panzer Army, plus units of the Seventh Army, to strike west toward Namur, on the River Meuse, where a defensive line would be estab¬ lished. The Sixth SS Panzer Army would then turn right. Meanwhile, the Twelfth SS Corps, with two infantry divisions, one tank division and one grenadier (elite in¬ fantry) division, would march south from Geilenkirchen, with the western flank aimed at Maastricht, where it would link up with the Sixth SS Panzer Army fighting downriver from Liege. If successful, the maneuver would encircle the United States Ninth Army. But all arguments w'ere in vain. Hitler’s answer to Rundstedt was contained in a brief message from Jodi: “The Fuehrer has decided that the op¬ eration is in every detail unalterable.” Later Rundstedt’s staff heard that Hit¬ ler was highly incensed when he heard of the field marshal’s small solution; he charged his Western Command lacked daring and had turned defeatist. Nor did Hitler change his plans in No¬ vember, when the German Western Com¬ mand had its hands full trying to ward off renewed Allied attacks, or when, late that month, the Allies broke through to the Rhine near Strasbourg. Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny, who had acquired some fame as the rescuer of Mussolini in 1943 and of Admiral Nicholas Horthy of Hungary in 1944, entered the picture for the first time, so far as Rundstedt was concerned, in November. Twice that month he briefly visited the field marshal’s headquarters. He explained, and this was confirmed by Rundstedt’s superiors, that he was to head a special Panzer unit then being trained at Wahn, near Cologne. This unit was to sneak through a soft spot in the front and attempt to seize a bridgehead across the Meuse which could be exploited by regular troops com¬ ing up behind. Skorzcny’s brigade was being es¬ tablished on Hitler’s personal order. Refused to Provide U.S. Uniforms Rundstedt saw an order asking for English- speaking soldiers to be assigned to Skorzeny. When Skorzeny also requested some captured Ameri¬ can uniforms for his unit, Rundstedt flew into a rage. He would not provide any, and Skorzeny finally obtained the American uniforms elsewhere, mainly from prisoners of w'ar who were held inside Germany. In addition to Skorzeny’s independent brigade, Rundstedt had these units available to throw into the big push: Sixth SS Panzer Army: two SS Panzer corps of two SS Panzer divisions each, one infantry corps of two divisions, one paratrooper division and two grenadier divisions. Fifth Panzer Army: one infantry corps of two divisions, and two Panzer corps totaling three Panzer and two infantry divisions. To this army, just before the offensive began, was added the Fuehrer’s Escort Brigade. Seventh Army: one infantry corps of one para- troop division and one infantry division, a second corps of two infantry divisions, and a third with two and one half infantry divisions. The SS Panzer divisions each had between 15.000 and 18,000 men and about 100 armored vehicles. Army Panzer divisions also had 100 armored vehicles, but only between 11,000 and 13,000 men. Infantry divisions were between 8,000 and 10,000 men strong, while paratroop di¬ visions had between 15,000 and 18,000 men. This array gave the Germans an overwhelming, Collier^ for January 3, 1953

Page 23

19 failed to exploit it. And the breather yave Germany a chance to recoup its strenyth better than two-to-one superiority in man power and three-to-one superiority in tanks. In numbers of men, the German units were relatively satisfactory. But all units had suffered severe losses of veterans, and many of the replace¬ ments were undertrained. In a number of units, the average age of the soldiers was higher than normal in line companies, and the numbers of Germans from outside the Reich was quite high. Morale was still good, but fighting ability varied seriously. The food problem was not too bad. The main staple diet of the German army included soups, stews and goulashes, brought to front-line fighting troops in huge canisters. The fare would not ap¬ peal to American soldiers, but German dietary habits differ from American even in peacetime. Marshal Shared Scanty Meat Ration Headquarters officers were rationed to one and a half ounces of meat per day. Rundstedt, a very light eater, often would cut off a tiny piece of his own ration for himself and pass the rest to one of his officers. One of the greatest shortages was combat boots for the troops. Because of allocations to the bit¬ terly cold Russian front, Germany’s leather sup¬ ply was almost exhausted. Rundstcdfs supply officers argued for weeks before they got adequate issues of footwear for the snow-covered Ardennes. There weren’t enough artillery pieces for the offensive, and only two-and-one-half initial issues of shells were available for those pieces we did have. Many artillery batteries were not mobile, or only half mobile. The command had only 18,000 cubic meters of fuel on hand, although it estimated it needed 35,000; the rest was to be taken from Allied depots as they were overrun. The fuel ration for the of¬ fensive had been cut so drastically that the rocket batteries which had been scheduled to move for¬ ward with the attacking forces had to be largely abandoned at the jumping-off point to give pri¬ ority to tanks. Rundstedt set up his headquarters for the Ar¬ dennes offensive in ancient Ziegenberg Castle, some 30 miles north of Frankfurt and across Ziegenberg Valley from Hitler’s mountainside re¬ treat. From the air, the castle looked deserted, a medieval ruin with only one tower still standing. What seemed like hunting lodges and farmhouses were scattered through the grounds, but in reality they were carefully camouflaged, doubly rein¬ forced concrete buildings, connected by elaborate tunnels. The 12-foot-thick walls of the castle itself had been strengthened against modern bombing, and out of the stone cliffs beneath had been carved a series of deep shelters for the use of military planners. Only after the Allies crossed the Rhine, months later, did they learn that this seemingly abandoned pile was the German command post for the Battle of the Bulge. It was to this castle that the German generals, myself included, were summoned first on December 12th. Wc thought we had been asked to appear simply to celebrate the sixty-ninth birth¬ day of Rundstedt, Germany’s senior soldier. We found instead that we were to be taken across the valley to the retreat to which Hitler had shifted only six days earlier from East Prussia. But before wc were bundled into two hard-riding busses for the drive across the valley, we were re¬ lieved of our weapons and were told to check even our brief cases with the castle guards. These se¬ curity regulations were astonishing but explaina¬ ble. After the bomb plot against Hitler’s life the previous July 20th, some 1,500 generals, officers and noncommissioned officers had been executed for alleged participation in the conspiracy. The Fuehrer remained a very nervous man. Ill feeling between Hitler and Rundstedt grew steadily from the moment the Fuehrer moved to Collier’s for January 3, 1953 American dead, killed in “Malniedy Ma^sa- ere," lie strewn along roadside in we-tern Bel¬ gium. Men* attached to Till Armored l)i\ision, were captured en route to front and dis¬ armed. SS troops Inter mowed them down on roadway. Only IB of 160 men escaped by feigning death. The incident enraged Allies, who believed that the Germans murdered GIs cold-bloodedly because American captives WIDE rt . R . . were hampering advance. Von Rundstedt. liowoer, says prisoners were being marehed in the direction of Malmedy with ouh a hand¬ ful of guard". SS men. hurrying to the front, came upon them and immediately opened fire, thinking that they were* ail American unit heading for battle. Their guard- al-o were killed by SS machine-gunners. Yon Rundstedt says he was shocked by the mistake

Page 24

20 Hiller moved up Germany's greatest weapon: himself , Zicgcnberg. The Fuehrer continually interfered in operations; some ot the Rundstedt headquarters routine even had to he modified to suit him. Rund¬ stedt and his stall members were summoned to confer with Hitler daily an interruption which hardly pleased the busy Rundstedt. Hiller liked to stay up most of the night, brood¬ ing and talking, and then sleep most of the morn¬ ing. As a result, he required a special briefing alter he had become thoroughly awake around tour in the afternoon, lie could then brood over the problems at night again in the hermitlike seclu¬ sion of his eyrie until, in the early hours of dawn, some flash of inspiration would seize him. At first, Hitler tried to placate Rundstedt. He learned that the elderly general was in the habit of drinking a glass of vermouth just before he left for one ot the Fuehrer’s conferences. Hitler, al¬ though he personally abhorred alcohol, ordered a glass of the wine provided for the field marshal at his conference chair. But later, when the Ar¬ dennes offensive ground to a halt and Rundstedt’s 1-told-you-so remarks became increasingly barbed. Hitler canceled the vermouth. Rundstedt was to recall of Hitler’s interference: “The pressure from behind was always far worse than the pressure in front. As Commander in Chief West my only authority was to change the guard in front of my gate.” After the Ardennes offensive began, the 4:00 p.m. briefing for Hitler and high-ranking members of his personal start usually was given by Westphal, Rundstedt’s chief of staff, or by Lieuten¬ ant General Bodo Zimmerman, his west front op¬ erations officer. These sessions with the Fuehrer were always so tense that both officers tried to avoid them when¬ ever possible. One day in late December — when the tide had turned against our forces — Westphal decided that he couldn’t take any more ot Hitler’s tantrums. He told Zimmerman: “I'm not going to brief that - today. You’ll have to go.” A brief discussion followed, to be settled when West¬ phal declared: “Well, I'm just going to report sick, that’s all.” Zimmerman's assignment it w'as. Nervously he entered the briefing room, which had been care¬ fully aired so that the Fuehrer would not be both¬ ered by cigarette smoke. Zimmerman gave a brief report of the situation. General Wanted Six More Divisions Hitler glowered at the news, then read an opti¬ mistic field report from General Model, It said Model was “just at the point of splitting the Allied lines,” and victory was assured — if only he could have another six divisions. All through the briefing, Reichsmarshal Goring had been sitting silently, occasionally studying his brightly lacquered fingernails. (At earlier staff conferences. Goring had appeared not only with painted fingernails, but also with rouge and lip¬ stick on his face.) Now', at Model’s fantastic and improbable request for six divisions, Goring’s chins quivered and he burst into uncontrollable laughter. His huge frame shook. The multitude of medals on his chest bounced. He slapped his thigh and shouted : “1 hat’s great! That’s wonderful! Let’s send the good Model sixteen divisions!” Then, near hysteria, he collapsed over the map table, his long, dyed-blond hair falling over his ears. At this exhibition, Hitler, too, started chuck¬ ling. The other officers, nervous and dead serious till then, picked up the cue and burst into laughter. ”1 got out of there as fast as I could, and shook hands with Hitler while he was still laughing,” Zimmerman later recounted. Rundstedt made one last attempt to sell Hitler his “small solution” idea just before the offensive started by suggesting that his plan be adopted at the beginning and, if it were highly successful, then the Western Command could simply keep moving forward to carry out Hitler's “big solution.” Hit¬ ler gruffly rejected the idea. The field marshal next pointed out that while SS General Sepp Dietrich, commanding the Sixth SS Panzer Army, was an effective officer, his troops were ill trained and likely to run into plenty of trouble with the U.S. Ninth Army facing them. He therefore suggested that the spearhead of the attack be shifted about 20 miles to the south, where the Fifth Panzer Army faced the U.S. First Army. Hitler would not hear of it. The entire Ardennes offensive hinged on the weather — rain, snow and fog were needed to pin down the massive Allied air force and give the at¬ tackers the added benefit of poor ground visibility. Had the weather been clear. Allied planes from their airfields in France, Belgium, Holland and Britain easily could have blocked most of the major roads during daylight and pinched off our tank spearheads. Victory Hung on W eather Reports All the far-flung meteorological resources of the German armed forces had been carefully co-or¬ dinated by top scientists in Beilin who knew that any mistake m this particular weather prophecy might literally mean their lives. For many days before the jump-off, they meticulously collated reports from lonely outposts of arctic Norway, and from long-range reconnaissance planes and sub¬ marines in the Atlantic, Afterward it was revealed that the date for the attack had been in grave doubt for 24 hours while the scientists awaited one final report from a sub¬ marine in the Atlantic. After many anxious hours, word came from the submarine that a great storm front was moving east, and would hit the Ardennes about the middle of December. Secrecy surrounded the entire operation almost until the zero hour. As I have said, most of us generals did not learn of the impending offensive until the December 12th conference with Hitler; major unit commanders were told of it only De¬ cember 15th, and the staff of the operations chief for the Western Command was informed only at 0530 hours on December 16th, one hour before the attack began. Troops had to be moved into the attack area three or four nights before the offensive began, but these movements were described as defensive. The sound of our moving vehicles was drowned out for the most part by planes hedgehopping along the front all night. Telephone and radio discipline was excellent. All staffs received new code names. A radio sta¬ tion was established at Cologne and broadcast re¬ peated false reports to throw the Allies off the scent. The offensive began on schedule December 16th. During the preceding night, a few small German units had infiltrated through the Ameri¬ can front lines, a trick we had learned only too well from the Russians. Then there was a brief but heavy artillery barrage, followed by the ground attack all along the front. As is always the case, our armies achieved some immediate success, but the German command was not satisfied. The initial attack had not taken as much ground as could have been expected from earlier battles. The comparatively weak enemy defended its positions fiercely. By the third day, the American reserves, brought up from the rear, were making themselves felt. Of particular sig¬ nificance was the subsequent attack General Pat¬ ton's tanks made on the German southern flank. Nevertheless, our attack moved westward, al¬ though much slower than had been hoped. And what Rundstedt had expected all along happened. The Sixth SS Panzer Army’s right wing was brought to a standstill by indirect pressure exerted to the north by the U.S. Ninth Army. Even the e The dotted red line shows bulge in West¬ ern front whieli gave Rattle, of the Bulge its name. Allied front sagged under weight of Nazi attaek in Ardennes. Solid red line is front December 16th, 19 IT, when attaek started, and dotted red line is sector December 23th, when Germans forced the deepest penetration. Stubby arrows show positions of armies on both sides when assault was launched. Sweep¬ ing arrows show German advance (in black) and the Allied deployment (in white) to halt westward blitzkrieg. En¬ tire Allied lin c was shifted as different armies broke off local attacks and raced to Ardennes sector. Hitler's ultimate objective* was Antwerp, but only a few Panzer units got far enough to glimpse Meuse River. Because break-through was in their sector, American soldiers did most of the fighting a rid suffered hy far the largest number of casualties AL TARTER Collier’s for January 3, 1953

Page 25

NIJMEGEN ANTWERP s. NINTH army u. s. first army MALMEDY VON RUNDSTEDT BASTOfcNE MODEL BRADLEY LUXEM ■ SAINT-AVOLD U. S. THIRD ARMY PATTON SIXTH S S PANZER ARMY FIFTH PANZER ARMY Collier’s lor January 3, 1953

Page 26

22 On Christmas Day , 1944 , the incensed Allies stopped the steamr oiling Nazi tear machim X NATIONAL German infantrymen advance past blasted American vehicles during early days of battle. Great secrecy preceded attack. Top German operations stall was told of plan an hour before assault Rundstedt (center) analyzes German advance into Ardennes Forest during briefing by Lt. Gen. \\ estphal (left) and Lt. Gen. Zimmerman. Rundstedt says Hitler devised attack; he opposed it center of this Panzer army showed no great results, mainly beeause of its lack of training and beeause a number of mechanical faults developed in its equipment. Above all, it had not been possible during the first three or four days even to reaeh the River Ourthe, mueh less Liege. By the evening of De¬ cember 18th, the entire operation had been placed in doubt beeause its success required a quick march to the Meuse. Now we could logically ex¬ pect that General Eisenhower and Field Marshal Sir Bernard L. Montgomery would have time to move up reinforcements from their neighboring fronts, bring the German offensive to a halt, and open an attack on either German flank. Just that happened. The weather, however, re¬ mained on our side, lt was still rainy and foggy enough to keep Allied planes grounded, but not snowy or icy enough in the Eifel mountains to delay seriously German movements of supply. Panzer Armies Make Slow Advance By December 20th, the situation of our weak Seventh Army, guarding the southern flank of the Fifth Panzer Army, was worsening rapidly. How¬ ever, the Fifth Panzer Army itself continued to advance slowly against the U.S. First Army until Christmas Eve. Some units managed to fight past either side of Bastogne and toward Dinant. But even these failed to reaeh the Meuse. Allied pres¬ sure on the Sixth SS Panzer Army’s left in the Malmedy area was increasing. British troops, along with the U.S. 2d Armored Division, were thrown against the point of the Fifth Panzer Army, and General Patton continued smashing at the southern flank toward Bastogne. To top it all, the weather cleared so mueh on December 23d that Allied air forces were able to start flying. They laid down a blanket of bombs behind the German front which paralyzed the movement of the already inadequate supplies and reinforcements. That meant the end of the offen¬ sive. Then snow began falling, the temperature dropped, the few roads behind the German front iced over. Rundstedt went to Hitler and suggested that, sinee the offensive was now hopeless, it be broken off, and the troops withdrawn as best they could lo the positions from which they had started a week earlier. Hitler barely listened. “Herr Field Marshal,” he said, “you don’t un¬ derstand these things. That’s why I came here — to help you!” Here one must make particular mention of the heroie stand of the American troops at Bastogne, who fought on against German troops far out¬ numbering them when their positions seemed hopeless. Bastogne will remain a glorious ideal for the American Army. Ironieally, the same village had been the scene of a meeting between Hitler and Rundstedt in 1940, during the success¬ ful German blitzkrieg against France and the Low Countries. Bastogne was tactically important to both sides beeause it was a key road intersection. When it was surrounded by German troops, and the Amer¬ ican commander, Brigadier General A. C. McAuliffe, was asked to surrender, his reply, as most Americans know, was, simply: “Nuts!” This was transmitted to Rundstedt’s HQ by Army Group B as “ Quatsch !” (Bosh), the near¬ est German equivalent. The Wehrmacht inter¬ preter apparently knew his American idiom. Curiously enough, " Quatsch ” was one of Rundstedt’s favorite words; he used to spit it out when reading some particularly unreasonable instruction from above. (EDITOR'S NOTE: The German ultimatum de¬ manding the surrender of Bastogne under threat of “total annihilation” of its defenders was delivered to the Americans by German emissaries of Gen. Collier’s for January 3, 1953

Page 27

) 23 iL handful of German tnmps had ylimpsetl Etelyium's Meuse Hirer — never io see it ayain Heinrich von Luttwitz, commander of the 47th Panzer Corps, under a white flag on December 22d. General McAuliffe's written one-word reply was handed the emissaries by Colonel [now Briga¬ dier General ] Joseph H. Harper, then commander of the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment. Unable to translate "Nuts!” immediately, the Germans asked Harper for clarification and he replied, "It means about the same as, * Go to hell!’ You understand that , don’t you?” The Germans understood .) On being told of the Bastogne commander’s reply to the surrender demand, Rundstcdt re¬ marked to intimates that he wished that outfit were fighting on his side. Bastogne was defended by the American 10th Armored Division, later reinforced by the famous American 10 1st Airborne Division. Their heroic achievement threw the entire German offensive out of step. Division after division was sent in by the Ger¬ mans in a futile attempt to drive the stubborn Americans from Bastogne. Before it was all over, our Western Command had all of the following Collier’s for January 3, 1953 Creeping under barbed wire, an American GI inches toward Bastogne to relieve1 the encircled “battered bastards’’ there. Patton’s Third Army executed Herculean shift to rescue comrades I i i

Page 28

24 McAuliffc’s classic “Nuts!” to the German ultimatum reached Rundstedt as “Quatsch!\i WIDE WORLO The defender and the rescuer of Bastogne. Brig. Gen. McAuliffe, who held out against Germans lor 10 days and replied, “JVuts!” to German ultimatum, with Patton after the break-through Americans hattle in the streets of Aachen after Allies seized offensive. Although advance of Germans was halted Christmas Day, 1944, it took almost a month to regain the territory lost EUROPEAN fighting for the village: the headquarters of the 39th Panzer Corps and the First SS Panzer Corps, the First SS Panzer Division, the Fuehrer’s Escort Brigade, the 340th Infantry Division and finally the Fifth Paratroop Division. Some of these units were brought over from the Sixth SS Panzer Army. That shows how hard the battle was. American tanks finally broke through the encircling German units and relieved the Bastogne garrison on De¬ cember 26th. Skorzeny’s Brigade certainly played no deci¬ sive role in the Ardennes campaign. During the battle, Rundstedt and his staff viewed Skorzeny like someone just playing at war, because his move¬ ments had so little to do with the main operation. Initially, Skorzeny apparently intended to strike in the direction of Liege, hoping to create con¬ fusion behind the Allied lines, and eventually to„ establish a bridgehead across the Meuse near that key communications and road center. But two or three days before the offensive opened he shifted his troops south and aimed them at Saint-Vith. This was in the sector of the 66th Corps, Fifth Panzer Army. Promptly the 66th Corps com¬ mander, Lieutenant General Walter Lucht, got into a squabble with Skorzeny. Lucht had never heard of Skorzeny’s “Operation Grief.’’ But the general staff instructed him to give Skorzeny free rein. “Operation Grief” Is Ineffective Skorzeny’s men apparently did create some con¬ fusion with their American uniforms drawn over their YVchrmacht clothing, their fast-moving jeeps, and the Molotov cocktails they threw against pass¬ ing tanks. But they never reached their objectives, and after the first day of the offensive were widely dispersed. After that, Skorzeny drifted from one corps headquarters to another, trying to find out how the battle was going, and where he might be useful. But no corps commander wanted anything to do with him, and he did not visit Western Com¬ mand headquarters once the battle began. To Americans, the Ardennes offensive inevitably brings to mind the incident at Malmcdy, in which some 140 American prisoners were shot by SS men who after the war were tried by a U.S. war crimes court in Dachau. Rundstedt first learned of the incident, which took place about the third day of the battle, through an Allied radio broadcast heard by his monitors. He immediately asked Colonel Joachim Peiper, commanding a Panzer regiment in the First SS Division, for an explanation. Peiper ordered an investigation. He finally reported that the shoot¬ ings appeared to have' been an error. The Americans, he said, had been captured near Saint-Vith, and were being marched in the direction of Malmcdy by an escort of only a handful of Ger¬ mans. But they met a unit of the First SS Division hurrying toward the front. This unit opened fire, apparently in the belief that it was an advancing American unit. Peiper reported that the prisoners’ German escort was killed by the SS fire, too. The Ardennes offensive marked the first time guided missiles had been used in battle. V-2s had been used against London, of course, and V-ls were being used against Antwerp, but these were distant targets. Shortly after the invasion, our Western Command had suggested using the slow V-ls against Allied troops. But Hitler rejected the idea because he feared the V-ls, hard to direct, would hit his own troops. Later, it was suggested they be used against Paris, but Rundstedt threw cold water on that plan. By the time the Ardennes offensive opened, am¬ bitious SS leaders had been given control of the V- wcapons, although Rundstedt had a small tactical V-weapon command for a few weeks more. The general staff ordered V-ls aimed at Liege in connection with the Ardennes offensive; this in¬ struction was carried out. They seemed to have little more than psychological effect, however. And, Collier’s for January 3, 1953 1 a i u 0 4 fi e li 5 f e i a r r f A 4 - A »

Page 29

25 d the hero of itastoyne won himself a secret admirer — the man he actually teas fiyhtiny almost immediately. Western Command began re¬ ceiving complaints from Eifel mountain villagers that many V-ls were falling short or turning around and dropping on the villagers' property. After Christmas Day, even Hitler realized that something had to be done quickly if anything at all were to be saved. Hitler ordered a new attack in Alsace. But by now the Germans had lost the initiative. It also became clear that the German spearhead far out to the west was not going to receive the main Allied counterattack; instead the Americans and British were going to collapse our deep flanks. By early January, 1945, Bastogne was irretrievably lost to us and the whole battle became even more senseless. It was then Hitler and Rundstedt had it out for the last time in the Fuehrer’s headquarters at Zicg- enberg. Rundstedt became so angry during this interview that he smashed his field marshal’s baton across the conference table. Rundstedt’s im¬ mediate staff prophesied that he would soon be re¬ moved, and the loss of the Remagen Bridge over the Rhine in early March gave Hitler the excuse he needed. Even had the Germans reached and crossed the Meuse, it would have made little difference. With the ever-threatening situation in the east, it would have been impossible to have maintained such an offensive in the west. But suppose German troops had been brought | in from Norway, the Balkans and Italy? The Allies would not have overlooked the movement of so many troops, and the element of surprise would have been gone. Allied troops on other fronts could also have been brought to the Ardennes. In addition, the Allies would still have had air superi¬ ority. And even had tremendously reinforced German forces crossed the Meuse, it would not have changed the outcome of the war. The Allies might have taken some stiff losses, but they would have never been forced off the Continent. They had lots more troops in Britain and the U.S., and they had more time than we did. Sooner or later, Germany would have had to withdraw troops from the west to bolster the eastern front. At most, Germany could only have won a little time; since the political leadership did not use this time intelligently, the whole Ardennes battle was nonsense. ^ ^ ^ Final defeat brought Rundstedt (center) together with Lt. Gen. Alexander Patch, Jr., of U.S. Seventh Army. Ruudstedt’s 5*011, Hans (1.), died in 1948. Rundstedt now li\e* cloistered life Mop-up of the Battle of the Bulge. 2d Armored Division GIs round up defeated Nazis in eastern Belgium. Bulge cost Germans 120,000 men Otto Skorzeny (r.)« "rescuer" of .Mussolini, at trial for Bulge war crimes. U.S. Col. A. Rosenfeld (l.) worked with prosecution staff u s * nvr PHO- • / I

Page 30

26 LIONEL GILBERT THE SHOE BOX By JOAN TOM stood up suddenly, and the tattered plaster of the ceiling hung above his dark head like a crown of mangy laurels — the signal of a daily, obscure victory. He had learned, in the course of the year, not to bump his head when he stood up suddenly like that. A tricky maneuver, but he’d been an athlete in college, and he managed it fine, now. His wife, watching him, thought once more how glad she was that she was a small girl, and what a marvelous marriage it was that had endured for twelve whole months in an apartment literally the size of a shoe box. “Well?" asked Tom, conscious of her admiring glance but too worried at the moment to return it with a look as fond. “Shall we sign ourselves into this hole for another year? It isn’t really so bad. Why, 1 know a boy who’s upholstered a telephone booth, and when he wants to sleep he steps into a clothesbag and just sort of hangs all night. He says he wouldn’t live any other way now." “We might as well sign up," said Peggy. '7 might as well," said Tom. “But, honey, I hate to think of you braving it out for another year. Now at night," he went on musingly, “it's quite pleasant. For one thing, that cat is asleep. Then, it looks larger by firelight, and I must admit that for me, having a real fireplace almost makes the whole thing worth while. But for you! No stor¬ age space, no stove, no icebox, no sink." Peggy sighed. “Oh, I stand it all right," she an¬ swered, loathing the noble ring of her own voice. “No, you don’t," Tom said. He made a rubber face — the kind that goes down at the edges — and patted her curls indulgently. He loved to lecture endlessly. “Now, you see — ” Peggy sat half listening, remembering how she had always felt she was in proper proportion to the comfortably shabby houses of her Midwestern girlhood. But in New York she felt either like an elephant in a clothes closet, or a mouse looking up at the Empire State Building. Suddenly there was a shattering crash, a terri¬ ble whanging sound like a stack of paper boxes AUCOURT collapsing in a high wind. They both jumped up and looked over at the mantel, where the cat had succeeded in detaching the Cezanne print from the wall above the fireplace and sent it careening to the floor, one corner torn off and mangled. The print was matted, but they had never had it framed, although it was an expensive and beauti¬ ful French print, a wedding present. “Mwrowr?” said the cat, pleased as Punch. Silently, Tom and Peggy stared down at the glowing remnant of the picture, spread out at their feet like a wing torn from some fabulous moth. Miserably, Peggy picked up the print and laid it out on the bed like a corpse. “1 tell you what," Tom said decisively. “Let’s whip out and take one more look around. You can’t tell. We might just see an empty window or a moving van or something." So they put on their hats and gloves and started out into the bright September morning. Peggy took one last backward glance at the room as she shoved the cat, not too gently, back inside. She realized, walking down the street, that her private catalogue of domestic disasters would be almost laughable to girls who went to work. But Peggy was not a working girl; she was the sort of girl who stayed home and counted her pennies so she could have a baby as soon as possible. A baby! She stopped short at the thought of it. “What’s the matter?" asked Tom. “Nothing," said Peggy. Mentally she was pic¬ turing the soap powder, the copper and silver pol¬ ishes stowed under the bathtub, which towered on huge lionlike feet; the one closet shelf, holding hats, gloves, belts and scarves, which also doubled as a stove, or at least bore the chafing dish; their two spindly Hitchcock chairs, the three-quarter- size bed, and those two handsome andirons. That’s all there was, there wasn’t any more. She was won¬ dering if it might be possible to make a formula in a chafing dish, when Tom said: “Hey!" And there was an empty apartment — no doubt about it. As they raced up the stoop, two earnest young men emerged, discussing the possibilities of the left-hand corner of the living room. It was impossible, apparently, to be first on the scene. Well, the apartment was enormous — that much had to be said for it. The kitchen was big enough to eat in, if you wanted to, and the shiny new bathroom had a shower. The living room, with a study off one end, was huge, and the bedroom had amazing closets. There were acres of this apart¬ ment, and each acre was painted arsenic green. “My word!" said Tom. “It must cost the earth," said Peggy. “Not necessarily. This isn’t a fashionable street." “Of course it has no fireplace," said Peggy, gaz¬ ing hungrily at the closets and the kitchen. “Nooo — ” Tom replied rather wistfully. “But think what you could do with a place like this!" “Of course it would take time," said Peggy. “It wouldn’t always have to be this color — what would you call this color?" “Arsenic green," said Peggy decidedly. “I could paint it," Tom asserted stoutly. “I painted a barn once. Well, not a barn, exactly. It was more of a chicken house." “I can just see you, Mr. Sawyer," said Peggy. “Well — h’mmmmm." She was thinking how lonely their, furniture would look in these three huge rooms. And what would they do with the andirons? “There’d be plenty of room for a baby.” THAT did it. “All right," said Peggy. “Go see the landlord. But, Tom, let’s not go overboard. There’s no point in having a place to put a baby if you can’t even afford a can of evaporated milk." Tom grinned and kissed her hastily. “I won’t do anything rash," he promised. “I have to shop,” Peggy called after him. “I’ll meet you back at the place." It was a sort of home-town expression; but it had always seemed particularly apt, as obviously it was absurd to refer to their place of residence as an apartment. It just wasn’t one, no matter what it said on the lease. The only thing that kept it from being a furnished room was that it was un¬ furnished and had a private bath. And, of course, the fireplace. There was a certain sort of magic about a fireplace, Peggy had to admit. Carefully she chose her head of lettuce, her slices of veal for the scaloppine. Slowly she walked back home. Would it be just the furniture, she wondered, that would look lonely in that enor¬ mous apartment? That arsenic green! She shud¬ dered. What sort of people could have lived there? Not cheerful, certainly. And suddenly she thought of their own shoe box with affection. It was a happy room. Tom was already there. He barely looked up as she walked in with the groceries. “You didn’t get the apartment, Tom?" He shook his head. “Nope. Those two were willing to put six months’ rent down in advance, and what could I say?" He sounded defeated. “Thank God,” she answered simply. Tom stared at her, incredulous. “Peggy!" he said. “You don’t mean you’d rather stay here?" “Yes, I do. I’m as surprised as you are but I do." “Why?” She gestured wildly, grasping for something elusive. “Oh, lots of things — like the way we call it ‘the place.’ The place; our place. And then, we’ve been happy here, and I think other people must have been happy here, too." She shuddered at the memory of those endless, arsenic- green walls. “It’s not just the fireplace — it re¬ minds me of something someone once said to me about folk music. It has deeper roots than one person's lifetime can grow. And there’s deeper happiness in this room than two people could ever make alone, even us." “It doesn't make you feel like we were two trained fleas in a matchbox?" Peggy laughed, and shook her head. “What in the world would we do if we did have a baby?" asked Tom. “I guess we’d just have to get rid of the cat," Peggy answered, picking up the torn picture and feeling around behind the books where the Scotch tape was stored. A.A.A Collier's siiort snoRT

Page 31

Can You Identify This Man ? Someday, a gun might be pointed at you. “Hand over the money,” says the robber at the bank, or in the grocery store, or on a quiet street corner. A short time later, he’s gone. The police regard you as their most important wit¬ ness. Their chances of catching the holdup man and bringing him to justice may hinge directly on your pow- / ers of observation. Here’s a chance to test yourself. Study the man in the above picture carefully for 90 seconds. On the following pages you’ll learn how you should be able to describe him. Collier’s for January 3, 1953 SEE NEXT PAGE

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28 The man on the previous page has just thrust a pistol forward and demanded money. Now the police want to know what he looked like so they can get about the job of catching him. Fill in the form below and then compare it with the police report in the article I. Sex - 2. Race ... - - - ■ — , 3. Age _ 4. Height - 5. Weight ■ - - - 6. Build— 7. Complexion _ 8. Hair _ 9. Eyes 10. Beard or mustache II. Dress - - - 12. Peculiarities noted. 13. Description of weapon; how carried HOWTO By ROBERT de ROOS BANK robbers do not stand still while their pictures are being made. The “holdup” on the preceding page was staged with a mem¬ ber of the Oakland, California, Police Depart¬ ment, Sergeant Fred C. Eytel, in the role of robber. It was part of the curriculum of a “school for bank tellers” which Lester J. Divine, Oakland’s chief of poliee, hopes will bring more thugs to justice. The idea for the sehool was born in the spring of 1952 when 1 1 building-and-loan offices and one bank were robbed during a period of two months. In ease after ease, witnesses gave such garbled de¬ scriptions of the robbers that the eops were eon- fused. “The descriptions were worse than useless,” Captain of Inspectors Anthony J. Bolger recalls. “In one ease, the criminal was described as being either five feet eight inches tall, or six feet two. According to the eyewitnesses, he weighed both 160 and 210 pounds. He wore a plain brown suit and sport clothes without a necktie. Some said he had bushy hair. And, so help me, other witnesses . insisted he was bald.” When you’ve finished chuckling over that, you ean see if you would have done any better by de¬ scribing, in the chart at the left, the man you saw on page 27. Here’s the way the Oakland Poliee Department says you should have been able to do it. Questions one, two and three: male, white, and approximately forty years old. Four: about five feet 1 l inches tall. (The trick here is to gauge the man’s height by the height of some other feature in the room. In this case, the top of the teller's barrier is five feet three inches high, and comes to the tip of the robber’s nose. By adding seven or eight inches, you have his ap¬ proximate height, even though he wears a hat.) Five: about 180 pounds. (At best only a guess.) Six: medium build. Seven: complexion is medium, but on the dark¬ ish side. Eight: hair dark, almost black, and would ap¬ pear to be full. Nine: brown eyes. More important, the eyes are protuberant — a noticeable and unchangeable fea¬ ture. Broad forehead. Normal eyes. Slightly pointed, medium width nose. Straight mouth with medium broad eh in and heavily lined double chin. Ears set close to head, with prominence on each lobe Normally broad forehead, with medium heavy eyebrows. Medium-sized nose. Medium mouth with upper and lower portions of lips very thin. A heavy, cleft chin. Straight, medium-sized ears High, broad forehead. Normal eyebrows a f eyes. Roman nose bent slightly to left. Mot bl normal-sized; thin upper lip. Medium chin. E m protrude little from head, have descending lo si Collier’s for January 3, 1933

Page 33

SPOT A BANK ROBBER 29 Stymied too often l>v faulty descriptions, a police department now conducts a school for c\ cw itnr^r* Some common holdup guns: (1) Winchester 12-gauge shotgun: (2) 31-1 carbine: (3) L. C. Smitli sawed-off shotgun: (1) Ithaca riot gun: (5) Colt 1-inch revoher: (6) Thompson submachine gun; (7) Colt 2-ineti revolver; (8 and 9) Walther .32 automatics; (10) Jat>anese automatic: (11) Smith & Wesson .38; (12) Saner German automatic; (13) Colt .15; (14) German 9-iinn. Luger Ten: thin mustache. Eleven: standard operating procedure, as out¬ lined by the Oakland police, is to describe a per¬ son’s clothing from top to bottom. Our “hank robber” is wearing a tan hat with a narrow brown ribbon; a bold yellow-and-orange “band-painted” four-in-hand tie; and a light-patterned, single- breasted, tan business suit. He has a diamond ring on the third finger of his left hand and a yel¬ low gold expandable watch band on his left wrist. He is holding a canvas money sack in his left hand. Twelve: most noticeable peculiarities are the heavily etched lines in his face, particularly under his mouth, and his fairly large ears set high and close to his head. And, of course, those banjo eyes. Thirteen: a Luger pistol in his right hand. Witnesses Shouldn't Compare Notes That is all you can see. If you find your de¬ scription of the man accurate, it may well he be¬ cause you tilled out the chart by yourself. What happened during Oakland's wave of robberies, Captain Bolger reports, was that the witnesses gen¬ erally put their heads together and emerged with composite descriptions of the thugs. But group opinion frequently backfires. “In every group, there is a leader, and sooner or later the group tends to follow him.” Bolger says. “He may have the poorest conception of how the robber really looks, but his opinion sways the rest of the witnesses.” In the hope of securing more accurate descrip¬ tions in the future, officers from the Oakland rob¬ bery detail and two FBI men organized a series of courses for the employees of 39 banks and sim¬ ilar institutions. They distributed mimeographed forms, similar to the one you’ve just checked, for the “students” to memorize so that making descrip¬ tions would become routine and no points would be missed. The most important part of the plan was a taboo on consultation. Descriptions were to be made in¬ dividually and independently. To augment the short description form, the Oakland police also provided a detailed list of characteristics to help potential witnesses find the correct descriptive words (see captions below) and to suggest items which might otherwise be overlooked: Was the robber a scholarly-looking or athletic type? Did he have a rough “Give-me- the-swag” voice, or did he speak softly behind his big gun? Among the most important — and most neg¬ lected — physical features are ears. In the photo¬ graphs below, members of the Oakland Police Department illustrate the variety of shapes and po¬ sitions of common types of ears. Captain Bolger says that good descriptions of ears rank next to fingerprints as a means of identification. The Oakland “school lor bank tellers’' has been so simple and inexpensive that the police are thinking of widening the enrollment to include employees of liquor stores, service stations and supermarkets, plus any other business establish¬ ments which appear particularly prone to hold¬ ups. They feel that there's no better means of solving crimes than showing eyewitnesses what their eves should witness. found head, balding in center. Has medium yebrows. Noticeable lines beside nose. Medium- ized nose twisting to right. Thin, gray mustache, formal mouth. Medium chin. Ears close to head i Oval face. Normal forehead. Medium eyebrows, eyes. Normal nose, pointed slightly to left. Full upper lip. Mole to left above mouth. Ears low-set. Upper borders seem to be folded over High forehead with the hair receding on sides. Normal eyes, eyebrow*. A broad, broken uo*c. Straight mouth. Heavy chin. Ears low-setting with rectangular look and almost square lobes PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER S BY JOHN FLOREA

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There ^as nothing to do but hand him the instruments as he called for them. But there was misery in her eyes, above the mask 1 1 Date for Another Sprin By MAURICE BARRANGON The surgeon had given little Larkin a last chance to prove herself as a nurse , at this one important operation. And now perhaps she had made a mistake that would kill the patient ANY day but Wednesday I’d have been in Ancon. When you’ve served in the Canal ^ ^ Zone long enough, you have a routine and you stick to it. You don’t fight the heat or the rain. You don’t fight anything. If Wednesday’s your day to go to the show in Panama City, you go. That Wednesday in the crowd on the Avenida Central, I saw a girl in uniform, and I saw her arm go up in salute. Wearily I raised my hand to my visor. Seconds later it dawned on me: that was Ann Larkin. I discovered I was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, and people were walk¬ ing slowly around me. You don't hurry in Panama. When I turned, the uniform wasn’t in sight. I went back and found her in a shop where a Hindu was selling silver filigree — frail, cobwebby stuff for women. I went close and said, “Sponge count!” She spun around. “Dr. Hinckley, it was you,” she said, and she held out both hands to me. At least, she’d half recognized me, out in the street. She must have come off the white ship I’d seen tied up in Balboa. She had on one of those pale- blue Navy uniforms and a garrison cap and black shoulder bag. Little Larkin. Last time I'd seen her she’d been bundled in a surgical gown, back at 30 Schuyler Hospital in New York, the day of the trouble; a slender kid, with a round, solemn, freck¬ led little face. Now here she was, a brisk young woman, who had learned to smile each time be¬ fore she spoke. She smiled and said to me, “Your face is thinner. You look positively British.” I felt like a tramp. I was in suntans with no tie. I explained about Wednesday. “Any other day,” I told her, “I’d have missed you. I would have been in Ancon at the Tivoli, ordering planter’s punches. Suppose we declare this to be Thursday and head for the Tivoli?” She smiled again. “Thursday it is,” she said, “but I’d like to see something of Panama City first. I’ve got all day.” She had the grace to call me doctor instead of major. The rain was over — it never rains after four in the afternoon — and I walked her to the sea wall and around to the French Plaza, away from the damp smell of the shops. I told her that life drifted by fast enough in Panama. It was a rut, but I’d seen worse. We talked about the winter of forty- seven at Schuyler, when she was a student nurse. That was the year I quit anesthesiology and went back into the Army. I found out that she knew what had happened that last day I’d seen her, in the operating room. We were leaning on the parapet, looking at the bay, when she reminded me that she hadn't be¬ longed at Schuyler, was not one of their own stu¬ dents. She’d gone there for affiliation from a country hospital in Massachusetts. “They sent me to Schuyler to learn surgery and obstetrics,” she said. “I didn’t know a soul. That time in the op¬ erating room ... it was the worst day of my life, I guess. And nobody seemed to want to help me, ex¬ cept Mike Printon, and he was only an intern. Dr. Hinckley, I’m surprised you remember.” SHE wouldn’t know how well I remembered ev¬ erything: the wet streets, just after dawn, the May drizzle fogging the windshield of my car, the porter mopping the lobby of the hospital, and the old fellow who ran the elevator getting off his stool, clanging the gate and telling me the devils were loose again, and that another student nurse was being fired. They were talking about the student when I went ILLUSTRATED BY TRAN MAWICKE

Page 35

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Page 36

32 into the O.R. to check my tanks. It wasn't her fault. they assured me — be¬ fore telling me what had happened. Nohod> really thought dic'd stea any¬ thing. Of course, she was hard up. It developed that a box ot streptomycin, six \ ials of it. had disappeared. The student fud been responsible for the box. At least, she’d had the keys. I heard the name I.arkin twice before I connected it with our little eager beaver, our kid from Massachusetts. I remember viy 1 ig. "Are they crazy?" and an ( iderly answered. “It 1 tell you. Doctor, don't quote me.” 1H AD three anesthesia cases that day, one of them in the afternoon. Dr. Howard Maconnet. who was also the hospital s director, was operating at two tl irtv. It was a cholecy stectomy . and of course an important patient. There would be a big lee for me. 1 should have been feeling great. Instead. I felt mean and bitter. At ten o’clock, with one operation over, 1 caught up with the O.R. su¬ pervisor. a cool, competent woman of about thirtv. She was standing in the door of the workroom, watching stu¬ dent nurses fill drums for the autoclave and make sponge packs. I asked her whether anybody was doing anything for the 1 arkin kid. 1 he O.R. supervisor looked grimly amused. “Oh. yes. indeed," she said. ‘ ''i es. indeed. Her intern friend’s going to f • \ everything." “Printon?" “Himself." “W ell? W hat’re you grinning about?" 1 asked. “Just the idea," she said. “Doctor, do you know what’s going on in this hospital?" “Anything good?*’ She p eked up a pencil and used it to keep score on her fingers. She spoke quietly. "In list two weeks.’’ she said, "we’ve hud a ward patient almost killed by a wrong medication, interns on strike over the food, a student nurses’ party canceled by the supei intendent of nurses, two student nurses dismissed for insubordination. A special had an ar¬ gument with Miss Storrow and walked right off a ease •” ‘ It you don’t mind." 1 said, “pre¬ cisely what is our boy Printon fixing to dv. I" She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Dr. Printon." she said, “is go- ine straight to Miss Storrow.” “What “Well. Doctor." she said, "he is good- looking.” That’s all we needed: some squirt of an intern trying to tell our rank-eon- scious superintendent of nurses her business. I turned away, hoping I’d kept a poker lace. 1 couldn’t go around look¬ ing like a disappointed high-school hoy because a student nurse from up coun¬ try gazed cow-eyed at an intern. Hell. I was thirty -three, and she was — well. I’d heard somebody say she was nine¬ teen. 1 found Printon in the scrub room. He was a tall, curly -haired youngster, with a spoiled look about his mouth; and 1 knew, as suie as you can know anything, that he’d marry some rich babe as soon as he got out imo prac¬ tice. Don’t know that I’d blame him. but it made me sad for the kid from Massachusetts. Printon had a worried look. 1 asked him if he'd seen the superintendent of nurses. He was sitting on a bench against the wall, staring at the floor, and he looked up at me like a spanked six- year-old. “I saw her." he said. "Boy, did she get livid. W’ovv!" " I hat’s a help," I said. "What’s next? A hint to Maconnet?" I’d seen Printon hanging around the director a few times, and I knew he was scheduled to assist in the operation that afternoon. He looked up. startled. "I couldn't do that.” he said, and 1 guess he couldn't. I took the elevator and headed for the main office. I wts getting tired of that hospital. Interns on strike! A few of them had raised a row with Miss Storrow when she had canceled the stu¬ dent nurses' party the week before. One of them had been very rude. The board said he’d be dismissed. The others said they’d quit. too. The matter had been dropped. Big deal. That patient in the ward. An intern wrote the order, hut a nurse should have caught it. They had an investigation, and there was an uproar in the nursing of students I’ve ever seen. I’ve got to have discipline." Maconnet kept saying, “I agree, I agree.” He sounded unhappy. I barged in. It was, of course, the superintendent of nurses. Miss Storrow. a tall, lean woman, about forty-five years old. with graying hair. At that moment she looked red around the eyes, and she had her jaw clamped. Macon- net's good-looking secretary sat in a cor¬ ner, pretending to be deaf. I said good morning, and I told Miss Storrow7 she looked tired. "I have a right to. Doctor.” she said. "1 was still in the hospital at mid¬ night. juggling the specials to get a com¬ petent nurse for a critical baby in C. Nurses!" “Get aw ay from it." 1 suggested. "Do like Howard, here. Go to Florida. I.ook at him. Look at that tan." She stood there like a tired but de¬ termined corpse. "I haven't had a va¬ office. Miss Storrow took it hard. I thought about that case, in the elevator going down, because it was my excuse, now. for butting in. I told myself that the Larkin kid would have recognized wrong medication and would have had the guts to stand her ground. When she was told to boil instruments twenty min¬ utes. they got steamed twenty minutes, not nineteen and a half. She studied! I once heard her name every instrument in a long line — fifty or sixty of them — and there were a couple I didn't know. All right, there was a box of strepto¬ mycin missing. And sure, the girl was supposed to be poor. What about it? '^rEAR Maconnet's door 1 began to - i hear voices from the outer office: the big fellow himself and a firm, bitter¬ sounding female accompaniment. Ma¬ connet was sixty or sixty -one. a shaggy old rascal and a damned good surgeon. A wide man with a potbelly and a pink, cherub lace and a couple of chins, he could he a pouter pigeon; he could play the charming hoy. or he could roar and scare the daylights out of the help. If he hadn't been a surgeon, he could have been an actor. 1 heard him say ing emphatically that he'd initial something after he'd read it. He’d have to read the folder first. The female voice said. "I’ve got to have discipline. If we can't keep them away from the interns, and if we can't depend on their honesty, we might as well give up. I've got the worst bunch cation in ten years," she said, and pulled her chin up. Maconnet had a folder in one hand. He grabbed me. "Come in," he said and pulled me toward his private office. He called to the Storrow woman. "I'll send you this later today." He tossed the folder on his huge ma¬ hogany desk and sank into the swivel chair. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest and drummed his fingers on his belly. He sighed. "All right, George," he said. "What's your trouble?" My trouble? I wasn't too clear about it. but ! persuaded myself it was that crack about honesty, and the earnest face of the girl from Massachusetts. “That student nurse, Larkin." I told him. “I’ve watched her in the O.R. She’s good." His eyebrows went up, and he looked at me sharply . His voice was low. “You know something about this?" he asked. “Or are you just butting in?" “I'm just blitting in. I like the kid. She's a nurse.” “W hat do you mean, she's a nurse?'’ “She's got integrity. She does things right.*’ “Yes? Six vials of streptomycin are missing." 1 gave him a short, hyphenated an¬ swer. but I said it quietly . He knew as well as I did that there were a dozen ways that a valuable drug could get lost in that hospital. It might show7 up again, or it might not. If it did, later. nobody would mention it They’d hoard it against the next shortage. Maconnet wasn’t dumb. He glared at me. Then he looked down at the folder. He put his elbow-s on the desk and massaged his temples. He spoke like a patient asking for a hypo, strained, troubled. "George," he said, “there’s something the matter w ith the Department of Nursing." He leaned back, suddenly angry. "But I can't in¬ terfere in Miss Storrow 's business, un¬ less I know she’s wrong. I sit here at this desk, and I sign papers. I initial them where it says ‘approved.’ W7hat else can I do?" “You can look at the girl. Have her in the O.R. this afternoon. Let her hand you the instruments." I had thought of it only that instant. Normally Maconnet would not consider having a student for his instrument nurse. It's most unusual anyway for a hospital executive to continue surgery, even the little he did: and for at least five years he'd always had one particu¬ lar nurse at his right hand, a woman so experienced she could probably have performed an operation herself. He was annoyed with Storrow. but would he take the trouble to show her up? Now, he looked cold. “I’ll think about it. George,'’ he said, and his voice told me he'd do nothing. "I'll think about it. See you at two thirty." I went hack to the sixth floor, won¬ dering how much harm I'd done my self with Maconnet. I stood by an open w indovv, smelling the rain, looking down at the lakes on the concrete between the pavilions, and I felt like a fool. THE first time I ever saw Larkin, she was rushing in and out of the operat¬ ing room, with a grim expression on her lace. She seemed to have a problem. I remember she took it to every body in the place without apparent luck, and finally she came over to me. "Can y ou help me?" she asked. "Where can I find retractor extensions?" They were hazing her. I couldn’t help laughing, because there was a very fat woman on the operating table. Re¬ tractor extensions! As quietly as 1 could. I told the girl there was no such thing as a retractor extension, and to take things easy. Maybe she was too simple- minded for hospital work. Maybe I had been a fool. Only recently there’d been a day when they herded the students into a bus and off to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It w?as Hospital Day, the nearest Sunday to the birthday of Flor¬ ence Nightingale. Each year a couple of thousand nurses paraded into the cathedral, in white uniforms and blue capes, for a service in memory of all nurses who had died that year. It was pretty impressive, I was told. But for the next three days, our kid from Mas¬ sachusetts wasn't fit to have around. She was dreaming, bumping into things. We had to tell little Florence Nightin¬ gale to come dow n to earth and get on the ball. Probably she'd been dreaming about the Printon boy when the strepto¬ mycin walked off. Well, I'd done what I'd done. I had another case at eleven. Sometime be¬ tween then and one thirty, I evolved a roundabout scheme for slipping the girl a few dollars for railroad fare home. She'd been transferred to obstetrics, so I didn't expect to see her. At two fifteen, 1 took my patient to the O.R., and when I arrived, damned if there wasn't Larkin, in sterile gown, draping the instrument table. I said. "Hello, there,'’ and she came over to me, all shiny-eyed and trembling. Collier's for January 3. 1933

Page 37

33 “Mike got me a chance,” she said, apparently taking it for granted I knew about her trouble. ‘He must have talked to Dr. Maconnet. Dr. Maconnet ordered them to send me up here. I'm to be instrument nurse this afternoon.” AFTERWARD, I wished I'd been able . to watch the kid more closely. As it was, I had to be extremely careful. The patient was a middle-aged woman, the wife of a chain-store executive, and my job was to make it easy for her and to sec to it that her heart stood up. Be¬ tween pumping the blood-pressure cu!T; watching her pulse, pupils and respira¬ tions, checking my instruments' gauges and keeping the chart, I had no time. Maconnet’s regular instrument nurse, who was standing by, would keep an eye on the kid. Maconnet came prancing in and said, “Ah, beautiful nurses, today! Good!” I thought; Oh, God, he's going to have one of his cute days. But when he came out of his scrub, he became all business. He marched around the table and in¬ spected the kid. “You my instrument nurse? Miss, uh . . . what is your name?” ‘ Larkin, sir.” “Yes, yes. Let's get this thing going.” I had my patient ready, and I gave Maconnet the nod. It occurred to me there were a lot of people in the room, two or three more than usual. I glanced at one female standing well back, in white uniform but wearing O.R. cap and mask. She turned out to be the nurse instructor. There was the resi¬ dent surgeon, who, as first assistant, had already prepared the patient; and young Mike stood nervously at my left. And the kid, across from Maconnet, was standing on the footstool that raised her six inches so that she could hand him instruments from the Mayo table. Then, just as Maconnet got comfort¬ able, with his stomach braced against the table, another figure appeared: Storrow, the superintendent of nurses. She wore a mask tied too tight, and her eyes looked shockingly hollow. I saw the kid look up, then down again, and I thought she was afraid. Maconnet glanced up too, and Storrow said, “I hope you don't mind. Doctor.” “Not at all,” he said, and called for the skin knife. Larkin put the scalpel in his hand, and the job began I've seen Maconnet go cute and keep the whole operating room chuckling duti¬ fully at his jokes. Once, at the end of an operation, I saw him take a hand¬ ful of cracked ice that had been packed against the patient, and stuff it down the instrument nurse's neck. I've also seen him get tough and scare the pants off an entire crew. But this time he was completely level. There were no histrionics. Above his mask, his eyes had the look of a boy playing a game. When he withdrew a sponge— a pack of gauze red with blood — he dropped it to the floor. I've seen him practically throw them over his shoulder. This time the circulating nurse had to fish around his shoes with her long forceps to collect the sponges and carry them to her rack for the final count. Those sponges worried me, he used so many of them, a possible sign of ex¬ cessive bleeding. There was rarely much bleeding when he operated. This time, halfway through, I knew he was simply wasting sponges, I heard him calling, “Retractor . . . forceps . . . Kelly clamp . . .” and I waited for him to criticize the kid. tell her she was slapping the instruments into his hand too hard or not hard enough. But he didn't say a word. LollierN for January .3, 1933 Once 1 saw her take a cjuiek look at her friend Mike, as though she were draw¬ ing strength Iron) him. and l looked down quickly and took another blood pressure. \ minute later I saw her hand Maconnet the ligature earner and reach back for the knife, and I thought ol a child playing a piano piece helore \ is- itors and getting it ported -so lar. And then Maconnet tipped his head back, like a drillmaster about to bel¬ low a command, and he said, “Instru¬ ment count.” I he kid answered, “All here, sir," and the circulating nurse cheeked it. Maconnet rared hack again, “Sponge count!” Larkin said, “Lighteen, sir.” The circulating nurse did not respond immediately. Maconnet turned and called, “Well, come on, eomc on.” The circulating nurse said, “1 have only sev¬ enteen.” Maconnet gazed at the wall. Ilis voice became sharp. “All l ight,” lie said, “let's get together on this. You girls are supposed to know how to count. Can t keep this patient open all day.” Larkin said, “Eighteen sponges.” The other girl scurried back to the table and searched the floor around Maeonnet's feet. She went back to her rack, where the red-stained pads were neatly lined up, and she counted again. A roomful of people counted with her. “Seventeen,” she said, and her voice quaked. Maconnet glared at Larkin. “How did you keep your count?” he demanded. There she stood, one student nurse holding up an operation by the great Dr. Maconnet. “Live sponges in each pack,” she said. Her voice was sure. “We used three packs, and three sponges out of the fourth pack. Eighteen.” I'll ne\er forget tin nc\i sokc th.it chimed in. a shiill sound like in a'.nm clock. I he Stoiiow woman Dr Ma¬ connet " the supermter dci t ke to the instructor. I his soung woman u,.> ihsolute*s correct. She wifi continue he r sti,d ^ Soon is she’s cleaned up here she f - port to sou ” He turned to j iMi Miss what is sour n nil ’ 1 >rk. Please come with me ’• P r „n*b mi He got her oser then' EG. . t the- panel Her to irs s^ere startmj to u c. and she could sc a reels see him. > . nurse enough to keep a secret. r he sate She bobbed her he. id He spoke quietly “l nfortunate sit uation.” he said. “C..n't et sou think 1 sewed up s\ it hunt knowing where that eighteenth sponge was ’* He'd been holding nis left hand r front ol him. the hand closed Now he opened it. and there \s.ts a sucks, red mass of gauze. He'd hidden the dung betsveen his hells and the tab e dun ig the operation “Did it dcliber itels . to test sou.” he told her. “Me mt to si n\v sou helore s\e scssed up. I hmgs. uh. got out of hand. Say nothing about tins to anyone in this hospital. Now. now. it’s all right.” She had begun to bass1 “It's all right, soung woman. Get hold of yourself.” I TOOK I arkin to dinner at the Th oli. inside the /one. 1 wished Maconnet could have seen her ssith the muse's gold leaf on her lapel, the sdser bar on her cap: Lieutenant Junior Grade Ann Larkin. She told me she’d been lucks. She liked the hospital ship. She’d had a less dass in Liverpool and I ondon. then the Pacific. Mostly. though, she’d been busy nursing the dek and wounded in the wards, in the ship. “That's all I eser ss anted,” she said, “eser since I ssas a little girl. Just to be a nurse.” It ssas Nos ember, but already she planned to be in the cathedral svhen Hospital Das came around, next Mas She’d heard they ssouldn’t have thou¬ sands of nurses in blue capes, any more not enough nurses turned out. I hey \\ let the ceiemons die in lifts -one. “Ibis nurse'll he there,” she said, “all by ms sell .” She wore no rings. Riding back to Balboa in ms jeep ssith a sulks- corporal at the ss heel. I asked I aikin about hei friend Pi inton .* the soung intern. “He's married,” she said. "Somebods from Westchester. Sou never iked him. did sou?” I admitted I hadn't liked Dr. Prmton. “lie liked sou.” she said. “He told me who went to Maconnet for me. that das. S ou didn’t think I knew, did sou’> lie also told me sou were . . . fond of me. Ans truth in that?” es.” At the pier, sve picked our was across the Hacks and between a couple ol locomotives, out to her ship. I climbed the gangway with her. and she took me to the promenade deck, which belonged to the officers I he moon was i:m imt oser the hills | made up ms mind lot to kiss her. not to sa\ ans thing more But she turned hei face tow aid me. and ihc'ie was a steads. In. nu ions look in her grown-up eves. | kissed her. I knew, that night, that I’d take my discharge and go hack to New Yoik. hack to anesthesiology . And I'd be at the cathedial. one certain Sunday

Page 38

Italian movie star* Eleonora Rossi-Drago, Marina Herti and Silvana Mangauo look languorous — and somewhat liorcd— -in American evening dress According to American tastes a woman is silks and satins and rare perfume* t MOVIES Stamped “Made in Italy" have taken black cotton stockings, laded house dresses and moth-eaten sweaters lor their trade-mark. Swathed in the stockings, the underpinnings of such provocative young Italian stars as Silvana Mangano, Marina Bcrti and Eleonora Rossi-Drago have an almost magnetic effect on movie-goers bound for the box office. And shabby dresses and old sweaters, when draped around the lithe bodies of these three young ladies, become instruments of glamor. Thus, Italian movie makers have evolved a turnabout formula for leg art: substantial quanti¬ ties of womanhood, covered as haphazardly as the censors will permit with the clothing of poverty. Silvana, a twenty-two-year-old, limpid-eyed bru¬ nette, pioneered the field of sex in black cotton stockings when she slogged her way through soggy rice fields five years ago in Bitter Rice. The physio- I 34 Collier's for January 3, 1953

Page 39

IS GLAMOR ? >r Italians she is cotton and patches and a frank approach to femininity logical attraction of Silvana in her threadbare shorts and unraveling sweater was instantaneous, tremendous and marvelously rewarding at the ticket windows. The pattern was set. Miss Rosst-Drago. twenty-four and a pale red¬ dish blonde, had her biggest role in Sensuality, which was a huge success abroad, but has run into trouble getting approved by American censors. Miss Bert i , most famous lor her role in Giacomo the Idealist, looks like an American coed, although she is said to have "an authentic Italian face." When the young ladies visited the U.S. last fall. their mink coats bespoke the fact that black cot¬ ton stockings, like diamonds, can indeed be a girl s best friend. To see whether Sihana, Marina and Hleonora had more appeal dishes eled or slicked up. Collier's photographed them both wa\s Which is glamor? Jk.Jk.Jk. PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY MILTON GREENE 35

Page 40

\ew Weapons Against Cancer— The X-Ray Cannon and Physicist John G. Trump (right) and physician Hugh F. Hare (left), who developed new treatment, position a model In revolving chahr alongside supervoltage X-ray machine at MIT

Page 41

the Rotating Chair This combination enables scient ists to boinbanl deep-lyi ng cancers uith powerful X rays. It's one of the most hopeful treatments yet Photograph him i- pul hetui i n uood -lal ill lo nii'U'im* do'ilL’r ol \ ra A TWO-MAN Massachusetts team of physicist and physician has combined a giant X-ray cannon and the ancient principle of a merry- go-round into one of the most hopeful methods of treating caneer to be developed in recent years. Pooling their knowledge, physicist John G. Trump and physician Hugh F. Hare built a device which from outward appearance might have come straight Irom the pages of science fiction. But in the three years it has been in operation, their machine has brought new hope to sufferers Irom deep-seated cancers difficult if not impossible to treat by other methods. Simply put, the Trump-Hare method permits massive doses of X ray to be delivered directly to eaneerous tumors with little injury to surrounding tissues. The secret? Revolving the patient on a platform so that powerful X-ray beams may focus constantly on their target while healthy surround¬ ing tissues receive only minor exposure, X rays have been used for years in treating can¬ cer, but until recently their application has been severely limited. They were excellent for readily accessible growths — as on the skin, lip or tongue— but of limited value for deeper cancers. They might make patients with deep-seated cancers more comfortable and might add a few months to their lives, but too often, that was about all. Using 200,000-volt machines sueh as are avail¬ able in most large hospitals, radiologists always face a dilemma. Cancer tissue is only slightly more sensitive to X rays than healthy tissue. If a radi¬ ologist administers too large doses — enough to kill cancer cells — he might also severely damage inter¬ vening tissues. The result: X-ray burns which take months to heal or never heal, or even leave holes in highly sensitive tissues such as intestines. Low-voltage X rays from conventional machines have another disadvantage. They scatter as they enter the body so that the cancer may get very little radiation and healthy tissue a great deal. They ean damage, and have damaged, healthy lung, stomach and intestinal tissues severely enough to eause death. Low-voltage X rays have another serious drawback. If the body trunk gets too much radiation, serious sickness generally follows — sickness marked by violent nausea. Radiologists have used laudable ingenuity in trying to reduce the limitations of their tool. They have used multiple-port X ray, shot at the can¬ cerous target from dillcrent directions, and they have stretched small daily X-ray doses over months. But they knew these measures were not the answer they were seeking; in many cases the treatment offered little hope of curing deep can¬ cers. Then in 1949 a brilliant, young ( forty-two at the time) associate professor of electrical engi¬ neering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technol¬ ogy thought he saw- a way around the difficulties. He was Dr, Trump, tall, blond, wartime head of the British branch of MIT’s Radiation Laboratory, which did pioneer work on radar, submarine- detecting devices, bomb-target locators and dozens of other electronics devices. Trump knew it was possible to build compact X-ray generators with 10 to 20 times the voltage of those in common use— machines in the 2,000,- 000- to 4,000,000-volt range. Million-volt X rays had been built in the late thirties and early forties, and an experimental 3,000,000-volt machine was Bn J. I). RATCLIFF built by Mil in 1940. Their beams penetrated deeply into the body and could be focused sharply at any given target with a minimum ol scatter. Another type of supervoltage machine had been used with striking success in the Army’s Walter Reed General Hospital in Washington by Dr. Mil- ton Friedman, then a lieutenant colonel in the Army and now head of the department of radia¬ tion therapy in New York's Hospital f or Joint Diseases. A group of workers at Huntington Me¬ morial Hospital, Boston, had reported similar suc¬ cess with supervoltages. With such machines, focus could be regulated to produce a beam rang¬ ing from the size of a dime to the diameter of a dinner plate. With perfect control, it was possible to radiate either the pea-sized pituitary in the center of the head or a cancerous lung. Trump figured a two-million volt machine would be about right for the cancer treatment he had in mind. Then he had another idea — which he thought was original but which turned out to be at least forty years old. Why not aim an X-ray beam at a target — say a cancerous womb — and then rotate the patient? If you did this the cancer would get a 100 per cent dose of radiation while the surrounding skin and other healthy tissues per¬ haps would get no more than 10 to 30 per cent. Most radiologists are satisfied if they ean hit a cancer with 2,000 to 3,000 roentgens (units of radiation) . Trump was thinking of 6,000 to 8,000! IMiy*iei*t"s Training W as Inadequate Sitting in his small, cluttered office in the rabbit warren ol buildings that make up MIT’s Radiation Laboratory at Cambridge, Massachusetts, I rump thought all these ideas looked tremendously invit¬ ing. Hut he wasn’t a medical man; he was a phys¬ icist. So he enlisted the help of a friend. Dr. Hare, head of the Department of Radiology’ at Boston's famed Lahey Clinie. Hare, fifty, is a compact, energetic, friendly man of world-wide reputation. He was born in State College, New Mexico, where his father was pro¬ fessor of chemistry at Agricultural and Mechan¬ ical College. He studied medicine at Harvard, and joined the Lahey Clinic stall in 1934. What did Hare think of 1 rump’s theorizing? There was nothing new about rotating the patient under .treatment, he said. That had been tried many times, but only with low-voltage X-ray ma¬ chines which don’t penetrate far into the body. Almost everyone who had tried the idea under those conditions had abandoned it as not worth the trouble. But if you used rotation with the giant-sized X-ray machine 1 rump had in mind, that was something else again. Trump's ideas looked good. Hare said, really good. I he newly formed team ot Hare and 1 rump took their ideas to the American Cancer Society, The High Voltage Lngineering Corporation ol Cambridge, a company set up by Trump and other technical men, could build the X-ray apparatus ot wanted voltage. It would cost about $90,000. Did the Cancer Society have $90,000 to spare? For¬ tunately, it did. I he awesome generator, a great cv'indricaJ can¬ non seven teet long and three leet in diameter, was built to order on the basis ol principles de¬ veloped by I rump's friend and assoeiale Dr. Robert .1. Nan de Graafl. and installed in i- tion. I he chair had to revolve at a constant speed -three fourths ot a revolution per minute — so X-rav exposure ot the skin would be even y dis¬ persed around the bodv . V arious tests indicated X rays penetrated pressed wood almost exactly as they penetrated human tlesh. So I rump and Hare with a team ot voung physicists and doctors— built a piessed-wood “phantom'"— a mock-up ot a human body. I he phantom was built in layers, so it could he pulled apart. Photographic film — which would measure X-ray dosage was inserted into the pelvic, lung and other areas ol the phantom. I hen. when the phantom was seated m the revolving chair and subjected to X-ray bombardment, it was possible to tell exactly how accurately the beam was focused on any particular spot and how much radiation was reaching that spot. Sueh trials were essential il the researchers were to learn how to hit the cancerous target in human beings. Months ol work went into these preparations betore one of the world's most unusual cancer clinics a dime associated with an engineering college opened October 3, 1949. Hare had a patient ready. Indeed the patient had been waiting tor two months while final mechanical and engi¬ neering details were completed. 1 he patient was a thirty -three-year-old Boston businessman with cancer of the pelvic bone. He had undergone three operations and all had been failures. Bits of cancerous hone had been left be¬ hind and the disease had tlamcd up again. Because it is hazardous to give too much radia¬ tion at one time the researchers decided arbitrarily to limit dosages to 2ND roentgens at one treatment. Since the total dose they wanted to administer was about 6,000 r, .this meant a schedule ot 20-odd treatments at the rate ot five a week. Ibis first patient kept appointments laithlully and spent 12 minutes at a time being peppered with radiation. Three years have elapsed since the treatment was completed and he is alive and well. It he is still alive and well two years hence, he may regard him¬ self as cured according to the rigid definition ot a cancer cure. Other patients came along. Because ot the time required to position patients properly so the X-ray beam would locus squarely on the target, not more than 15 to 20 a day could he handled. Another X-ray machine was needed, and it was provided by funds from the Amcncan Caneer Society; the Godfrey M. Ilyams I rust, a Boston philanthropy ; and Mil. At present the little clime is handling 30 to 40 patients a day and has treated a total of approximately 500. I recently visited the clinic and watched the treatment ot a typical patient. In the center of a large, concrete-block room, a young woman sat in a slowly revolving chair, her head and body- held firmly m position hv wood and metal clamps. I he baud ot a giant X-rav cannon was aimed at a pinpoint target; the cancerous 37 PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY MAXWELL FREDERIC COPLAN

Page 42

38 Supervoltaye X-ray machines now treat deep cancers which surgeons can't reach hirynx in the woman's throat. A 2.000,- ()00-\olt stream of X ravs twice as much radiation as could he produced by all the available radium in the world - was passing through the cancer. Outside the room, a young physicist peered through a loot-thick window, made of a do/.en sheets ot plate glass. Before him was an elaborate panel, similar to a control console in a broad¬ casting station. With it. he controlled the motion of the chair and the opera¬ tion ot the X-ray howitzer. 1 found that every cancer had its particular treatment requirements, de¬ termined largely by its position in the bod\. A patient with cancer of the lar¬ ynx may spend only five minutes in the revolving chair, while a woman w ith breast cancer may spend 15. The num¬ ber ot treatments also varies from 10 to 40, according to depth of the cancer. Danger in Pituitary Surgery What results have been achieved? The response to pinpoint X radiation frequently has been highly dramatic. For instance, take pituitary adenoma, a nonmalignant tumor. I umors on this gland which rests in a bony socket on the underside ol the brain — range from marble size to the size of a Ping-pong ball. As tumors grow, they often cause persistent headaches. In time, they exert pressure on the optic nerve to cause visual disturbances, and finally, blindness. Surgical removal of such tumors is a grave business. The surgeon must make an incision along the side of the head and push the brain aside to reach the pituitary. With heads clamped firmly in place, 58 patients with pituitary adenomas un¬ derwent treatment. In most, improve¬ ment in vision was almost immediate. Symptoms disappeared in 51 of the 58, and X-ray pictures gave evidence that the tumors had shrunk and disappeared. Cancer of the larynx (voice box) re¬ sponded with similar alacrity. It can be one of the most desperate and dis¬ tressing diseases found in any large hospital. Where surgery has a chance, the doctor enters the throat and re¬ moves the larynx. Here, again, was a small target ideally suited to rotational therapy. Of the first 21 patients treated, 17 are free of symptoms of their dis¬ ease as this is written. Two are dead, and in two the disease persists despite radiation. Two-million-volt therapy has also been given a chance at one of the grim¬ mest of all cancers — cancer of the lung. Until 1933, this disease was regarded as being universally fatal. That year a patient climbed on the operating table of Dr. Evarts Graham, of St. Louis. The patient was a physician, a Pitts¬ burgh obstetrician. “I want to be well or I'd rather not get off the table. Be as radical as you like.” he told Dr. Graham. Once the chest was opened, it be¬ came apparent that one lung was en¬ tirely gone of cancer and that complete removal was the only hope. Such an operation never had been performed successfully, blit Dr. Graham went ahead. The patient is still alive. The principal difficulty with this type of surgery is that by the time lung can¬ cer is recognized, two times out of three the disease has progressed so far that surgery would only hasten death. Ra¬ diation had been tried in the past on such inoperable cases; often it only caused additional severe damage to sen¬ sitive lung tissues. The story added up: no matter what was done, 17 of 20 lung-cancer victims would be dead two years alter their disease was discovered. Hare and frump believed supervolt¬ age therapy might be the answer be¬ cause their more powerful beam could deliver greater doses of X ray directly to the cancerous spot, and smaller amounts to areas of spread. After treat¬ ing numerous lung cancers, they by no means claim that they have a cure for this distressing and growing problem (lung cancer has tripled in the past 20 years). But they feel that preliminary results merit attention. Of 37 patients treated, 17 are alive and free of symp¬ toms, some for periods up to two years; 19 are dead, and symptoms recurred in one case. Developing the new mode ot treatment has often called tor a high degree ol ingenuity. This was true in treating cancers of the pelvic area: the bladder, pelvic bone and cervix (neck of the womb). The difficult) was that, if the intestine is irradiated, severe in¬ jury often results. To get around this danger. Hare trussed the lower abdomens of patients with tight woven elastic bandages, forc¬ ing the intestines upward. Patients then mounted the turntable and were held in a standing position. Of the first 32 women who underwent this treatment for cancer of the cervix, 23 arc appar¬ ently free of symptoms, four have died, the cancer has spread in one and there have been four recurrences. In cancer ol the bladder, results were less heartening, but still good in light of the seriousness of this disease. Of 25 cases treated in the first two years of work, 12 were freed of symptoms, 10 died and the disease persists in three. Rotational therapy has proved valu¬ able in at least one area unreachable by surgery — the nasopharynx. When cancer strikes in the dark labyrinth where nose and throat join, there is virtually no way for the surgeon to get to it. But X rays have no trouble find¬ ing the target. Seven of 10 patients who had cancer in this region are alive and symptom-lrec — thanks to rota¬ tional therapy. The other three died. Hare and Trump also have given their apparatus a chance with breast cancer, chief cancer killer of women. While surgeons have made notable progress with this disease, the prog¬ nosis is still far from good. Only a third of women who have cancerous breasts removed arc alive five years after surgery. The surgeon has no way of knowing with surety that cancer in such cases is confined to the breast. It may have slipped out through the lym¬ phatic system that surrounds this or¬ gan. possibly entered the blood stream, and planted seeds which will flower and flourish elsewhere in the body. Hare and Trump knew that straight rotational therapy, of the type used on cancer of the bladder, would have little application here. Why expose the entire circumference of the body to X rays when radiation was wanted only in the breast area? To solve this prob¬ lem they adapted the rotating chair so it would oscillate — swing back and forth — always keeping the breast area in X-ray focus. Most patients were women whose cancers had progressed so far surgery would be pointless. A few had under¬ gone breast amputation only to find that the cancer had escaped to sur¬ rounding areas. In all these cases, the patients were placed in the chair with their chests bared, and the chair was set to oscillate in an arc that would cover the field to be radiated — possibly even to include the armpits. To date, 20 such women have been treated. Nine arc alive and, for the moment at least, free of symptoms — an excellent record by almost any standards. Ten arc dead, and there is evidence of spread in the remaining one. For treatment of widely scattered skin cancers. Hare and Trump devel¬ oped yet another means of treatment — an electric bed that slides back and forth under an electron (not an X-ray) beam. Electrons penetrate the skin only a few centimeters and hence do not damage underlying structures. Since this type of treatment began only a few months ago. it is much too early to say what final results will be. Summing up: rotational therapy with supcrvoltages holds out great promise with adenomas of the pituitary, and cancers of I he pelvis, cervix and larynx. And it has turned in less spectacular results with cancers of the breast, blad¬ der, esophagus, lung and ovary. The re¬ searchers hold out little hope that it ever will be of great value in cancer of the intestine, stomach or liver; these organs arc far too sensitive to radiation. Rotational therapy has been found to have another interesting application. In a number of cases, it apparently has stopped the spread of cancer without eradicating the primary tumor. Thus it has opened the way for surgery where surgery would have been point¬ less before. From the patient’s point of view, rotational therapy has outstand¬ ing advantages. It causes almost no radiation sickness — only two out of the first 50 patients noted slight nausea — and burns almost never occur. But supcrvoltagc rotational therapy is not a cancer ‘‘cure” which will sal¬ vage lives of the incurable, or bring back from the brink of the grave those about to die. And a final estimate of the value of this type of treatment can¬ not be given for another tw o years. At that time the score for five-year sur¬ vivals can be added up. A person who is treated for cancer and lives for five years is regarded as cured. Incurable Cases Not Treated Since the capacity of their clinic is severely limited, Hare and Trump turn down terminal patients — those in the last stages of cancer. They feel their treatment should be given only where it has a chance of success; precious time should not be wasted on hope¬ less cases. Some estimate of what others think of the treatment may be gained from the fact that a number of top hospitals arc installing similar equipment. Dr. Milton Friedman had rotational equip¬ ment. plus a 2. 000, 000-volt X ray, built by General Electric at the Hospital for Joint Diseases, New York. To date, his results almost exactly parallel those at MIT. Boston’s Massachusetts Gen¬ eral Hospital and New' York’s new Dclalield Hospital, a unit of the vast Columbia-Prcsbyterian Medical Cen¬ ter, also have rotational apparatus. One internationally known cancer specialist, w'ho prefers to remain anony¬ mous, says: “This is in no sense a can¬ cer cure, but it is, by a wide measure, the best method of radiation therapy yet found.” Hare is slightly more optimistic: “This is the most promising method evolved so far of treating deep tumors susceptible to radiation, including many cases previously considered inacces¬ sible. While the clinical disappearance of the malignancies under treatment has been most gratifying, it must be remembered that a period of years is required to prove any new method of cancer treatment.” Collin4’* for January 3, 19.33

Page 43

Here’s OPPORTUNITY WIIH COLLIER’S: The Fire l oot Shelf of Books is avail¬ able only through authorized representatives. Opportunity's to join our organization arc open to woitln mm arid women ititrii*vr*«l in c duration and who would like to build up .1 substantial iiiomiu Write Ralph G. Smith, President 640 Fifth Ave., New Wrk 16. N. V. than just a luxuriously bound five-foot shelf of books . . . than 418 of the greatest literary masterpieces of all time... than selected writings of 302 most famous authors in the world Here’s a liberal education . . . a masterfully planned, ex¬ haustively indexed, prescription for learning. Here's reading that realistically reflects the progress of man from the beginning of time to modern times . . . not fust in literature, but in science, politics, drama, medicine . . . in fact in every major field of knowledge. Daily Readme Guide outlines a lit teen-nun u t e-u-day . pleasu re-read¬ ing program. H serious study is your personal assignment, eleven reading courses on such subjects as history, philosophy, and education are out¬ lined from \\ hich the reader will acquire a fundamental background in all the main departments of intellectual activity. A . . so inexpensive that everyone can afford to o:cn T/ie Harvard Classics." \Y. A. FitzGerald in the Library Journal \\ II Y \\ \IT a single minute longer when, for a small dow n payment, y on can have the complete 5 l-\ olume set delivered to your home, shipping charges prepaid . . . and you may spread the balance o\ cr two lull \ ears. NAME Please Print City /one Stare BUOGET TERMS AVAILABLE IN THE U S AND CANADA ONLY You’ll find Hie Harvard Classics on the bookshelf of important people in every walk of life . . . Facli mind-st im- ulating volume is a rich, new expe¬ rience in learning. From The Harvard Classics you develop the broad view¬ point, the culture, the conversational poise that are the tools ol success in modern business and society. Here in 22,407 fascinating pages is the thrilling cavalcade ol kings and commoners, soldiers and scholars, knights and knaves, priests and poets — beginning with the dawn of history and sweeping down through the centuries. Here is the drama, ideas and emo¬ tions, that make up life itself. THE FIVE-FOOT SHELF OF BOOKS 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19. N. Y, IMt’ii st* .send im\ without cost or obligation, your elaborately colored hro- thuro full of interesting Information about the Five - boot Slit’ll of Hooks . . . plus inlorniat Ion about bow I can own this beautiful home library on convenient luid lie t terms.

Page 44

40 CELLULOID NUDE By II VYMI! \l, COONS III which Dear George, the irrepressible Hollywood press agent, Jinds himself mixed up with a stormy actress who wants to express herself at all costs — and at his expense FEDERAL PICTURES Hollywood, California From RICHARD L. REED Director of Publicity October 6, 1952 Air Mail Mr. George Seibert Special Representative, Federal Pictures Hotel Diiltwood Vero Reach, Florida Dear George: George, it pains me considerably to have to in¬ terrupt your vacation. After twenty years of faith¬ ful service, a full week with pay isn’t one bit too much, and don't think that 1 consider you slothful. 1 don’t. It's just that a little thing has come up on which 1 need immediate aid. As you may know, for once somebody had a good idea around here, and we have just completed an absolutely sure-fire hit called Nude Descending a Staircase. Or, as I shall shortly refer to it in large, rollicking ads, “The Hilarious Story of Modern Art and Modern Artist’s Models!” This one, believe me, is in the bag. It's naturally full of nice sets and beautiful girls, but somebody had sense enough to add a little good, wholesome fun for all the family, and the result is a picture so positively entertaining *'\\ hy. Georg' “ she suddenly said, "anybotly would have know n that that aw fill painting was no good. Why, it's an insult to art.'' And graspi

Page 45

41 that for once we don't have to do one thing to help sell it. This one is going to do more business than Dollar Day at Fort Knov Particular!) since the star of it happens to he Miss Linda Lee, America's newest heat wave and general chest of charms. When her countless Ians think for even one minute of Miss Linda 1 ee actu¬ ally at work in an artist’s studio, strong men are apt to get crushed in the pandemonium. We not only don’t need to help this one, there is nothing even you could do to hurt it. This one is in. And why am 1 pulling you out of the surf to tell you this happy hit of good news? Because, George, since this one was very evi¬ dently a hit right from the start, I have been denot¬ ing part of our usually busy publicity time to helping to play a small dirty trick on beautiful Miss Linda Lee. Since you spend very little of your time out here, being, as you arc, sort of our national so¬ cial butterfly, you undoubtedly have no idea the hell that Miss Lee has caused at this establish¬ ment. She is not only our biggest money-maker, she is in every way our biggest pain in the neck. The Lord, for some reason of His own. gave her a body that causes every man in this world to faint dead away; but then He carelessly coupled it to an almost monumental ego, and accord¬ ingly, as she has become more and more I. mous, she has also become more and more demanding latch, hmdh anvhodv in this place has got much ol an\ thing done except to rush to light Miss I cc's cigarette, rush to sweep out Miss 1 ec s solid-gold dressing room and. in geneial. rush at all times to lick Miss 1 cc’s queenlv hoots All ot which was difficult enough at best, but during the mak¬ ing ol '’Nude,” things rapid!) became downright impossible. As you know, hall the people in this town think they’re great artists painters, that is. hvcrvbodv in the place ’ paints.” and. in fact, it wouldn’t he going too tar to say that more canvas has been ruined in 1 loll) wood than the time the c\ clone hit Ringling Brothers. But most ot it does little harm, it helps keep the hired hands out ot trouble, and usually the only result is a little good clean tun when they get together to show one another their cllorts. But not with Miss 1 cc. She, naturally, also ’■paints.” And being Miss Linda Lee, when she started work as the star of a genuine art picture, it was almost certain that chaos would follow. By the second morning she had her dressing room full ol large, cumbersome easels, stacks ol innocent canvas and enough paint to redo Buckingham Pal¬ ace. And from then on, every time the cameras paused even L ' a 1 Ivj * . - i di t ip everv thin > * n ’ t • « >, • t room lo appl aid gem us ’ *.• ■» k I o make thin js worse ; *. -ittca in 1 t • s lor a do/ui or m i l \ f • -e * , \ most : . ■ ■ 1 cm ai lists . ml cl itics i; v. ,. • • • M ■ H I d\ke duct tor ol New \ • s r ol, d \1 , i u t C onkmpoi, i\ \rt and • tl „ poor r • ». ov had to p ddle fight m with ’ «v . the v . r'-' o • • ‘ ah, an el sa\. Miss I cc how s ipe h Im.ij >> -^st the) could not to throw ip She aKo cd them momitu. noon and meht lor Ikc rt *ossi ns Show me how to draw an ocean. >Ik' I s.c. . p Sit¬ ing. And il they didn’t show hen ?,* * : h. oi weren't ecstatic enough when she got t • ich she’d call the Iront ollice , nd ask how c» nu> she possib y go on with this impossible picture, /* minute she wasn’t actuall) beloie the cam¬ eras she must work, work, work on it. She must let no one into her dressing room No one hut her actual fellow artists should even see the picture until it was finished. And by working in relays, they kept her hard at it — adding a few more shrimp here, a little more moonlight there, changing the clouds from white, to blue, to green the thing gradually growing into what is without doubt the worst painting ot all time. Out standing we all cried. And in truth, parts of it arc outstanding, the paint on some por¬ tions being at least three quarters ol an inch thick The important thing being that, by keeping her thus occupied, we got our motion picture done in record time, ever) body happv as a lark. Which, believe me. was absolute!) all ot m\ original purpose. And if I do say it myself, I saved the day. But then up jumped the devil. Because ever since we completed the picture. Miss 1 ee has had her beautiful rear parked on the coiner of my desk the day long, demanding— so help me —to know win. as part of the picture’s publicity . I can’t arrange an exhibit somewhere for her ghastly painting! Some of the biggest artists in the countrv said it w.is a masterpiece- — which they sure did— and il 1 now couldn't arrange even one worth-while exhibit, it was maybe time for a new publicity head around here. And of course now that / need an idea, nobody has any. F very body’s suddenly verv busv on new projects. Oh. you’ll think ot something. Dick, old hoy. they say. George, as you know this is a crazy business. And if I don't come up with something, and soon. I'm telling you this could end up in getting me tired. You have no idea the power this impossible Lee woman wields around this place. So if you ever thought, think now. Help. As ever, Dick RICHARD L. RFL D rtOLR U IMCTI RI S noil A WOOD CAI II ALWAAS (il AD TO ASSIST I ROM III RF Till SOL n ION SI I MS SIX1IU 1 I I lls DL SI R\ l\C» CilRI HAS WORK. I I) MARI') ON MIR PAINIING. AND NOW SHI NAIL R AI I A WANTS SOMI Rl( (K’.NI- TION. W HALS Till MAI I L R Will! 1 1 IIS L FDA KL ? ML IOI.L) IM R II WAS CiOOD. LIT HIM [ NIMBI! n both hands, she belted it across the hack of a chair, with everyone cheering ILLUSTRATED BY GILBERT DARLING

Page 46

42 ri. and now n i here's nothing I I SF , I Wilt Gin BACK TO MY II A M- MOC K. l.OX E. GEORGE GFORGI SI IBI RT noil I DRI I I WOOD \ I KO BI AC II I I A in god. cjI-orge, you’ve comf i p \\ I Ill A TTKRIIIC IDT A. AIR-MAIL II III R l O! I OWS Dl TAILING WHAT XOl RI LO DO. 1 CAN N 1 V h R THANK YOU LNOUGIL DICK FE.DIRAI PICTURES Hollv wood, C alifornia r i om RICH ARD 1.. RFLD Director of Publicity October 8, 1952 Air Mail Mr. George Seibert Special Representative, Federal Pictures Hotel Driltwood Vero Beach, Florida Dear George: Boy, thanks. The minute I got your telegram, the whole thing fell into place like the last piece of a two-dollar jig¬ saw. 1 hadn't thought of Upd>ke. Anyway, in thirty minutes I’d com¬ pleted the plans, talked to Updyke by telephone and the whole thing was ar¬ ranged. Here's the deal. It turns out that Up- dvke's big annual fall festival opens a week lrom Saturday. And he has agreed to exhibit Miss 1 inda lee's excellent freehand modern painting. Moonlight on a Shrimp Boat, as the feature of the show! Needless to say. Miss Lee is de¬ lighted. Mr. Lpdvke is immediately re¬ leasing reams of publicity on it in New York as we are here; and Miss Lee is going to 11\ to New York to appear per¬ sonally at the opening. I he painting it¬ self will be on its way air express within the hour, addressed to you, e/o Hotel Waldorf-Astoria. I he truth being that what Updyke actually said was, quote: If you have anything in mind concerning that woman that invohes murder, you may count on im every co-operation. Which the rest ol the plan certainly does. Because on Thursday afternoon you and Miss 1 ee are to personally de¬ liver her precious painting to the mu¬ seum, to make sure that it arris es safely and to attend a small preopening cere¬ mony celebrating Miss 1 cc's hanging. Well, George, you know that en¬ trance to the museum? Just inside the huge plate-glass doors is a little foyer, and from there sou go up the most ridiculous staircase ever devised. It con¬ sists of slabs of polished ebony, seem¬ ingly Boating in the air in a great curs e, being suspended from the ceiling on a spider web of wrought iron. 1 have looked at that staircase a dozen times, and thought what a wonderful place it svas for a man to break a leg. Now wait, don't get excited. Here's all I want sou to do. At the appointed time sou and Miss Lee will debouch from a cab, enter and mount those stairs — you earning the painting. But just as you reach the top, sou are going to slip on that fool polished chons, cry oops, and over backward you will go, down the sshole kaboodle. sticking at least one leg through that horrible paint¬ ing at every bounce. By the time you hit the loser. Miss 1 cc's painting ss ill be but a memory, smashed beyond re¬ call by a regrettable accident no man could have foreseen. After the crash, there svill he a mo¬ ment of stunned silence. Anxious faces svill appear at the head of the stairs. Miss Lee and Mr. Updyke. recovering their senses, will come clattering down. MORI WONDERFUL. MINT. ON T11H OTI U R HAND. I GUI SS IT W'OUI.D BE EASIER JUST TO GO UP THERE AND DO II THAN TO I RY TO I XPI.A1N TO YOU WHY NO SANT MAN WOULD CONSIDER IT. I LL M Y UP TOMOR¬ ROW. AND WHILE I'M AT IT, LET ML REMIND H)U THAT 1 HERE'S NO SU( II THING AS A MOTION PICTURE SO GOOD IT DOESN'T NEED TO BE PUB- LK I/I I). MAX BE. I CAN RUN INTO SOM U I III NG THAT WILL GIVE US A GOOD SPREAD OR TSSO ON 11 GEORGE G FORGE SEIBERT HOTEL DR1ETWOOD VERO BEAC H l LA GEORGE, 1 BEG OF YOU, DON'T VOL¬ UNTEER ANY EXTRA ASSISTANT I NOT ON 1 HIS ONE. JUST HOP UP 111 IRE. STICK SOUR LEG THROUGH THAT PAINTING, AND THAT IS ALL, RI PEAT ALT.. THAT 1 WANT EROM YOU AT THIS TIME. NOW GET UP THERE AND CASE THAT STAIRCASE. RICHARD L. REED RICHARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALIF YES SIR. IT'S AS GOOD AS DONE. SIR ILL WIRE YOU THURSDAY AETFR- NOON HIE INSTANT 1 HE MISSION'S COMPLETED. GEORGE Rl( HARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALIF RU N l OR THE HH.I S! I MEAN LFT'S BECALM. WHATEVER THAT EXCITED UPDYKE MAY WIRE YOU DON'T GET UPSET III L YOU GI 1 AIR MAIL SPF- ( l A I . I ROM ME. IT EXPLAINS EVERY¬ THING. AND DON’T WORRY, ITT WORK IT OUT. GEORGE HOTEL WALDORF-ASTORIA New York, New York October 16, 1952 Air Mail Special Mr. Richard L. Reed Dircclor of Publicity, Federal Pictures Hollywood, California Dear Dick: Well, believe me, there svas just no possible way for this thing to go wrong. But it did. All due to the treachery of your beautiful Miss I .inda Lee. Bui let me just tell you what hap¬ pened. In the first place, everything went just fine right up to the last minute. I spent hours, days, casing that staircase, planning my every move. By last night I knew that staircase as a goldfish knows his howl. 1 even stayed last night after the place closed, wrapped myself in several of Mr. Updyke’s old sweaters, and practiced the actual fall at least eighteen times — until 1 thought that the next one would crack my clavicle. The point is that when today dawned, I was ready. Trained to a fault, lean as a greyhound — ready. Then Miss Lee arrived in town, look¬ ing as beautiful as an innkeeper's dream — let's face it, one look at that woman and I was ready to throw away my golf clubs — and for a time I caught myself thinking that perhaps we were being unfair to her. But then she immedi¬ ately started throwing her weight around, complaining loudly about her suite and demanding to sec if her paint¬ ing had arrived safely, and I began to see what you mean. Nothing would do but 1 had to unwrap the painting so that we could both admire it. My God, isn't it hideous! 1 finally got it wrapped up Collier Y for J urinary 3. 1933 followed by the others, horrified. Mr. Updyke svill sadly remove what is left ot the painting from around your neck. Miss Lee will cry, 1 will paint you another one! No. my child, he ss ill say, that is impossible. It svill he many sears bet ore the art world sees such work again. A truly unusual thing has been forever destroyed. And at that Miss Lee will no doubt turn around and just kick the living hell out ol sou. Did sou ever hear of anything so wonderful? I his rib is so beautiful that after we get through with it, it should he mounted in the Smithsonian. Mr. Updskc gets gallons ot publicity for his art show; sve get gallons of publicity for our picture, even if sve don't need it; and when .Miss Lee gets hack out here, sve svill gradually let the rib leak out, and lor a sshile she should be a nicer girl to work with. The beauty of the gag being that no matter how mad she gets, she can't prove a thing. And at least that oil-painted alba¬ tross can plague me no more. So hop to it. Get up there to New York at once, meet Mr. Updyke and get everything set. Practice that brodie, George, as Paderewski practiced his scales. This one is for love, the good of the corps. As ever, Dick RICHARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALIF THANKS A LOT FOR INCLUDING ME IN ON THIS HILARIOUS GAG. BUT l KNOW' THAT STAIRCASE, AND l ALSO KNOW MISS LINDA IFF. AND F()R- TUNATELX I'VE Jl ST SIGN! D TO GO OXER NIAGARA EXITS IN A BARREL ON THURSDAY A I 1ERNOON. SO AS YOU LAN SEE, I JUST CAN'T HELP YOU. GLORGE GEORGE SI IBFRT HOTEL. DRIFTWOOD VERO BEACH I FA HA II A HA. WHEN ARE YOU LEAV¬ ING? DICK RICHARD E. REED EIDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALIF ALL RIGHT, I'LL DO IT ON ONE CONDITION. I LL CARRY THE PAINT¬ ING CP THE STAIRS, H I CAN HIRE A DOUBLE FOR THE TRIP DOWN. EVl RX BODY ELSE IN T HIS I OOL BUSI¬ NESS I SIS A DOUBLE FOR ANYTHING AT ALL HAZARDOUS. WHY CANT I? GEORGE GEORGE SFtBFRT HOTEL DRIFTWOOD VERO BEACH I LA BY GOD. GEORGE, YOU'RE LOSING ALL X Ol. R SE NSE Ol F UN. DON’T YOU REALIZE THAT W'E'VF. WORKED ON THIS GAG FOR MONTHS? DO YOU MEAN TO SAY YOU'D XX ANT TO RI IN IT NOW? THE MOST XXONDLR- EUL RIB IN THE WORLD? RICHARD L. REED RICHARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALIF JUST OFFHAND I CAN THINK OF AN EVEN TWO DOZEN RIBS THAT ARE “Wouldn't you love to be lying on the beach, worrying about how much it was costing you?” william von riegen

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43 \ again after a fashion — whew — and we went down and had some lunch, Miss Lee blistering the waiters over every item and practically twisting her neck off making sure that sufficient people were looking at her. Then, finally, it was mercifully near two o’clock, so we got the painting, got a cab and headed for our appoint¬ ment with destiny. And everything, 1 tell you, went just fine. When we got out of the cab, I told Miss Lee, no, / would carry the paint¬ ing — she could trust me implicitly — and with her slightly in the lead, we started up that staircase. And just as we reached the top, I slipped, right where I’d planned to, cried out a dra¬ matic oops, and, with no thought of self, threw up my arms and toppled over backward, bumping and crashing down that flight of stairs just exactly as I’d planned — a veritable maelstrom of arms and legs. At every bounce stick¬ ing this leg through the painting, jam¬ ming that leg through the painting, this arm, that arm, this head, those legs. I was utterly demolishing that painting. But about halfway down I began to get a horrible feeling. That painting was just not giving me enough resist¬ ance. Even in my busy, bumpy condi¬ tion, I began to realize that either the painting was made out of extremely light canvas — some form of gauze — or T had somehow failed to bring it along. Which latter, I regret to say, was the case. As I crashed on down into the foyer and looked back up, Miss Lee was indeed standing at the head of the staircase calmly holding the painting, having evidently treacherously plucked it out of my arms as I’d started over backward. It's all right, George, she called down. I saved the painting. You just lie there and get a good rest; I’ll take it on in. And before I could utter a word, she and the painting had disappeared, headed for poor Mr. Updykc and the ceremony. From my crumpled position in the foyer, there was simply nothing I could do to prevent it. 1 had given my all. Crawling weakly out the door, I found a kindly cabdriver and came on back here to the hotel. You know, Dick, the more I think about it, the more I sec that maybe I should have practiced the fall with a painting of some sort. Then I probably wouldn’t have thrown up my arms so much as I went over, making it less easy for her to pick off the painting. Do you think that w'ould have been better? On the other hand, where could I have got eighteen paintings to practice with? Even those frames are worth money. No, I guess actually we did the best we could. It was just one of those things. And don’t worry; I'll work it out. Just as soon as my head stops aching and I find out if this leg is broken, I’ll start right to w'ork on figuring out some way to get poor Mr. Updyke off the hook. Because, believe me, Dick, he just can’t exhibit that painting. If you ex¬ hibited that painting in a henhouse, egg production would stop. Well, I’ve got to ring off. All for now. As ever, George GEORGE SEIBERT HOTEL WALDORF-ASTORIA NEW YORK NY YOU BLITHERING IDIOT! ON THE CHANCE THAT YOUR LEG. ISN'T BROKEN, I AM SENDING A MAN TO BREAK IT. ALSO AIR MAIL SPECIAL Collier’s for January 3, 1933 INFORMING YOU IN SOME MEASURE OF WHAT YOU'VE DONE. RICHARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES Hollywood, California From RICHARD L. REED Director of Publicity October 16, 1952 Air Mail Special Mr. George Seibert Special Representative, Federal Pictures Hotel Waldorf-Astoria New York, New York George, you fool, you: Well, boy, you’ve really done it this time. I didn’t think that it was possible for you to set any new' records in caus¬ ing me trouble, but it seems that you have. 1 have been on the phone most of the afternoon, talking to Mr. Updyke. Or rather listening to Mr. Updyke splutter. He is an angry man. I haven’t yet received your side of w'hat happened — your side, hah! — but whatever hap- ’ pened. Updyke is convinced that I planned the w'hole thing this w'ay. ruin¬ ing his whole Christmas festival just to make a bigger publicity stunt for our picture. It was lousy of you! he yelled into the phone, dignity totally gone, his pinec-nez no doubt askew. You see, since wfith your great as¬ sistance Miss Lee managed to get the painting to him undamaged, and in front of all those people, there's little else he can now do but go ahead and exhibit it. Feigning a stroke — he didn’t have to feign much — he at least can¬ celed the hanging ceremony, so no¬ body’s actually seen the thing yet; but come Saturday he will have to expose it to public view'. And yet, as he clev¬ erly put it, he will personally cut his throat rather than exhibit it. Putting him on the horns of a pretty nasty di¬ lemma. He shouted, in closing, that I had ruined his show', and now he was going to ruin my show, if it was the last thing he ever did, so help him Sal¬ vador Dali. And you know' what, George — he can do it. The people on the board of that museum of his include half the prominent men in this country — news¬ paper publishers, bankers, critics, own¬ ers of theater chains, the heads of every art group in this country. And what is worse, their wives. George, he can murder us. In one outraged day on the phone, he can slam enough doors on us to cut the receipts of our sure-fire pic¬ ture down to the point where we’ll be lucky to break even. And the horrible thing is that, just as there was no w'ay Miss Lee could have proved our guilt, so there is now no way to prove to Mr. Updyke our in¬ nocence. I am, in a word, cooked. Because you see, George, when I first started this gag. having been around this town for a while, I first cleared my¬ self with the boss, 1 told Mr. Lou Bent¬ ley, our beloved employer, about the dandy little joke we were going to play on Miss Linda Lee. Swell, he said, chuckling — she has driven him nuts. too. Swell, he said, go ahead. Of course, Diek, he added, don’t do anything that might hurt the receipts of the picture. So, having given me that definite warning, if this scheme really goes to smash I will probably not only he fired at this studio, I w'ill be black-listed at every other studio and become a dirty word around this town forever. Which might make me upset at you. So how' about cranking your brain Attic Safari By STANLEY and JANICE BEREXSTAIN PRIMITIVE JUNGLE MUSIC TRADING POST I

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44 just like sixty, and somehow getting us out of this unfortunate situation? Because otherwise I intend to beat you to death with a hoe handle, drag you up to Canada and turn you in for the wolf bounty. That way I’ll at least have fifty dollars to start fresh on. By no means as ever, Richard L, Reed RICHARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALI! HAN E HAD A WONDERFUL IN¬ SPIRATION. EVERYTHING GOOD AS SOLVED. AND BY THE WAY, MY LEG WASN'T BROKEN AT ALL JUST BADLY BRLTSFD. I CAN NOW GET AROUND PERFECTLY. AND. AS YOU KNOW, THAT MEANS THAT EVERY¬ THING HERE IS JUST ABOUT UNDER CONTROL. YES SIR. I LL WRITE YOU TONIGHT WITH THE GOOD NEWS. GEORGE HOTEL WALDORF-ASTORIA New York, New York October 17, 1952 Air Mail Special Mr. Richard L. Reed Director of Publicity, Federal Pictures Hollywood, California Dear Dick: Well, everything’s going just fine. I hope. But maybe I’d better tell you, step by step, how I've gone about saving the situation. The fact is, I w?oke up about four o’clock this morning with what seemed to be the solution to the w hole problem, I suddenly saw that our only possible out was simply to induce Miss Lee to withdraw her painting from the show. That would solve everything. But she must of course do it w ithout rancor, in order to avoid any possible bad pub¬ licity for the picture. So. arising and walking rapidly about the room, I sketched out a plan. And shortly after dawn I was ofT to Greenwich Village. There weren't many people in the Village up as yet — it was a little before six — but I did man¬ age to make certain inquiries of several people who were on their way home. And by noon, by which time I figured Miss Lee would be up, blinking her lovely eyes, I was back at the hotel, the job done. Here was the plan — and I think you can only agree that it was masterful. As you know, movie actresses are mer¬ curial, Their deepest convictions of this morning are not necessarily their vaguest notions of this afternoon; they tend to vibrate. At lunch, therefore, I launched into a terrific sales talk to Miss Lee. I told her that right in her hands was a provi¬ dential chance to really develop her great art talent; the thing for her to do, I said, was to speed to Greenwich Vil¬ lage with all haste, find a group of real working artists and, for a precious day or two, steep herself in art. Get the true atmosphere, 1 said. Why, writh her nat¬ ural talent, even a day or two in Green¬ wich Village could well make her one of the truly great painters of all time. Yes, she said, I do believe that it would. She is a truly modest girl. Anyway, by one thirty we were off to the Village, my idea being that I would introduce her into the lowliest and scrubbiest group of artists I could find. And I had found them — the Perry Street Picassos. None of them, as far as could be ascertained from the neigh¬ bors, had taken an all-over bath or made five cents in ihc last year, and I figured that a few hours with this group might well sicken Miss Lee on the whole subject of art. Then, getting her out into the hall, I would throw the clincher. Miss Lee, I would say, we see here real working artists in all their wretched misery, striving, striving . . . And, Miss Lee, I have completely changed my mind about your art career. You have so much. You have your loveliness of face and figure, your great dramatic talent, and now your great art talent. Miss Lee, withdraw your painting from the show ! It isn't right that you should conquer their world, too. And what could she possibly do? Burst into tears, fall on my neck, and mutter brokenly, oh, George, how right you are. Let us go up to the museum instantly, see Mr. Updyke and remove my unfair painting from the competi¬ tion. But that is not quite the w ay it turned out. We spent the afternoon with the Perry Street Picassos, all right, and they were pitiable in their hero worship of Miss Linda Lee. The only trouble was that Miss Lee didn't play her role quite as l had had it sketched out. As toul luck would have it, she was born on Perry Street! In a basement. She took deep draughts of that Perry Street air as though we were in the Adirondacks, Oh, it's good to be home, she said, with a chance to help these talented people. And when I finally maneuvered her out into the hall and began my pre¬ pared speech, 1 could see immediately that it was falling woefully short. So I played my final trump — perhaps 1 could still bring her to her senses. You just cant compete with these people, I ended, desperately. Why, they are so poverty-stricken that they can't even hire models. They take turns at the nude posing. Oh, she said, how terribly demo¬ cratic. And started back into the room, taking ofi her coat. And the fact is that her first posing session is set for tomorrow afternoon at three. For once, she said, these fel¬ low artists will have a model worthy of their talents. And afterward, she added brightly, I shall give them a short lec¬ ture on the use of the camel’s-hair brush. You know, come to think of it, why don’t 1 give some lectures up at the museum while my painting is on exhibit there — the proper use of color, the importance of a north light — a few simple things like that? Dick, there is no use delaying the really awful part any longer. . A few minutes ago one of the leaders of the Perry Street Picassos called and hap¬ pily said that in their gratitude for Miss Lee’s co-operation, they were doing everything possible to help us publicize her new movie. So they had called all the newspapers and picture magazines to tell them she was going to pose for them, and at w'hat time. And you know what? he said. They all seemed real pleased to know about it and said they were sure they could send some re¬ porters and photographers down. I guess you just didn't think of that, uh, Mr. Seibert? he said. In other words, we are ruined. Round-table nude posing being just fine for real artists, and, I must say, cer¬ tainly democratic. But if Miss Linda Lee tries it, she will of course find out that most of her fans are really Repub¬ licans, and the national dudgeon that would be aroused is horrible to contem¬ plate. In a matter of days both she and your sure-fire picture would be deader than a week-old mackerel. But don’t worry. I’ll work it out. Af¬ ter all, I’ve got till three o’clock tomor¬ row. Mr. Updyke’s festival doesn't open till noon, and her posing appoint¬ ment in the Village isn't till three. Which gives me all kinds of time. But I really must get to figuring out just how I’m going to handle it. Hasty regards, George BELLEVUE HOSPITAL NEW YORK NY PLEASE TREAT FOLLOWING AS CONFIDENTIAL. FILM STAR LINDA LEE HAS SUFFERED COMPLETE NERV¬ OUS BREAKDOWN. SHE IS IN GREEN¬ WICH VILLAGE YOUR CITY UNDER ILLUSION SHE IS YOUNG STRUG¬ GLING PAINTER. PATHETIC CASE OF DOUBLE SCHIZOPHRENIA. SHE HAS AGREED TO POSE IN THE NUDE FOR GROUP OF ARTISTS ON PERRY STREET AT THREE THIS AFTERNOON. AT OUR EXPENSE DISPATCH ADE¬ QUATE FORCE TO LOCATE MEETING PLACE, THROW A CLOAK ABOUT HER POOR, CONFUSED SHOULDERS AND PLACE HER UNDER PROPER CUSTODY UNTIL I CAN GET THERE. OH, ONE OTHER THING. TAKE ALONG A SIZE 42 STRAIT JACKET, IN CASE YOU SHOULD HAVE ANY TROUBLE WITH MAN CALLING HIMSELF GEORGE SEIBERT. THIS MAN IS A COMPLETE LUNATIC. AND IT IS HIGH TIME THAT HE WAS PUT AWAY. I WILL SIGN THE COMPLAINT. RICHARD L. REED DIRECTOR OF PUBLICITY FEDERAL PICTURES RICHARD L. REED FEDERAL PICTURES HOLLYWOOD CALIF HEY, SURPRISE. GOOD NEWS. FES¬ TIVAL OPENED THIS NOON ON SCHEDULE, AND LINDA’S PAINT¬ ING TREMENDOUS HIT. WELL, NOT EXACTLY. ANYWAY, EVERYTHING HERE JUST FINE, AND MR. UPDYKE LOVES US. AIR MAIL FOLLOWS WITH THRILLING DETAILS. GEORGE Collier’s for January 3, 1933 “Mi s. Morgan next door. Doesn’t know how in the world she forgot to invite us to the party. Wants us to hurry over colliers and — oh, yes — bring some ice cubes’* shirvanian

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45 HOTEL WALDORF-ASTORIA New York, New York October 18, 1952 Air Mail Mr. Richard L. Reed Director of Publicity, Federal Pictures Hollywood, California Dear Dick: Well, it’s been a busy day. Whew! After my terrible experience with Miss Lee in the Village yesterday, I saw this morning that the time had come for firm action. I therefore ate a hasty but substantial breakfast, and was shortly off about town at flank speed. And by a little before twelve, when I picked up Miss Lee to escort her to the festival opening, it was with a greatly relieved mind. Arriving at the museum, we negoti¬ ated the staircase without mishap and began making our way through the ad¬ miring throng of art lovers, Miss Lee bowing and smiling most graciously. With some effort I maneuvered her artist, living or dead, would hold still for such a ridiculous switch? And here he was a hit! Which I suppose made me an art patron. Imagine that. My reverie was suddenly interrupted by my being bitten on the arm. It was Miss Lee, grasping me. You unspeak¬ able cad, she whispered hoarsely — that’s roughly what she whispered — what have you done! Well, it was now or never. I turned and looked straight into her beautiful, blue eyes. Shut up, I said, just keep bowing, and follow me. And possibly in sheer surprise, she did. In a matter of minutes we were safely out of the place and in a cab, speeding not to Greenwich Village, but back to the hotel. Miss Lee sitting bolt upright, eyes blazing, bosom heaving. Just wait till I get to a phone and call the studio, she was muttering between clenched teeth; I’ll fry you like an egg. Save it, l said; we have a big after¬ noon ahead. At the hotel the manager seemed dis¬ along toward the special room where, at twelve fifteen, Mr. Updyke was to un: veil her widely heralded painting. Moonlight on a Shrimp Boat. And at twelve fifteen Mr. Updyke advanced, tight-lipped, and did unveil it. In an attitude almost of prayer, he paused a moment, then yanked the curtains. There was a nervous scatter of hand clapping, then a growing tumult of ap¬ plause. The painting was an instantane¬ ous hit! For the first time in some days, Mr. Updyke smiled. And not because Miss Lee’s painting had turned out to be a hit. Because it hadn’t. The paint¬ ing, of course, wasn’t hers at all, but a former unknown work of Mr. Updyke’s own, originally titled Nude Waiting for a Bus, which he and I had secured earlier that morning out of his attic. Mr. Updyke had just never had nerve enough to exhibit anything of his own, as he'd shamefacedly confessed to me while I w'as staying late practicing my historic fall. This morning I had there¬ fore simply convinced him that he had to substitute one of his own well-hidden paintings, as there was just no other artist we could appeal to. What other Collier’s for January 3, 1953 traught. You were quite right, he said; we certainly couldn’t have them in the halls, so on your prior instructions, I have let them into Miss Lee’s suite, I trust that everything will be all right. So do I, I said, fervently. And we sped up to Miss Lee's plush quarters, to find them teeming with quite an assort¬ ment of odd-looking citizens- the Perry Street Picassos. Knowing that you would undoubtedly have laid a trap of some sort in their native runways, I had had them eomc up to the Waldorf. They must have made a stirring picture coming through the lobby. But at the moment they were grouped in great merriment about Miss Lee’s own painting, which was standing on an easel. As she started forward, I gripped her arm. Steady, I said, steady. And at that, one of their leaders turned, parted his hair enough to see and came up to greet us. You say, Mr. Seibert, he said, that you bought this painting at a rummage sale for three dollars? Well, you have been badly stung. Even including the frame it is a swindle. The colors are wrong; the massing is awful; the lighting is impos¬ sible It seems to have been panned b> an idiot Miss Lee blanched. My goodness. I said; then you mean to sa\ lut who¬ ever painted this is not much of a painter? Whoever painted this, said the man. cannot draw flies. Wh\ didn’t you ask somebody? Miss Lee is an artist; why didn’t you ask her what she thought of it before you bought it? I rather thought you might ask that. I said. And turning to 1 inda, 1 said. What do you think of it. Miss I ee? Thus putting her in something of a box. Because by now the chortling group awaiting her repl> had been aug¬ mented by the reporters and photog¬ raphers who had followed the scent up from Perry Street without dithculty; and also by quite a few of the critics and art patrons from the museum, who had accepted m> kind invitation to drop by for a drink. For Miss Linda Lee, looking around at all the assembled, ex¬ pectant faces, there was suddenly ab¬ solutely nowhere to go. Except in one direction. And not be¬ ing a complete fool, she took it, with characteristic vigor. Why, George, she suddenly said, anybody should have known that that awful painting was no good. Why, it’s an insult to art. And grasping Moonlight on a Shrimp Boat in both hands, she just belted the hell out of it across the back of a chair, with everyone cheering and the flash¬ light cameras going off in salvos. I laughingly pretended to pick up some of the pieces. Tell them you can't pose. I w hispered. Called back to Holly¬ wood. New film. Right, she said, resistance gone, And now, friends, she said, smiling grandly on one and all, I regret to have to tell all you wonderful Village artists present that I will be unable to pose for you, as I have been called back to Hollywood for a new film. But since I can t stay to pose for you personally, I want to leave you a little check — she paused dramatically to scribble it out — for a thousand dollars, for your model fund. And, as I leave, from a simple fellow artist. God bless you all. And amid happy shouts, applause, and a dwindling cannonading of the flashlight cameras, everyone gradually trooped out. Which about cleans things up here. I talked to Mr. Updyke by phone just a few minutes ago, and he was ecstatic. George, he said, I just can’t thank you enough. He is going to do everything in his power to aid us in publicizing our fine motion picture. Because now- that we have shown him the way, he is going to get all his other excellent paintings out of the attic, exhibit them through¬ out the land under his own name and, without a doubt, make a fortune. And Miss Lee herself is at the mo¬ ment safely on a plane on her way back to Hollywood, more beautiful than ever, but a splendidly changed girl. Just before boarding the plane she said, in that strange Hollywood patois you use out there: Well, let's face it; I’ve been a real zutz. But from now on I'm going to try to be a good guy. George, l just can’t thank you enough. Which leaves only one thing. On my expense account for this busy week >ou will find a small item of $84.70 for art supplies, Because as soon as 1 mail this I’m going back down to the good old Driftwood for the three days I’ve still got coming in that hammock, and everybody here says there’s just nothing as relaxing as a little painting. As ever, George Jk.JL.Jk. PLAY IT SAFE with — REVOLUTIONARY NEW Essy to put on Play it safe — TM \ -Bars are a cinch to apply! Quick-On appliers do the job in minutes. Patented End Lock can’t clog shut. Iwice the traction TM V-Bar Chains bite the ice at 2SK traction points, assure constant traction for safe stops, easy starts! TM strength Y-Bar design double your chain mileage. Play it safe! Buy yours today ! S. G. TAYLOK CHAIN COMPANY, HAMMOND, INDIANA Longer lift A GREAT NAME IN SINCE 1873

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46 FAVORITE SON That kid brother of mine, he really hacked me. And what he did to my dog- WE'D been laying there in our back yard since I got home from school and heard the bad news, me and Eddie and our dog Gilmore, just waiting — and worrying, only I was doing all the worrying in that crowd, Gilmore was asleep, and Eddie the Pet was studying cloud formations, or something. It irked me. Even if he was only five years old, he could of helped a little with the worrying, couldn't he? That Ed¬ die, he got away with murder. I knew who won the popularity contests around our house, all right. Not me. boy. “What gripes me,” I said again, “is you letting him get out.” “1 never let him, he jist got out,” Eddie alibied. “He never opened that cotton-picking gate all by hisself, boy.” Eddie shrugged. Then he said, “Hey, I know an idea. I bet the gas-meter man left the gate open, Cliff. I bet he done it.” “Yeah, yeah,” I said sarcastically. It could of been the gas-meter man. He has to come in the back yard, which is fenced off from the little piece of lawn out in front of the house. But I didn’t have him down as no suspect. Don’t kid me, it was Eddie the Spoiled Brat that left the gate open. Listen, nobody ever spoiled me none. Not even before Eddie was born, they never spoiled old Cliff, boy. It was the kind of November day when I ought to been somewheres playing touch football with guys my own age. But since they built that cot- ton-picking four-lane highway right across the va¬ cant lot next door, why Mom wouldn’t hardly let us out of our dinky back yard any more. Any¬ how, even if she would of let me go, I had to stay there and see what happened when the Grouch came home from work. “Hey, Cliff, what time is it?” Eddie asked me, and 1 said, “Whatta you care, you ain’t going no- wheres.” “Well, but maybe it’s time for Bullwhip Bal¬ langer, see.” He was worrying, all right, but not about Gilmore. He was worried he'd miss Bull- whip Ballanger, Scourge of the Lawless, on the radio. I give a sneer and said, “For horse sakes, who cares, you pinhead?” He scowled at me, the way he does. Ferocious, boy. He was pale and his ears stuck out and he needed a haircut. They worried about him being so pale. Only I guess Pop worried more about be¬ ing overweight hisself. One thing, nobody wor¬ ried about Cliff. Eddie got up and limped over to the kitchen window, and dug his nose in the screen, scowling in at the wall clock. “The big hand is stickin' straight up, but not real straight up,” he said. He held up his right hand. “That way a little from straight up, Cliff.” “It’s a little after five, stupid,” I told him. But he wasn’t listening, he was already limping into the house. Even a fivc-year-old kid that had ITn thirsty/’ Eddie said. He looked so kind of beat and pitiful, I had to swallow a couple times ILLUSTRATED BY DAVID BERGER

Page 51

Bv WILLIAM R. SCOTT il sliouldn I have haj>|>ene our j>oj> polio ought to be able to tell time. They could of taught him something while he was in the hospital. But all he learned in there was how to influence parents. Boy, he learned that, all right. Gilmore rolled over and got up. Even in his sleep, he knew Eddie went in the house. That dog. 1 bet there wasn't another dog like him in the whole world. Big and clumsy with a kind of puz¬ zled grin, like he figured he just missed a joke by inches. He was a kind of brindle brown and white. He stood there looking at me with his forehead wrinkled up and his stub of a tail moving back and forth. Then he sighed and laid down again, like he was before. He wasn’t having no trouble with his conscience. He could sleep, all right. A truck went thundering past, shaking the world, and when the noise died down, another noise took its place — the radio in the room I had to share with Eddie. He had it loud enough to bust an eardrum. “YVham, crash! Help, they’re robbin' the bank! Blap, blap! Ping, poinnng! They’re gittiiT away with

Page 52

48 six million dollars in gold bullion! Go git Bullwhip Ballanger, U.S. marshal, nemesis of the owl-hooters. Hudalup, hudalup!” Go ahead, take the cotton-picking bullion, I thought. Who cares about bullion when the Grouch will be home any minute, any second — ? ** I urn that radio down in there, Cliff!” The Grouch was home. It was al¬ ways Cliff he yelled at. Okay, I had worse things to think about; I could think about that any time. I had a bad feeling that the Grouch was going to be plenty tough this time. Ever since he went on a diet he wasn’t fit to live with any more. No telling what he’d do. I SNEAKED to the kitchen window where I could hear, looking back at Gilmore. He hadn’t moved a mus¬ cle. A three-time loser, but he couldn’t be bothered about it. I guess you got to be pretty dumb to even be a dog, but not that dumb, boy. Pop said, "Anybody come look at the house today?” "Not a soul,” Mom said. "Here’s your nice kraut juice, dear.” "What’s nice about it?” he yelled. ‘‘Take it away.” "I'll drink it,” Mom said. “I have learned to like kraut juice.” "Well, while you’re at it, you may as well learn to like living jammed up against a superhighway, too,” Pop said. "Hell, I doubt if we could even rent this house now, let alone sell it. We’re stuck with it.” "I hope not,” Mom said. "The way those trucks whiz past all the time I worry constantly about the boys.” Boys, I thought. You worry about Eddie the Pet. Anyway, stop beating around the bushes. Go on, be a stool pigeon. "Hugh,” Mom said, “Gilmore’s done it again, he — ” I didn’t hear the rest of it on account of a couple semitrailer jobs going past. But I didn’t need to hear the rest. I went over to where Gilmore was dreaming about chasing cats, groaning and yapping, and I heard Pop swearing, and pretty soon he was standing there in the kitchen door, scowling through the screen at Gil¬ more. "Hi, Pop,” I said. "Hey, we better get old Gilmore a chain, huh?” "No,” he said. He looked angry, and hungry too, maybe. "A muzzle,” I said. "A muzzle would fix his litde red wagon, Pop.” "No,” he said, still scowling. "It’s Eddie’s fault,” I said. "He — ” "Put him in the car,” Pop said. "Pop!” I said. "You ain’t gonna take him to the pound! They’ll kill him!” "Put him in the car, Cliff!” I felt like I swallowed a gunny sack full of wet sawdust. I looked at Gil¬ more, and my eyes burned and stung. He was awake and he was wiggling his stub of a tail at me. I guess he heard me use his name in vain. He had his head cocked on one side, kind of grin¬ ning. You know how he looked? Stu¬ pid, that's how. And there wasn’t a thing I could do for him. Pop had all the authority around our house — him and Eddie. I opened the gate, and me and Gil¬ more went around the house. We got in the back seat of the car, and I set there with my arm around him, shiver¬ ing and feeling all cold, and he kept wiggling and licking at my face, and all of a sudden I felt sore, and scared, too. "It’s your own fault, you jerk!” I told him. “You got nobody to blame but yourself. You and your big fat teeth!” And then I thought of Eddie. It was Eddie that opened the gate. Gilmore couldn’t open no gate. "Where do you think you’re going, Cliflf?” Pop asked me when he came out to the car, and I looked at his right ear and said, "I don’t know, but I’m going.” I thought he was fixing to flip his lid about me talking smart like that, but I guess he knew I had a right to go with Gilmore on his last car ride. Gil¬ more was nuts about riding in a car. Pop just shrugged and got in under the wheel, and that’s when Eddie got in the act. I don’t know if Bullwhip found the bullion or not, but here come Eddie busting out of the house, hobbling like he does when he gets in a hurry. "Hey wait, hey wait!” he yelled. He yanked the car door open and climbed in beside Pop. "Where we goin’, Daddy9” he asked. "You’re not going anywhere, son,” Pop said. "Hop out.” "No,” Eddie said, pushing his lower lip out and beginning to blink his eyes, the way he knew how to do it. "I wanna go.” Pop sighed and rubbed his face. Ever since Eddie had the polio, they just couldn’t stand it to see him cry about anything. Pop give in. Heck, I knew all the time he’d give in. That Eddie, he had a racket. POP started the car and backed out of the driveway and turned east, but then he drove on across the new high¬ way. He should of turned south on it, to get to the city dog pound. Instead, he kept going on east. When we passed the last house, and Pop turned north toward the blacktop state highway, I couldn’t figure it out. What's he going out here for? I kept asking myself, but I didn’t get no answers. And then I thought: He can’t go through with it, not with Eddie along! Maybe he’ll give Gilmore another chance. Boy, he won’t do nothing with Eddie the Pet along, that’s for sure, "Zowie!” Eddie said. "We goin’ for a ride in the country, Daddy?” "That’s about the size of it,” Pop said. I was still worried. You never knew about the Grouch any more. So I started worrying about what he might have up his sleeve, and then I got to thinking about Gilmore, remembering how long he’d lived with us, and how he took up with us in the first place. He just strayed into the neighbor¬ hood, I guess, and started using our ga¬ rage to sleep in, when he was only about half grown. Me and Eddie, we sneaked food out there to him. Pop asked around among our neighbors, and none of them had any information about the dog. Pop even run an ad in the lost- and-found. But finally he said, well, it looked like if the dog belonged to any¬ body, they weren’t anxious to have it known. Me and Eddie, we'd been nag¬ ging the folks to let us keep the dog, and Eddie done some good, distin¬ guished, high-class crying about it, and finally they let us. Pop bought a license and named the dog Gilmore after his boss, and had him vaccinated for ra¬ bies. That was last April, and you get kind of attached to a dog after you been around him that long, even if he is stupid. Even Pop used to be friendly toward him, but, of course, that was before Gilmore bit the grocery delivery man the first time. That was in September, I guess, and the guy was new on the job, and the first time Gilmore laid eyes on him, he just got his hackles up and went for the guy and bit him in the calf of the leg. Boy, was that guy livid! I had to hold Gilmore until he left, and afterwards I was staked out in the living room when Pop got home from work. But you got to remember that was back there be¬ fore Pop went on his diet and got so hard to live with. He was a pretty good guy in them days, even if he was nerv¬ ous and worried all the time about sell¬ ing the house and moving away from the new superhighway. "Hello, dear, you look tired,” Mom said when he come in. "Naturally,” he said. "Any prospects today?” "A young couple came this morning, but were unfavorably impressed by our proximity to the truck route. As who isn’t?” Eddie had the radio in our room blaring, as usual, and Pop yelled turn that damn’ thing down in there, "I would give a great deal for a small amount of quiet around this ranch,” he said. "And it isn’t just the highway,” Pop groused. "This house is like a boiler factory when I come home after a difficult day at the office.” A truck went by, backfiring, and he quivered. "I think I am developing an ulcer. I’m becoming a nervous wreck.” "Me, too,” I said. "What a crummy place to live!” "Ah, there, Clifford,” he said. "Go outdoors and do something. You look like you need fresh air.” "You call them exhaust fumes fresh air?” I asked him. "Boy, you got to strain that stuff through your teeth before you can inhale it.” "That’s my cue,” Mom said. "Speak¬ ing of teeth, Hugh, today Gilmore used his on the new grocery delivery man, Mr. Holland.” Pop took off his shoes and necktie and said, "Well, what with the cost of groceries, I can’t say I blame the dog much. In fact, I wish I had thought of it first. Did he draw blood?” "No,” Mom said, "and I don’t think it’s funny. Unless your idea of a joke is to be sued for damages. A biting dog is a liability, Hugh.” "So is a house beside the road, if the road is a truck route,” Pop said, loosen¬ ing his belt. "Was the injured party very perturbed?” "Merely furious,” Mom said. "Only in a dudgeon, that’s all.” "Uh-huh,” Pop said, like he was los¬ ing interest. "Well, let us keep Gilmore and this succulent tradesman apart. When you order groceries, ascertain that the raging beast is penned up in the back yard.” He give me a scowl. "It better not happen again, Cliff. Under¬ stand?” "Don’t jump on me,” I said. "Gil¬ more bit him, not me.” "Pass the word to Gilmore,” Pop said. I WENT out in the yard and told Gil¬ more he better not bite the grocery creep any more, but it didn’t do no good. It wasn’t two weeks before he got out and was in the garage when the grocery guy came in one day, and Gil¬ more bit him again, only that time he never broke the skin, and Pop said he’d give him just one more chance. Now Gilmore had used up that last chance, and we were going out in the country, and I couldn't figure out why. Pop turned off the blacktop onto a narrow, gravel road that went along through oak trees that were all brown. Dead leaves were drifted across the road, and I saw a squirrel run up a hickory, and it got me to thinking about hunting. You take Gilmore, I thought. Why, he’d make a good squirrel dog. If Pop simmered down and let us keep him, me and him would hunt rabbits, too, when it snowed. I was a real nut about hunting, but Pop wouldn’t let me have a gun in town. A couple times last year on Sat¬ urdays, though, way back when he wasn't so hard to live with. Pop took me hunting with him. But he did the hunt¬ ing and I just caddied. To really get a kick out of it, a guy had to do his own hunting. I was thinking about it when Pop stopped the car in the road and cleared his throat. "Open the door, Cliff,” he said. "Okay,” I said. I still didn’t get it, see. I opened the door and old Gil¬ more jumped out and stretched and started smelling weeds in the ditch, looking for spoor. Nothing unusual about letting a dog out of a car. Maybe he had to powder his nose. "Shut the door, Cliff.” "Aw nor I said. I got it now, all right. "Aw, Pop!” I said. "Shut the door. Cliff!” I shut the door and he drove away, Collier’s for January 3, 1933

Page 53

49 and through the back window I saw the look on Gilmore's face. Astonishment. He started after us, and he looked kind of bewildered and scared. “Hey, zowic, you forgot Gilmore!" Eddie yelled. "Stop the cat !" POP speeded up, "Eddie, listen to me now. We're going to leave him here, son. He'll find a good home on a farm, where he can chase rabbits every day and bark at the moon all night, and no¬ body will care. He'll be happy out here, Eddie. He'll be safe out here." "Stop the car!" Eddie shrieked. 1 could just barely see Gilmore in the dust, running with his ears laid back and with a kind of horrified and desper¬ ate look on his face. He couldn't be¬ lieve it, but he couldn't run fast enough. "Eddie, we couldn't keep him in town any longer," Pop said. "The man he bit will tell the police, and they'd take Gilmore away and kill him. They’d say he was a vicious, unsafe dog," Eddie wasn’t yelling now, he was begging, "Stop the car, Daddy." "Damn it," Pop said, "I’m trying to do the decent thing, Eddie." Decent, he said. What's decent about slutting off Gilmore ten or eleven miles from town like that? And he was break¬ ing Gilmore’s heart, and Eddie's heart, too. It would break anybody’s heart, seeing that crazy nut of a Gilmore back there in the choking dust, running and running, trying to catch us. “Don’t look back, men," Pop said | gruffly. Men! Don’t give me that cotton¬ picking stuff. If I’d been a man, you think Ed let him pull a trick like that? We went down a long hill and into a pretty valley, and then we went past a white farmhouse with a lot of trees, and across a wooden bridge over a clear, lit¬ tle creek that looked like it had fish in it, and past a grove of tall pecan trees that was probably lousy with squirrels. Even being all tore up inside like I was, cry¬ ing a little, I noticed that creek and stuff and wondered if it was deep enough to swim in. We passed another farm, and two guys about my age were throwing a football, and 1 envied them, living so close to that creek, and I envied them their father, whoever he was. Some guys are lucky, I thought, “Daddy, please, Daddy," Eddie was sobbing, and this time it was for real, not acting, but he was wasting it. We went up another hill, and when we got to the top I could still see Gil¬ more way back there, a brown-and- white speck coming down that other hill, running and running and running, still trying to catch us. We went over the top of the hill and I couldn’t see him any more, but I knew he was still there, still trying to go where me and Eddie went. He wouldn’t ever find us again. He was just a dog; he couldn’t ask any¬ body which way we went. He wasn't even a smart dog. He probably didn’t even know the name of our town. After about one more mile, Pop stopped going away from town to fool Gilmore, and swung west a couple miles and then back south again. I laid on the back seat wishing I was dead. Eddie was crying so it made even me feel sorry for him, but polio or no polio, he wasn’t doing any good with Pop. I felt like I hated my father. All the way to town I kept my eyes tight shut, trying to pre¬ tend it was just a dream and not real, but I kept seeing Gilmore and the way he looked, the way anybody would look if his friends were deserting him. At home, Eddie went hobbling into the house and into our room, and I fol¬ lowed him, I didn’t want nothing to do Collier’s for January 3, 1933 with Mom, even. In the room, Eddie got undressed, still sobbing. He got in bed and pulled the covers over his head, "Cliff," he said, kind of muffled. I said what, and he said, "I lied. It was me let him out ol the yard. Cliff." Then he went on sobbing, not very loud, and I thought: Maybe he feels so bad because he figures it's all his fault. I set in a chair by the window, look¬ ing but not seeing, and 1 thought: It was his fault. But 1 didn't feel sore at Eddie. I fell sore at Pop. He was the one they ought to shoot — the Grouch. Mom opened the door, "Supper, any¬ one?" "I'm not hungry," I said. And through the bedclothes Eddie said, "I ain’t gonna never cat again, then you'll see!" Mom kind of gasped, and in a second she went out and shut the door, and I heard Pop say, "I don't intend to put up with this nonsense. I'll damn’ well get them out of that room!" “You broke their hearts!" Mom said, "Isn't that enough for one day, Hugh? Haven't you punished them enough for something they didn't do?" Then she said, "Do you realize how much you've changed?" AT BREAKFAST neither one of us . would have anything to do with Pop, He was on my list, boy. Funny thing, though, Eddie, why he wasn't on my list any more, not that day, anyhow. Pop got kind of sore at us. "Stop your sulking," he said. "I’ve had enough of it," "Leave them alone, Hugh," Mom said. "Don’t nag at them. If you want my candid opinion, 1 thought you acted hastily and more in anger than good sense," "1 see,’’ he said. "I hauled the dog off to torture my kids, I did it because I'm a cruel, sadistic monster, is that it?" "I think maybe you did it because you were hungry," Mom said, "and be¬ cause we can't sell our house, and be¬ cause you’re very unhappy, Hugh." He w as getting red in the face. "What should I have done, then/'' "Invested a dollar in a good stout chain." Pop shook his head. "No, Martha, you are sorry for that dog when >ou should envy him. because he's lice' He isn’t chained to a white-elephant house, a screaming highway, a nerve-straining desk job. He’s free!" "You left out us," Mom said, real quiet. " I he bo>s and 1." I didn't get it. They just set there looking at each other, kind of shocked, and then the telephone rang, and Mom got up and answered it. She said it was Mr. Summers, the lawyer, calling Pop, but Pop shoved his chair back and said he wasn’t home, he just left. So Mom told Mr. Summers and hung up the tele¬ phone and sat down with her hands in her lap, staring at her plate. Pop kept looking at her, kind of white, "I can add two and two," he said. "The guy has hired a lawyer, he’s going to sue us." "Mr. Summers said nothing about what he wanted with you,” Mom said, looking down at her plate, "My God, does he have to?" Pop yelled. "What else would it be?" He got his hat and coat and turned around at the door, "Martha, 1 refuse to be elected villain around here, understand? 1 am now going to my office, where I will put in a soft, lazy, pleasant day earning food and clothes tor you people. And when I come home tonight, I suppose I'll start taking the guff again. Maybe I won t come home," When Pop slammed the door behind him. Mom put her hands up to her face and started crying. Eddie started cry¬ ing, too, but it didn’t interfere with his eating. I didn't know what it was all about any more, but if I didn't have to go to school i guess I would of staved there and got in the act myself, the way I felt. That stuff is contagious. It was around eleven o'clock when the woman from the principal's office came in the sixth-grade room and said I was wanted on the te ephone I ( ing her to the office I le't a* 1 co*d . •, stiff, bcL, ise if it c in t , n emerge, thev d»m t jpt to cM'l a guv r g- t o t « * class like that. It Was Mom. aid it wus an emeigencv. Cliff, she said, "tdd'c has disap¬ peared I thought he was in the back Vard. but Ik’s gone Did he did he sav anv thing about, well, running awav, C litford /" “Gosh, no," I said. "You better come home." she said. “1 need vou. Cliff. His tricycle is gone, too. C liff, honev , come on home, please. I need vou." SHE needed me — Cliff, the third thumb. I hung up the telephone and walked out ot there. You think 1 asked the principal if 1 could } If he didn't like it. let him write a letter to the President or something Mom needed me at home on an emergenev case. Don't nobod} try to stop me, boy. I ran all the wav home, and before 1 got there I had an idea about Eddie, it just struck me. A couple neighbor women were in the front vard with Mom when 1 got there, and 1 said hello and got mv bicycle out of the garage. "Mom," I said, "I’ll ride around and look for him. I'll find the little dickens. Mom, don't worry. He's okas. Mom." "Be careful," she said. "Be careful, darling." "You know me," 1 said. "Careful Clifford McCarran, Mom." Listen, it ain't a bad feeling, being needed and being worried about all at the same time. If nobodv worries about a guy. he's really lost, boy. I crossed the new highway, and then I stood up cm them pedals and give her the gas. .Mav be I'm wrong, I thought, but I wasn't wrong. Listen, how would vou like to pedal a tricycle almost two miles? That Ed¬ die, that pinhead, he’d got at least a mile out of town, almost two miles from home, when I found him sitting at the edge of the road, resting. He was wear¬ ing his cap pistol and his ray gun and his space helmet, and he had a sackful of marbles tied onto the handle bars w ith about ten feet of copper wire. "Don't mess with me. boy," he said. He looked pale and peaked, like when he was so sick, and it kind of hit me. “You crazy little nut," I said, feeling kind of choked up. "Don't fool with me, that's all," he said, looking stubborn. "How far do vou think you'll get on that cotton-picking tricvvle, with them little dinky wheels?" 1 asked him. "You'll wear yourself to a nub, pedaling that thing. You'll never make it." A couple of big old tears rolled down his cheeks, but he kept on scowling. "Cliff. I'm thirsty," he said. "An’ I'm hungrv, too," He looked so little, so kind of beat and pitiful, I had to swal¬ low a couple times there. Its Pop’s fault. I thought. I he Grouch, he done this to Eddie, causing a little kid with a bum log to go riding a trike wav out in the country. "Cliff," Eddie said, "I'm tired." "Sure,” I said. "Sure, man. You wanna go home now?" He shook his head. "I ain't never goin' home no more." "All right, man," I said. There was a culvert about fifty feet along the road. I took the stuff off his handle bars and tied it on my bike, and I put the tricycle under the culvert, "Get on my handle bars, killer," I said. I turned north at the next corner and hit the blacktop highway, and then I turned awav from town. Mav be I wanted to scare Pop, give him a bad “We couldn't have a sudden thaw after that Now Year's party. No, collier s h had to turn colder and freeze!*’ jeff keate

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50 time. Or maybe 1 just wanted to try to find Gilmore, and make sure he found a good home and was eating regular and stuff. I don’t know. There was a coun- tr> store out there, and 1 spent my lunch money buying pop and candy for me and Eddie, and we were sitting on the bench out there when the car stopped with its tires squealing on the blacktop. Yeah, the Grouch. He'd figure it out. HE GOT out of the car and came marching over like he was going to eat us up. Diet or no diet, he was mad enough to eat nails. I looked past him and saw Mom sitting in the ear, watching. She give me a kind of en¬ couraging smile. And about then old Eddie slid over against me, that little son of a gun. I put my arm around him. Pop was shaking, he was so mad. “Get in the car,” he said. 1 could feel Eddie shaking his head against my shoulder, and he said in a scared, little voice, “I ain't goin' home.” “Oh, you're not?” Pop said. “Just where in hell are you going, then?” “Me an’ Cliff,” Eddie squeaked, “we're gonna find ole Gilmore.” The storekeeper had come to the door and was watching. Pop seen him and scowled. “Eddie, get in the car. Move !" he yelled. Eddie just tried to get closer to me, and the storekeeper came on out onto the gravel and picked up an empty pop bottle. “Say,” he said, “you any kin to these youngsters, brother?” “1 happen to be their father,” Pop said. “That ease,” the man said, putting the bottle down, “I can’t buy in, but I can shorely sympathize with the little dudes if you’re the best they could do in the big rafllc. No wonder they run off.” “Mind your own business!” Pop yelled, and Eddie started blubbering, and here come Mom, and Eddie went limping toward her, so it’d break your heart to see it. and she picked him up in her arms. She started back to the car with him, talking baby talk. Okay, 1 didn't mind, not any more. Pop stopped watching and turned to me. “We ll put your bike on the rear bumper, Cliff.” I nodded and wheeled the bike out to the car, and 1 got in the back seat and he got in the front and started the engine. 1 was tired. It ain’t no cmch pedaling even a little mutt like Eddie as far as I done it. I just set there for a while, and it took me a couple minutes to realize Pop was still going east. Mom noticed it, too, and looked at him. “We’re going,” he said, kind of through his teeth, “to find that damned mongrel. But don’t blame me if the eops are waiting to kill him when we get home.” “Why don’t you relax?” Mom said. “And lower your voice. Can’t you see this poor, worn-out baby is asleep?” Sure enough, old Eddie was sound asleep on her lap. 1 watched the scen¬ ery, and when we were about ten miles from town. Pop turned off and it was the road where we dumped Gilmore. 1 recognized the very spot where we dumped him, and then pretty soon we were going down the long hill, and Pop stopped at the pretty, white farmhouse. He got out and talked to an old man on the front porch. It seemed like he talked a long time, just to ask anybody if they seen a dog running north. Anyway, I knew Gilmore went quite a ways farther than that house. We stopped at the next house, where I’d seen the guys about my age throwing a football, and Pop talked for a couple seconds with a woman and came back. ‘"Albert is the same way. He likes a fruitcake that will squirt when you bite into it” COLLIER S CHON DAY Him and Mom still weren't doing any talking. He kept driving along the road and stopping and asking and getting in again and driving north again on that eotton-pieking road, but it wasn’t no use. And finally he turned around and drove home. 1 told him where we left Eddie's tricycle, and he drove around that way and got it and put it in the back seat. When we got home, 1 felt pretty lousy. I don’t know, in a way I felt lousier than yesterday even. 1 guess now I knew that Gilmore was really gone, long gone. MOM had took Eddie in the house and laid him on his bed. He went on sleeping, and Mom fixed me a sand¬ wich. She asked if Pop wanted one, but he said no. He said, “I’m going to see that lawyer. Summers, and maybe we can settle out of court with that guy. No use stalling.” “All right,” Mom said, and that was that. Pop left, and I laid down on the divan and rested, and the first thing 1 knew I went to sleep. What woke me up was Pop coming home again. He looked mighty low. “Well?” Mom said, anxious, and he stared at her and shook his head. “1 hate to tell you,” he said. Then he started grinning. “You still mad at me?” Mom looked surprised, then sus¬ picious. “Maybe 1 am and maybe I’m not,” Mom said. “Hugh MeCarran, what does that sly grin mean?” “Oh, nothing, nothing much,” he said. “I just sold the house, that’s all. Summers was representing an oil com¬ pany that wants this corner, including our lot, for a service station, and who am I to stand in the way of progress? So, I gave in, I sold the house.” “It wasn’t about the dog at all!” Mom said. Pop laughed. Gee, 1 don’t know when I’d heard him laugh the last time. “And we can move!” Mom said, like it just hit her. “Oh, Hugh, we can get away from this awful highway and the trucks!” “Check!” Pop said. “And, incident¬ ally, we did discuss the dog situation, and a funny thing, Summers recently represented some people who took that guy Holland, the delivery man, to court. He tried to kill their family dog with a hoe. We agreed, Summers and I did, that the guy probably smelled afraid, or something, whieh would account for Gilmore’s antipathy. I mean, every¬ body knows that dogs recognize dog haters and dog fearers, and naturally go for them.” “Oh, sure,” Mom said, “but who cares, now? My goodness, 1 can’t be¬ lieve that we’re actually going to move. Did you get a nice price?” “A nice price,” Pop said. “Listen, babe, are you repelled by fat men? Be frank with me, is avoirdupois repellent to you?” “Of course not,” Mom said, grinning. “I think fat men are cute.” “In that case, the hell with the diet,” Pop said. “I’m starving for some roast pork and brown gravy. Let’s celebrate our liberation.” “You bet,” Mom said. “Roast pork, gravy, mashed potatoes — ” Pop held up a hand. “Stop, woman! 1 can’t stand it!” Say, wasn’t it jolly around that house all of a sudden! I guess nobody remem¬ bered Gilmore, nobody but Cliff — the heck with ClifT. “Look, honey,” Pop said. “That farm, the first place I inquired about the dog. It’s for sale. Sixty acres, mod¬ ern six-room house. A little run-down, but priced reasonably — we could buy it and have enough left over to remodel and make other improvements. Do you think you eould stand living out away from town, honey?” “I’ll bet a nickel 1 could, I’m so sick of living in town,” Mom said. She looked, I don’t know, she looked at him like she sometimes looked at Eddie. “You’ve always dreamed of going back to a farm someday, haven’t you, Hugh?” “Hey, hold on a minute, now,” Pop said. “I want to go on being an office worker, commuting to and from town, but with just enough work around the farm to help me regain my sylphlike figure — and my sense of values.” He started walking around the room while he talked, like the principal addressing assembly. “Honey, for some time I’ve had a growing awareness that I was becoming an ill-tempered, antisocial grouch, a despot, in fact. But living in the country, the boys and 1 would do things together, as a team. You know, garden and cut wood, fish and hunt, stuff like that. It’ll draw us all closer as a family, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes, Hugh,” Mom said. Pop looked at me, grinning. “What about it, Cliff? Suit you?” BUT I had a hard time not grinning back. 1 had to keep thinking aboui yesterday, instead of tomorrow. Gil¬ more, 1 thought. What about him? “It’s okay,” 1 said. “1 better go put my bike where it belongs. Somebody might steal it.” I started for the door. “Check that chip you’re wearing on your shoulder, while you’re at it, Cliff,” Pop said. “You’re getting stoop-shoul¬ dered, carrying it.” I just shrugged and went on out. 1 got my bicycle and wheeled it up the driveway and into the garage. And then 1 let out a yell. 1 kept yelling until Mom and Pop came out to see if 1 broke a leg, or what, and 1 told them to look in the garage. “There’s a ghost in there,” I said. “I seen a ghost in the garage.” I was joshing. They looked. He was in the back corner, on the coiled garden hose where he always slept — old Gilmore, laying there watching us with one eye and still sleeping with the other one. Man, I felt almost human again. “That mutt must have a built-in road map,” Pop said. “He’s just smart,” I said. “That’s a smart dog, Pop.” Eddie come out of the house, rubbing his eyes. “Say, who’s doin’ all that yellin’ out here?” he asked. “It woked me up.” “Come look in the garage, son,” Pop said, not grinning. Man, I was thinking. That creek out there, it oughta be full of big sun perch and catfish. I thought about those guys my age next door, practically. Me and Gilmore and them guys — and Eddie . . . Eddie limped over to the garage door and looked in, and all of us watched him with big grins all over our faees. I thought he would fall over with aston¬ ishment and excitement. That kid, that Eddie! “Where?” he said. “What is it, Mom? What’s the matter?” “There, honey. In the corner.” Eddie stood there looking for a cou¬ ple seconds with his eyes sticking out of his head, and 1 could see that little, stingy grin of his he uses when he’s tickled to pieces only he don’t want it to get around. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Zowie, it’s ole Gilmore.” Then he turned around. “Hey, Mom, I’m hun¬ gry,” he said. “I’m starvin’ to death, Mom.” That faker, that Eddie. I don’t know. 1 kind of like that lamebrain kid. He’s a bit nuts, but he’s my boy. Collier's for January 3, 1953 [l/l6/ ii rt 44I knoiv which one I want, but he just hasn’t come hack this way yet’ EDWIN LEPPER

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51 1 “My eyes are my trademark!” When you see Eddie Cantor’s famous banjo eyes, you look for comedy, humor, a touch of pathos — a real virtuoso performance . And when you see a familiar brand name as you shop, you expect an equally out¬ standing performance — or you don’t buy the product again. That’s one big advantage about living in a land where you enjoy free choice among many fine products, each identified by its own brand name. Leading manufacturers, seeking to win your favor for their brands, take infinite pains and a great deal of pride in bringing you wonderful products, continuously im¬ proved, representing unusual value for your money. As you leaf through the pages of this magazine, note how many of the products advertised here already have satisfied you. And always remember that when you name your brand, you better your brand of living! BRAND NAMES FOUNDATION INCORPORATED A Non-Profit Educational Foundation 37 West 57 Street, New York 19, N. Y.

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53 Water in the By PALL IIOKCAN Laura was Irrrified of this wild and hostile country. She hated having her hah\ llm;ilrm\ in dangers. And no one al Fort Delivery — not e\en her liushand — seemed to nmlrr>tan THE two horsemen seemed to he racing the moon. It was early night in April, LSS7, in the southern Arizona desert. As the full moon rose over a low mesa, it cast a long shadow. If we gain that shadow, thought Second Lieu¬ tenant Matthew Carlton Hazard, they may never find us. He spurred his horse to keep up with his companion, Joe Dummy, the Apache scout in the service of the United States Army. Joe was bent over his horse's laboring neck. Ahead, the moon¬ light lay like a sea. Behind, the young officer and his scout knew there was pursuit, though they could hear nothing over the sound of their own galloping blood. Sent out three days earlier from Fort Delivery to observe reported movements by the Chiricahua Apaches, Matthew had orders to estimate the num¬ bers, the direction and the temper of the Indians; to avoid a fight; and to return to the fort within five days in any case. He was now ready, flying over the desert for cover, to report. With Joe, he had seen the Indian band coming from Mexico just before sundown. They made a towering cloud of dust, so their num¬ bers were great. They were heading north, where they had no business but outrage. As for their temper, one of them had sighted the two cavalry¬ men at an incredible distance, and pursuit began at once. A dozen Chiricahuas had left their train, and were still giving chase, after sundown and nightfall. The Army’s horses were sounder, and only once the pursuers drew near enough for shots to be exchanged. Matthew had heard both the sound of bullets and the sound of arrows. “All right, fire!” he had cried out to Joe. In view of his orders, Matthew regretted giving battle. He might have to face an official inquiry board over it, assuming always that he would man¬ age to return to Fort Delivery. As the sunset died into darkness, the chances for marksmanship dis¬ appeared. The two cavalrymen bent forward into the dark, running for the mesa. Soon the ground lifted under them in a long slope covered with tall, dry grass. Suddenly they were at the edge of the shadow; they plunged into it. Matthew heard Joe dismount and he dismounted also. Leading their horses, they walked along the base of the mesa. “What is he looking for?” Matthew said to him¬ self, but with no doubts of Joe. The scout knew this whole land, not only its sweep, but its detail. They could now see dimly in the shadow where the pouring moon did not reach. Matt saw Joe crouch, then rise and beckon, then disappear. An instant later, Matt himself came to the edge of a wide earth bunker at the foot of the /nesa and went down over its edge. It was like being in an earth¬ work. Behind them rose the sheer bluff; ahead lay a silvery stand of grass and then the desert. “Joe!” called Matt. “We’ll set our horses over there in the grass; this looks like a camping site.” Joe Dummy opened the door before Matthew could stop him. and, holding up his magic twig, came upon Laura, who was walking the baby. “Get out of here!"’ she said with fury Joe held up some charred mesquite roots left by earlier visitors. “You knew just where to come,” Matt said. The Indian scout muttered that this was so. He almost never spoke hut, to make himself under¬ stood, relied on gesture and the intensity of his de¬ sire to communicate. He now turned away from Matt and made an odd sound — a blast of breath through clenched teeth with lips skinned back like an animal in turv or pain. “Joe. what's that?” asked Matt. Joe Dummy bent forward in a kind of convul¬ sion. Matt went to him and turned him around. He saw, in silhouette, how the Indian held up an arrowr. Joe smiled of the arrow point, then threw the arrow as Far from him as he could. He then sank down to his knees and into darkness and re¬ fused to speak, though Matt asked him many ques¬ tions. “What is the matter? Where did yoir get the arrow? Did it strike you?” Matt was suddenly shocked by his own words. “Did it hit you, back there, where we fought them? Joe, are you hurt? Answer me!” In the starlight, Joe finally answered. He took Matt's hand and showed, on Matt's own shoulder, where the arrow had struck, how it had quivered and stayed, how deeply it had bitten, how he had ridden miles with it in his flesh, and how only now — in safety, with duty done — he had pulled it out. He had smelled of the arrow's head. Did the lieu¬ tenant know what this meant? It meant death, YES, Matthew knew. The arrow was poisoned. The Chiricahuas made baskets of spring willow canes. Into these they put captive rattlesnakes, whom they teased with arrows thrust through the woven willows, so that the snakes struck again and again at the iron points, leaving on them the caked venom, which when dry gave no odor, but when wet, as with a man’s blood, smelled to make the mouth go dry and the tongue? come up in the throat. Such an arrow smelled of death, Joe Dummy was now getting ready to die. “Like hell!” said Matt. “We’ll do something.” He pushed Joe about to face him and tore down his shirt at the right shoulder. Lighting a phos¬ phorus match, Matt looked at the wound. It was raw and already puffy. He leaned and sniffed it; there was a faint stench. Suddenly the match went out. Joe had put his fist about it. He indicated the open desert. A little light would show for miles and call for anyone to come near, enemies first of all. Joe took Matt's hand and waved it as if to dis¬ suade him from loolish hopes confronting death. You go and leave me, said Joe in his gestures and his few syllables. Maybe I will be all rij>ht after all. But don't wait for me. “No, if it's true and that is snake poison, you'll die unless we do something. I'll do something" Yes, l will die. Bat l will die anyway. You go. Now. Before they come. You know the way to the fort from here. Matthew thought over what he knew of Army field medicine. Haste was all he could think of for cases like the present one, haste and something red-hot. Feeling about the bunker, he gathered up mesquite roots and branches and twigs and laid a fire. Joe moaned with protest. He indicated how a fire would call all desert file. “I know" said Matt. “If I have to. 1 can 1 "J them ofT with my Firearms. I need the fire to ti\ you up" He lighted it. Joe stared at the wild fight He stared at his commander. He could not believe that he was not to be abandoned. He saw Matt remove a spur and thrust one long blunt point into the heart of the coals. Matt blew and tanned; he nursed everv scrap that would burn. Present I v he was astonished to see Joe slide forward toward the fire. From a pouch at his waist Joe took with the Fingertips of one hand a fine yellow dust. Utter¬ ing sacred words deep in his throat, he released a pinch in all six sacred directions: north, south, east, west, up and down. He then made a puff of the powder over Matt's head and then another over his own. Then, in signs, he explained. In his own time and among his own people, years belore he had come to the Army, he had been a doctor, with powers. The vellow dust was pollen of tulc* or cattail. It was called hoddentin and was used this way in an act of praver. “ilk!" concluded Joe. in a sudden, constricted, explosive sound, like a sharp breaking of a dried branch. It was a sound meant to startle super¬ natural powers into paying attention and hearing a prayer. “Very good. Let us use every means, including this one,” said Matthew as he took the spur, red- hot, out of the knotty fire. He slapped Joe on the belly. “1 ie down and hold on to me.” He plunged the spur deep into the poisoned arrow wound and, sweating with sympathy, made it grind out a burned crater deeper than he guessed the poisoned area to be. Joe lay inert and silent as a sleeper, with his eyes open, staring at Matthew in amazement and subjection. He believed that his voting com¬ mander was giving him life. Lire and smoke ascended against the dark face of the mesa. Mat¬ thew sat back on his heels. “Well, 1 hope that'll do it,” he said. He went to the fire and kicked it apart, leaving a few veiled coals. He then took his canteen and gave Joe Dummy a drink of water. In response. Joe took from his waisthand another sacred accessory. It was a twig from a tree that had been split b\ light¬ ning. With this he made a wide looping gesture over Matthew, in thanks and blessing. Matthew said. ‘A es. tine. Now rest a little, and I'll watch, and then well trv to move out for home.” I he two soldiers said of each other in their thoughts that that was how a man should be: on the one hand quiet about pain and death, on the other loyal to file. MAI IHI \V faced out. on guard, over the im¬ mense night. He shivered. He wanted to build up the tire again. 1 here was no enemy to be seen in the moonlight, but he decided to take no risks. Fie began to invite his thoughts, which warmed him like desire. He hail much to think about. But the night quiet was broken by a soft, plaintive, smothered er> that came from far out in the moonlight. Matthew tightened everywhere in him. He ILLUSTRATED BY EDWIN DAWES

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54 leaned to peer. The cry came again a rolled, sorrovvl ul inquiry ol‘ the wilder¬ ness — and ended with a little throat) \ elp. He sat hack on his haunches and laughed out loud. I he lire had attracted attention, alter all, but it was only the attention ol a covote. It spoke again now, nearer, with a wheedling cajolerv that was almost hu¬ man. And then Matthew jumped in as¬ tonishment, lor immediately behind him in the earthwork there spoke an¬ other covote, evactlv mimicking the heart-hungrv voice ol the animal out on the desert. Matthew turned. 1 here was Joe Dummy, with his nose raised like a snout, his mouth closed around a little ’’o.” his cheeks drawn in, delicntelv managing the tone; and in his throat the soil, trilled phrases ol' treaeh- erv replied to those ol' the desert. In another instant Joe was at the lire. Me took up a last glowing coal with tongs made of sticks, blew on it and, before Matt could speak, threw it in an arc out out into the dry, tall grass. The grass took lire and, the wind being right, roared down the slope away from the bunker. In its savage light Matthew saw the naked figures of his enemies leap to their feet from hiding and run away. One or two turned and fired rilles as they ran. I hev had crept forward so slowly that any movement of the grass might have seemed to be caused by a breeze; and in case any had been no¬ ticed, they had taken the voice of the coyote to explain it. Matthew raised his carbine and fired. He fired as long as he could see running shapes. He thought he saw some lalk through fire-waver and smoke. The grass stretched for a few miles It would burn the Indians back to their train. Meanwhile the spectacle was remark¬ able; a grass lire running through dark¬ ness over Hat land. ONCT rid of the attackers, Matthew felt excitement really rising in him now that, thanks to Joe Dummy’s acute understanding of the wilderness and all its creatures, the threat was over. With a stern obligation to be matter-of-fact at moments like these. Matthew went to his saddlebag. Ol the usual rations only one item seemed appetizing. He came back with a can of peaches, opened it, and gave Joe first chance. I hey ate together in silence. The sticky fruit tasted line. 1 here was a future for both men now, and time to consider it, Matthew thought of l aura his wife, at the fort, and ol what this cold, bright night might have brought to her and to him. I omorrow would he the lourth day since he’d left her. The command¬ ing officer. Major Prescott, and the post surgeon. C aptain Gray, not to mention their wives and all the soldiers’ wives at the post, would all do their best. But Matthew still hoped he would be haek at the fort in time to know it the instant he became a father. He said to himself that Laura needed him near her. She had cried more than once at the pros¬ pect of bearing her first child in the desert, so far away Irom home — which meant the Army circles, the settled old garrisons and stall' quarters of the At¬ lantic seaboard. He had more than once held her close to remind her that what mattered was their being together, nothing else. If they were together in the desert, then their child would never feel alien there. His breast filled with tender pain at the thought ol how nearly this night he might have left them, his wife and com¬ ing child, forever. Far away by now' a liery rullle showed the retreating grass's progress against the dark. Would Laura give him a son? If she gave him a son, Matthew would give him one day to the Army, that had given him miserable pay, danger and impersonal treatment — the Army that he loved. r[^HEY stayed till daybreak in the X bunker. Dawn brought its surprises. Joe’s right arm was helpless, but other¬ wise he was no worse. One of their horses was dead, shot during the fi relit exchange. The desert was black as far as they could see it, and no grass smol¬ dered. It could he ridden over. Mat¬ thew gave orders that they would both mount his horse. He took up Joe’s rifle, lo carry its extra weight, now that .loc could not use it, was not justified. Mat¬ thew swung the ri lie and bent its barrel over a rock and threw it down, useless to soldier or enemy alike. I hey mounted and at a rapid walk crossed into the burned-out grass. They came upon two dead and blackened bodies, at which they hardly paused, but rode on for the place where they had last seen the Chirieahua train; lor Joe was sure that, having been observed* and defeated, the migrant Indians would return to Mexico rather than pursue their rampage, to which the Army was alerted. But it was in any case important to verify this idea. I hey rode without hurry and by mid¬ morning were across the black grass and into the bare, pink desert. There, from afar, they saw what seemed to be a camp. They halted to look long and earnestly. Bright scraps of cloth, there, against dark clumps of mesquite — yes, those were people, many people. But why did they not move? No one walked about in that camp under the sun. Sud¬ denly Joe struck his breast with his left list, to signify his understanding, and then motioned southward to indicate many Chirieahua people already return¬ ing to Mexico. “Then who are these, over there?” asked Matt. Joe replied with gestures, Indians , and motioned. Forward. “Forward?” said Matt. “Are you crazy? It looks like a lot of people, and we're in no shape for a fight,” >Y.v, insisted Joe, yes, it was safe, he would see . Forward! They rode on. Presently they heard dogs barking, and they saw to whom the dogs belonged. They were all old men and women, motionless* on the ground. They were motionless because they were tied to mesquite bushes and left to die along with their dogs, who also were tied. Matthew stared frowning, aghast at the spectacle, while Joe ex¬ plained that when the Apache had to re¬ treat in a hurry, he abandoned his old people this way; for otherwise, travel¬ ing on loot, like all but the warriors, they would have slowed down the march. Matt looked at the sun and the distance and the motley collection of old people, who gazed hack at him out of their filthy wrinkles. He dismounted and cut their bonds. He pointed south and urged them to travel after their sons and daughters. He released their dogs, who ran to their owners. The old creatures lost no time. In their various racking gaits they set out for Mexico and the only life known to them. Matthew could do no more for them than turn them free. Joe Dummy pointed to the ground ahead. There were plenty of signs that the warrior band was retreating toward Mexico. It was time, and it was safe, to turn toward Fort Delivery with this news. TWO nights afterward at about ten o’clock they saw what surely was a light at Fort Delivery. An hour later they were close enough to see more lights. Matthew, with a pounding in his breast, wondered what they could mean, so many, and so late, and said “Laura” to her silently in his mind, in case she were sullering or in danger. Behind him, on the horse’s rump, Joe made a tense little motion, pointing. Of! in the moon-washed night was a figure on a horse, riding cautiously toward them. Matt halted and took his revolver in hand, and waited. The horse ambled forward at a peaceful jog, and its rider presently said in a mild voice, “Mutt?” “Yes, sir!” replied Matthew. “Well, come on then,” said the other, wheeling and walking his horse rapidly toward the main gate where a young sentry watched for the commanding officer to return from his midnight ride. Matthew wondered anxiously why Major Hiram Hyde Prescott was abroad. As he often did, Hiram Hyde answered the unspoken. “I just rode out for a little air.” Now they both knew that a disguised concern for his command had brought him out to meet the young lieutenant and the Apache scout. Matt knew also that Hiiam Hyde never got to the really personal issues easily, and he asked, “How is Laura? Any news yet?” “Any minute now. Captain and Mrs. Gray are with her, and so is Jessica.” “You mean it began tonight?” “Just before supper,” “Is she all right?” “Last I heard. Brave as a Mohawk.” “Is it — is it difficult?” “My female informants assure me that it is never easy. What’s wrong with that Joe, there, behind you?” As they neared, Matthew therefore gave his report to Major Prescott, who remarked at the end of it, “loo had your orders read not to get in a fight. I’ll have to report that you did. It’ll be looked into, even though by doing so you diverted the enemy and finally made him retreat. Yes, I shouldn't be surprised if some rancher tiled a claim against the government for getting his pasture burned out.” HIRAM HYDE’S voice grew com¬ ically bitter. He aped the Wash¬ ington construction that could so easily he placed upon perilous acts of frontier duty. “Picking fights with innocent In¬ dians,” he mocked, “and running around setting lire to valuable grazing I lands, and consigning destitute old men and women to cross the desert without providing for their nourishment and care, and With ingenious profanity he developed his field soldier's parody and concluded, “Well, Matt, I'll testify for you. Both of you did a job.” They answered the sentry’s challenge and rode into the fort. Lights burned in the commanding officer’s quarters, and in the house next to it, where the post surgeon, Captain Gray, and his wife lived. Hiram Hyde conducted Matthew to that house, “You come along,” said Matt to Joe Dummy, unaware that henceforth it would take a direct order to keep Joe from his side. “I want the doctor to sec you. Where is Laura?” he asked the major. “Is she at the Grays'?” “Yes,” said Major Prescott. “Gray got his orders to leave us for Fort Union. Jessica arranged with them to move Laura into their big front room. Better than your house.” Matthew said, “Mm,” for he and Laura occupied the last adobe shack in officers’ row. He was all of a sudden taken by a terrible fear. They tapped at the door of Captain Gray's front room. Mrs. Prescott came, sh-shing, to meet them. Beyond her Matthew saw a pool of lamplight and high wings of shadow on the whitewashed wall, and Captain Gray bending close to the bed, and the delicate white-haired Mrs. Gray op¬ posite him — and between them a lost lace, older, younger, than the beautiful face he knew, turning from side to side on a pillow, saying silently and repeat¬ edly what nobody could even under¬ stand, in some fierce preoccupation that excluded all hut the tremendous task of giving life. She looked so frail, and her commitment was so shaking that Mat¬ thew said to himself, “She will die,” and with a look of mortal terror he implored Jessica Prescott to save Laura. Jessica said with the abrupt kindliness he knew in her, “Don't come in; she wouldn't know you. It can't be long. Just wait. We’re so glad you arc home,” Collier’s for January 3, 1953

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55 She then retired and shut the door, leaving her husband and Matthew in the dark, little hall that showed at both ends the open air. Joe Dummy sat on the front stoop waiting for the surgeon. His black shape against the paler night made Matthew think ol responsibility, and that made him recognize his own helplessness now. He felt a disagreeable turn ol temper. It was despair, the other side of his hope for the future, which now depended upon whether life remained or departed in the closed front room at Captain Gray’s. What could he do to make up to her for this? She hated the desert, where her child was now struggling to be born. How could he carpet it with green lawns and visit it with cooling rains and sweeten it with kindly, living creatures? It was hard and gritty and gave ofT hot winds that blinded the eye and the soul. Why did young people getting married pretend that life was beautiful and always would be? Some¬ one should tell them it was not. HIS troubled waverings of mind were suddenly interrupted. A thin gasping cry came from beyond the door, then stopped, then tried again, then gained in its tiny power, and estab¬ lished a hasty, regulated rate. “Well?’ said Hiram Hyde, “it’s all over. That’s your baby, inside there.” A wild gratitude swept through Mat¬ thew. It was like some unimaginable sweetness of the senses. The door » opened; Jessica beckoned. He went in. Laura was heavily drowsy. She saw him, smiled as she shaped his name with her white lips, and fell asleep. Captain Gray nodded, indicating the baby whom Mrs, Gray was holding. > “A little boy,” he pronounced si¬ lently and, looking wise behind his iron-rimmed glasses and ahovc his dog¬ gish whiskers, gestured with his head that Matt should leave now. “Yes,” whispered Matt, “hut as soon as you can, please examine my scout. He’s waiting outside.” Jessica took him to the door, “Go on over to our place with Hiram,” she said. “I’ll be along when everything is quiet here. Who is that, back there?” she asked in the hall, looking toward the back door. There was a tangled silhouette of heads. She knew at once and went to them. They were the women from Soapsuds Row, the sol¬ diers’ wives who did the post laundry. They came for news of new life in the desert, that was like water in the wilder¬ ness, and the commander’s lady gave them word in vivid, if brisk, detail. . . , “The Army,” said Major Prescott, pouring still another drink of whisky for himself and Matthew in his head¬ quarters ollice later in the night, “the Army has a peculiar nervous system. It always reacts to stimulus, hut you never know how long it's going to take to do it, and you never can predict which way it’s going to react. Just one thing you remember, young man. However it re¬ acts, it always means something." Hiram Hyde had expected this to sound somehow more profound and lucid. He hung his head toward Mat¬ thew to see if Matthew was drunk enough to comprehend any remarkable statement. It was his determination to see that Matthew got drunk tonight, under his rules. No officer of Troop F, Sixth United States Cavalry, com¬ manded by Hiram Hyde Prescott, Bre¬ vet Major, U.S.A., was ever going to turn down a drink — or ever show any outward effect of it. “Take this Gray affair, for example,” Collier’s for January 3, 1953 he went on, wondering why Matthew was moving his mouth in silent speech. “ Transfer to Fort Union, New Mexico, via Santa Fe. H’m? Mean anything to you?” “They need a post surgeon, I sup¬ pose, sir.” “Too easy. The nerve system of the Army again. Touch the center, and a long time later a shudder reaches the farthest nerve. That’s us. What?” he broke olf, scowling. “Nothing, sir. I was just try ing over something.” “Would be very grateful 7 you’d lis¬ ten to me.” “Yes, sir.” “All right, what’s behind it, pulling medical olliccrs back from the frontier? One of two things. The Indian cam¬ paigns are about to be abandoned. Or,” said Hiram Hyde with a rub of his bald head to indicate wisdom and its temple, “or there’s going to be a big build-up for a new all-out campaign.” “When does Gray go?” “Will proceed earliest practicable date,” quoted the major. He took a brooding pull at his heavy mustaches, “Then what? I’ll tell you. The Army just abandons F Troop without medical care, here at the most advanced regular post in the West. Why did you ever do it?” he asked earnestly. “You get out and pick any other pTession but the Army. It’s too late for me. I’m in. But you — ” He waved at unseen worlds of opportunity elsewhere, for Matthew. “No. I’m in, too,” answered Matt. Hiram Hyde asked himself cloudily whether Lieutenant Hazard was drunk, repeating things that were said to him that way. The young man again moved his lips speculatively, and then said abruptly, “I’ll tell you something else, too, sir,” “Yes, sir?" asked Major Prescott, in a burlesque of respectfulness. “With your permission. I’m going to call him Prescott Hazard.” The major stood up and found at once that he had better sit down again, which he did. He stared at Matthew with a shiny blur over his eyes. Alter a long, breathy silence, he said, inarticu¬ late with happiness, “Oh, thunder,” and held out his empty glass. Matthew was in the act of filling it when the office door opened and Jessica Prescott came in. She saw at once the state of affairs, and ignoring Hiram Hyde, said to Matthew with deadly pleasantness “I see my husband, who has never had too much to drink in his lile, has set out to get you drunk.” “Jess,” declared the m.i|or, “how’s that new baby boy ol mine?” "Yours?” she asked. “Ours, damn it! His name is Prescott Hazard.” Mrs. Prescott was made breathless with pleasure. "Oh. Matt. How sweet of you. I hey’rc line. Both asleep. 1 think we all need sleep, actually.” “Oh, no, you don’t, said Hiram Hyde. “You mean that for me. You let him alone,”— waving at Matt. “All right, I'll go. Good night, my boy. I hink you can make it to your quarters?” "Don’t know, sir,” said Matthew loyally, and Jessica nodded at him for his sober tact. z\s he lei t , she gave him a deep, searching look, thinking of the life that had come to his family and all that it held of love, pride and duty. The last thing he heard as he went out into the moonlight was the voice of his com¬ mander, raised in glad song: "Put my little shoes away. I'm going nowhere , dear. The time has come when / must stay , You'll always have me near." TEN days later the desert was at its worst. Everyone at Fort Delivery longed for spring. Now the wind blew and carried cutting dust. It was still cold. Animals stood together for com¬ fort, and so did men and women. Laura fought her way against the wind from her quarters to the Prescotts’. It was only a distance of about three hundred feet, but the journey left her trembling weakly bv Jessica’s Franklin stove. “Yes, what a day!” said Jessica, to dispose of the obvious. “The poor Grays, setting olf in it this morning. Did you see them go?” “No, but Mrs. Gray brought me a present and said good-by.” "Maud Gray is a little tower of strength. What’d she give you?” “Some calico. Said she’d carried it around for years, from Fort Porter to JcITcrson Barracks to Leavenworth and here, and she refuses to take it another inch. It’s pretty.” “Show it to me.” “I'll bring it next time.” She glanced in the direction of her quarters. “I’ve never left the b.iby belt re He s sc. ing. I vs. is lonesome I can only s .. > a minute “He’ll manage all right " remarked Jessica, somehow suggesting t i.it eve mlants must learn to dominate c\pe- rience “How s your hie these days'" she asked, as though they did not meet daily. She was a great believer in giv¬ ing to an Army post, with us lorced associations, an air ol a wide and com¬ plicated society. So she protected and educated her oliiccrs' wives "Wonderlul. with the baby and Mat¬ thew," replied Laura, and then scowled quickly. “But oh, that u-c hinnnn' "Yes,” Jessica said; "il sou re down¬ wind lrom him, it is try mg.” JESSICA could not help smiling as she thought of Joe Dunum. He was of middle height, looking twice as old as he really was. and he moved on his moccasin pads like a wary bobcat. I he resemblance was helped by tults o* whisker-lur that grew out lrom the cor¬ ners ot his mouth. Around his head was the distinctive red band ol the Cavalry's Apache scouts; it was rich with human grease. His hands and face were cured wrth dirt into another sub¬ stance than ilesh. He wore a cotton shirt, a vest and striped trousers, stolen long ago horn a Tucson gents’ empo¬ rium, and these garments were so heavy and solt with dirt that they glided ovei his joints and muscle like accommodat¬ ing membranes. “Do you know, Laura?” Jessica said. “Joe Dummy, all the same, is sonic- body." “Then 1 wish he’d go somewhere else and be somebody. He is always under¬ foot. He dogs Matthew. J can hardly ever see Matthew alone any more. Joe is so dirty 1 can’t bear him near the house on account ol the baby. When I scold about it. Matt just says no women could understand, men don't mind the things that bather women, especially if the men have fought through danger to¬ gether. Matt said he saved Joe's life, and Joe thinks he belongs to Matt for it. I can’t stand it. I don’t see why m\ life has to be ruined by it. Living here is hard enough without that dreadful creature squatting on our doorstep.” “Well, my dear, perhaps you are for¬ getting why vve are all here. Your hus¬ band will do his work all the better lor having Joe Dummy so close to him. It has taken me thirty years, but 1 do know at last that when you marry into the Army, you marry all of it. Wc also serve, child. And” — she smiled delight¬ fully — "that is why some generals’ wives arc so horril'te. They’re real veterans." Laura was not ready for comedy. She jumped up. “I really must run along and see if the baby is all right.” ”Run right hack and bring your cal¬ ico. I’ll have some tea ready. Wrap the baby up warmly and bring him, too. We ll have a party.” ”Oh, in this wind? He’d catch his death.” Jessica, who had married olf two children, sighed at being educated by the young mother, let her go and set about making tea. She heard the boots of her husband and someone else come up the porch and go into the ollice across the hall, so she added enough tea for everyone. She sat down to have her cigarette (a pleasure considered daring throughout the wives’ army ) and listen to ihc water come to boil. The wind shrieked past. It imitated the oddest sounds, a woman calling and sobbing— or did someone just now run up on the porch in distress? Jessica started for¬ ward as the door blew open in front of

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56 Laura, who was in hysterics, and carry¬ ing her child, who was crying. “Laura, my dear, what is it? Is it the baby?” Laura could not speak. She went to kneel on the floor before the stove, hugged the baby and sobbed in anguish. Jessica decided the baby was red and yelling with fright. She left the room, crossed to the office and looked for Matt. He was there with Hiram Hyde. She brought him with a commanding word, “Please, Matt?” and set him to manage his family. She believed that husbands should always handle their wives' hysterics. Both could learn in the process, it they were sensible. If they were not, then at least others were spared a task that had no claim upon them. “I aura!” Matthew said , embracing her and the baby, “what is it?” But it was minutes before she could tell, and when she did, Matthew pressed his lips together, shook his head, and swal¬ lowed his regret and impatience. “. . . and when I started home,” Laura gasped, “that filthy Joe Dummy was outside, holding the baby in noth¬ ing but his little gown, and lifting him high, then down low, and then pointing him four different ways” — Matthew recognized the sacred directions of life to whom Joe thus offered the baby — “and then he took some stuff out of his belt and spread it over the baby, and then he took a dirty little stick and made signs with it, and then he took up some dust off the ground and rubbed it on Prescott’s little cheeks, and all this time I was running, it was a nightmare, I never seemed to get there, to take my darling baby out ot that horrible smelly creature's arms! And when I came, he shouted, Lk!f Why did he say a crazy thing like that? And I took the baby, and he began to cr>, and I sent Joe Dummy packing. Oh, why, oh, why — ” SHE broke down beyond speech, sob¬ bing in her exile, her hunger for safety in the wilderness. Hiram Hyde came in from the offiee. “Ho-ho, where's my baby?” he roared, to cheer everybody up. Laura hugged little Prescott eloser, and cried, “Either that Joe Dummy goes, or 1 go!” I he issue was now' an administrative one, and the commanding officer raised his eyebrows at Matthew. “Sir,” said Matthew, “Joe Dummy was only trying to bless the baby and dedicate him the way they do and pray over him. Laura caught him at it, and it upset her. He was probably doing it for my sake.” “Upset her!” echoed Laura, aghast at his reasonable tone. Jessica brought the tea tray. “ This cures ever) thing,” she said, and poured four cups. But the gentlemen didn't want any and returned to the offiee to think over their new problem. Major Prescott finally said, “Of eourse it’s all nonsense, but you know how touchy these Indians are, especially the indispensable ones. I leave it to you to manage it, but one thing is sure: nothing, underscore nothing, is to cause us to lose Joe Dummy. Is that clear?” “Yes, sir,” replied Matthew confi¬ dently, unable to imagine there would be any consequences of the episode. He was wrong. At midnight Laura awakened him. The baby was in trou¬ ble, and she was frightened into silence. She held the child. They heard his breathing that went so fast and sounded like a little, wet whistle. His eyes were open and seemed without sight of the real world. He was in a high fever. The father and mother looked at each other. Phis was probably pneumonia, a result of today’s exposure in the bitter wind. The post surgeon and his wife and all their effects were a day's jour¬ ney out on the desert, under escort commanded by Mainwaring, the first lieutenant, on their way to Driscoll, Arizona, and the railroad to Santa Fe. This little boy, eleven days old, the substance of love and pain, might be about to leave the life they had joy¬ fully promised him. Matthew climbed from bed, put on some clothes, and, with Laura, did what he could for the baby throughout the rest of the night — cool cloths, steam to inhale, the eomfort of being held. The wind fell toward dawn, but after sun¬ rise it eame up again. “I ean’t do anything,” said Laura wanly. She was exhausted. “Let me see if Mrs. Prescott will re¬ lieve you for a little while,” said Mat¬ thew, He put his lips to her brow for a moment and then left the house. Outside his door he found Joe Dummy squatting with his back to the stinging wind. Matthew had a sharp stah of anger at the combination of devotion and ignorance that had made the misery inside the little house, but when he spoke to Joe, it was with pa¬ tience. “Joe. My baby, you know? He is very sick. Here.” Matthew pressed his own chest. “It was bad outside for him yesterday, without any blankets, eold. It has made him very sick. You must not take him again, any more. Do you understand?” Joe showed no feeling. It was possi¬ ble that he did not understand eause and effect in relation to the child's illness. He did understand blame, however, and making an impolite, if se¬ rious, Indian sign for woman, he ges¬ tured toward the interior where Laura was, and wanted to know if she was still angry at him. He rehearsed how she had flown at him yesterday. He rolled his eyes and flapped his tongue and his hands, to show that he had been stunned — killed, really — by her attack. Matthew nodded. She was still very angry. Joe all but said “Ah!” with his forefinger and screwed up his face in delight at being able to please the lieu¬ tenant by what he would now propose, that would take care of everything. “Yes, Joe? What is it?” asked Matt. Joe Dummy produced his sacred lightning-struek twig, and made it clear that, as a doctor with ancient knowl¬ edge, he had but to see the child in or¬ der to invoke a cure. Let me in this instant, Joe demanded in his silent fashion with his foot on the roek sill of the door. / will bring down huge powers , and you may stop worrying. “No, Joe. Thank you. Good friend. Thank you. But no. My woman will never let you do that,” Woman won’t ? inquired Joe in dis¬ may, unable to understand why any woman should be consulted about such a matter. He pushed open the door be¬ fore Matthew could stop him and, hold¬ ing up his niagie, eame upon Laura who was walking the baby. Seeing him, she turned white and weak with fury. “Get out of here, you horrid, dread¬ ful . . .” and her words dried up, but she made such sounds and shook with such loathing that Joe scrambled back¬ ward out of the door. His faee, too, was wrenched with anger. He spat and spat again on the ground and stamped on his spittle. Then with a most abused look, he turned to the young com¬ mander whom he worshiped and sol¬ emnly shook his head in reproof. Matthew smiled warmly on him to elaim him still as his friend and said, “Come along with me. I’m going to headquarters.” They walked in the eold wind up the row of quarters. Captain Gray’s house was being made ready for First Lieutenant Mainwaring and family to move in. The Hazards would then move up one notch to the Mainwarings’ quarters, and the adobe hut— Quarters D— at the end of the row would be vaeant till a new junior officer arrived, unless a senior officer came to shuttle the lieutenants back to their old quar¬ ters again. As they passed Dr. Gray’s quarters, Matthew said, “If only he were still here,” and then was sorry if Joe had heard what he said, for it seemed hardly polite in the presence of one doctor to sigh for another. At the porch of headquarters. Matt said, “I’ll see you over at the corral later on,” and went indoors with his poor news. . . . It was a measure of how remote, and how real, life was at Fort Delivery that the baby’s illness beeamc an event shared by all. The women from Soap¬ suds Row clustered about the door of Quarters D in their shawls, proving sympathy by suffering the bitter, dry cold. Jessica Prescott and Mrs. Main¬ waring were indoors with Laura. The work of the garrison went on through the day, but the young trumpeter, who served as the major’s orderly, ran every half hour to feteh the latest bulletins. These were progressively disturbing. As the day passed, the child seemed to be more ill. He went into a deathly calm toward sundown, scarcely breathing, barely responding to any stimulus. None of the women knew what more to do for him. They made about him, and about his mother, a cordon of fierce walls to live. Jessica watched Laura with increas¬ ing pride in her. The young wife seemed to grow stronger the more drawn with fear she became. Late in the day she asked Mrs. Preseott, “Do vou think he may die?” “Yes,” said Jessiea, “I do. I also think he may live, my dear.” Laura pressed her hands on her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears, and then she said, “If there is a chance for the other, and if it is near, then I must do this.” Helped by the other officers’ wives, she took a little dish of water and ehristened her child. AS NIGHT fell on doubt and anguish, Matthew had an official task to do that he would rather not have done. At headquarters he said to the command¬ ing officer, *Tm sorry, sir, but Joe Dummy seems to be gone. I’ve looked for him all day, but when nighttime came, and he wasn’t around, I felt I’d better tell you. There's a horse miss¬ ing, too.” “Didn’t 1 order you direetly — ” be¬ gan Hiram Hyde in fury, and then, re¬ membering what everyone was feeling in eommon throughout the fort, he took a deep breath and resumed quietly, “Have you any explanation as to why he may have disappeared?” “I’m afraid so, sir . . .” and Matt de¬ scribed the morning’s encounter be¬ tween Joe and Laura. “What did you do to mollify Joe?” “Sir, 1 said I’d work with him at the eorral later. He loves to work the horses with me on the different gaits.” “That all?” “Yes, sir.” Matthew refused to claim, and the major would not do it for him, that worry over Prescott Hazard had taken all his attention during the day. The best Hiram Hyde eould do was to ad¬ mit, “Well. I suppose nobody eould have done anything. Once they get their feelings hurt! He’s made it off to his own people, I suppose.” He serewed up his faee at Matt in wryly eomie ex¬ pression. “You tell me which is worse to handle — wimmin or Injuns!” He sighed and eame back to seriousness. “Well. Matt, we’ve lost a great scout.” “Yes, sir,” said Matthew stiffly, feel¬ ing responsible both for his own and for Laura’s part in what might become a military calamity. “Oh, thunderation!” said Hiram Hyde at the complexity of human af¬ fairs. “Let’s go see how my baby is.” They went out against the wind through whieh the desert spring was trying to come, and at Quarters D en¬ tered with the women upon the vigil of that doubtful night. Hiram Hyde kept his own counsel, but he knew that early the next day someone would have to go out after Joe Dummy, recover a stolen horse, and bring baek as a prisoner an old eomrade in arms. He decided upon a stern mcrey, contingent on what all dreaded. If Preseott Hazard died dur¬ ing the night, it would be his father Collier’s for January 3, 1953

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57 who would be assigned the duty of 1“ capturing the renegade tomorrow. In the lamplight turned low they all sat still, against the brushed adobe walls. They strained to hear, and the infant's breath that now and then came in small, fluttering flights was all they heard other than the wind pressing southwestward with its long, high cry. Yet at about four o’clock Major Prescott lilted his head suddenly, thinking that he heard something, a call on the wind. It was a sentry’s challenge borne to him, even made louder by the wind, lie glanced at Matthew and went to the door. The moon was gone, but there were stars overhead, and he could now see, as well as hear, a commotion at the main gate, where one horseman dismounted and another, passed on by the sentry, spurred across the parade and rode up to Major Prescott. “Is that you, Major?” asked the rider, sliding to the ground and unbuckling a small saddlebag. “Gray!” exclaimed Hiram Hyde. “How in thunderation did you — ” “That Indian scout of yours. He overtook our train about sundown, gave me your orders to return at all speed. He is a devil mounted. I’m ready to put in for line duty, now that I’ve proved I can ride like that. How is the child?” The major answered him by pushing him through the door, with his bag of bottles, phials and powders. The cap¬ tain called for more light, threw off his blouse, rolled up his sleeves and bent over the child who lay in the center of the big bed. Laura fell onto her knees and put her forehead against the mat¬ tress and poured out her grateful heart in silence. SHORTLY after reveille everybody knew the wonderful story of Joe’s ride, and all day they told it to one an¬ other in various ways. “Joe found the train just like that, and talked to Gray. Told him the major sent for him. Said he had orders to bring the captain back regardless.” “And he came.” “Yes, and that Mrs. Gray — ” “What did she do?” “Well, Captain Gray asked her if she thought she’d be safe if he took up and left her. You know what she said?” “What’d she say?” “Well, she never batted an eye, but she said right off that, why, of course he ought to leave her. She told him, she said, the baby’s new life was more im¬ portant than her old one!” “She never!” “She certainly did. And so she said she’d just go on to Driscoll with Lieu¬ tenant Mainwaring and the escort, and wait there.” “So then Joe and Captain Gray turned around and rode back here.” “Yes, and the captain said he was en¬ tirely lost till he saw the lights of the fort. Joe made his own trail.” “Now think of that.” “And the baby is already better. You watch. He’ll be waving his little fists and cooing tomorrow.” As this prophecy was borne out the next day, a feeling of heroism went through all the garrison, men and women alike. They told the desert, the enemy, to do all it could against them. What could ever hope to succeed against the United States Cavalry? Even the weather, for during the after¬ noon the wind rose to wild gusts, and then gave way to rain. It rained into the night, and nobody but the sentries Collier’s for January 3, 1953 whom, Are the gilds who stand under The mistletoe The sweet ones, the neat ones. The pretty ones? \o! — men v i wliiefi could haw* tremendous fill lire significance' • The Dog That TRAVELED INCOGNITO By Llinvu; BEVIELMANS A famous writer tell* the warm story of Little Bit, who had a patent-leather nose, **fioe-bnt ton c>es, a brain no larger than an oli\ e — and the !>ra\e heart of a lion, Illustrated by tin* author • Ruark Shoots a BUFFALO B\ ROBERT C. Rl'VRK Tin* nd \ e n I ii ron s and sharp-ev ed Mr. B nark continue* his Africa safari and inerts up with a big ('ape buffalo. The result is a dow n-to-earl h tale of adventure that you are certain to enjoy

Page 62

CALENDAR ART You'll hare to look at those commercial jobs a whole year, so be selective ANOTHER year is oft to a frustrating start, with /\ me failing once again to place a single cal- endar in the annual art competition at our house. I didn’t even get an honorable mention. The calendar exhibit at our place is an affair Harriet and I have been staging, about this time every year, as long as we’ve been married. From the time the new calendars first start to appear, everyone in the family gathers as many as he can. When we get a stack of them, we break the collec¬ tion down into classifications, hang all the entries in the living room, then call in a few neighbors and have an art exhihit and critique. We install the winning calendars wherever they’re needed for the rest ot the year, and let the kids draw mustaches on the entries that fail to place. There was a nice turnout this year: five classes of calendar art, with two or three entries in each class. Here are the results of the judging: 1. American primitive class (for sun porch). My entry here was a color lithograph of an Indian girl wearing a feather and a beaded antimacassar, standing on a rock at the edge of a pool. (Distrib¬ uted by the Idle Hour Pool Room.) That picture had more art to it, per square inch, than any other entry in the exhibit. The shadowing was superb. The colors were warm and human. She was the pinkest Indian 1 ever saw, and the very personifi¬ cation of symmetry. But Harriet ruled the picture out. She liked Indians well enough, she said, but with reserva¬ tions. And her reservation line, as she put it, stopped short of squaws in G strings. She wouldn't even leave the picture up for the rest of the ex¬ hibit. The winner in the American Primitive class was another Indian study, an old Navajo chief, done in tempera, sitting in front of a tepee with a clay pot full of corn in his lap. (Distributed by some washing-powder people.) 2. Industrial class (for my [?] den). I had two entries here. One of them was The Little Miss in the Motor, an offset, full-color job of the Kleen- Kut Tool & Die Company’s Girl-of-the- Year. She was a beautifully proportioned young lady, with plenty of character, in a torn shirt and a pair of cut- me-down (cut-me-way-down) overalls. She was holding a Never-Slip adjustable wrench and bend¬ ing artistically over an automobile motor. ’I he other entry was a blonde in a Bikini bath¬ ing suit (full-color, offset printing) operating a Thunder King Snow Plow. Both of these entries lost out on technicalities. Harriet insisted that the girl in each picture was, By RALPH REPPERT actually, a composite of the better features of sev¬ eral models — one girl’s hairdo, another girl’s eye¬ lashes, another girl’s smile and so on down the line. The Industrial class winner Harriet finally de¬ cided on was a color photograph of a Greater Hinklevillc Power & Light Company substation. 3. Geographic class (for wall at end of hall). Judging in this department involved a great deal of heated argument, and I must say I conceded reluctantly. The winner chosen in the class was the Trans-Whiz Airlines’ water colors of 12 of the world’s faraway places, none of them more than 40 hours, by air, from Pomeroy, Ohio, or Owosso, Mich., or wherever you happen to get on the plane. My entry in the Geographic class was prettier, I thought, and certainly as educational. It was a multicolor water-wash painting distributed by Os- burn & Fiddler, Air Conditioning and Refrigera¬ tion Consultants. The picture portrayed an Eskimo debutante getting ready to retire. She was attired, quite pret¬ tily, I thought, in a form-fitting fingertip-length sleeping parka with a television neckline. Ermine trim. Standing guard beside her was her sled dog, also a husky. The picture was executed perfectly in every de¬ tail, and its lighting effect was the finest I have seen. The flickering colors of the aurora borealis formed the background, and the weird lights played beautifully upon the suhject matter. It was entitled Bed Time in Baffin Land, desig¬ nated technically as an evening study. Offhand, I’d judge that particular time of evening to be about six weeks after sunset, which, as you well know, is just the shank of the evening up in Baffin Land. 4. Domestic class (for the kitchen). I had only one entry in the Domestic class, hut a good one. It was a full-color job of a young lady wrapped up in a cellophane shower curtain, telling an intruding plumber that he had come to the wrong address. (Distributed by the Southern Soil Pipe & Fixture Corporation.) Both characters were exceptionally well done. It was a harmless little vignette on everyday liv¬ ing, because you could tell at a glance that the in¬ truding character was, basically, a gentleman. And you could certainly tell that the character in the shower wasn’t, hecause you could see . . . well, because you could see. But Harriet ruled the picture out without com¬ ment and awarded first prize to a calendar sent to us by one of the department stores. It was a re¬ production of one of those horribly heavy oil paintings of flowers, and I’ve never seen so much color smeared on so heavily in my life. As closely as 1 can determine, the artist must have created it with catsup, chlorophyll and four kinds of mayon¬ naise, laying the stuff on with a screw driver in¬ stead of a brush. Second prize in this class (for the pantry door) went to another oil still life, a candlelight study of a chuck roast flanked by eggplant, sweet potatoes and Bermuda onions. (Distributed by Fordyce’s Meat Market.) 5. Outdoors class (for the rumpus room). For real art, the calendar the chewing-tobacco people put out should have won me a first in the Outdoors class. Entitled Some Catch, it pictured a red¬ headed young lady out fishing. She wasn’t actu¬ ally nude, as Harriet insisted. She had on a creel and a fly rod, and was standing up to her creel in a clear mountain pool. Harriet wouldn’t have any part of it. So the Outdoors class first prize went, by de¬ fault, to the little calendar we got from Beechum’s Pharmacy. It was a picture of a little freckled feller with a bamboo fishing pole, bent pinhook and a can of worms. He had a string of big fish. He was grinning at a city feller, outfitted by Aber¬ crombie & Fitch, who had caught only one little four-inch fish with all his expensive gear. The city feller was also wearing what is sometimes de¬ scribed as a rueful grin. More expressive grins I have seen painted on balloons. That wound up the judging for this year. For real art, 1 still think 1 won the exhibit, hands down, but you can't argue art with a woman. I don’t mind the losing so much. It’s just that I’ve got to look, throughout the year to come, at the pictures that beat me out. In the meantime, though, my entries won’t go to waste, because I know any number of art lovers who will be glad to find places for them. George Peeble wants the Eskimo girl to hang in his basement workshop. Charlie Dinger will display the Indian maiden against the side of his furnace. And the boys down at the garage are going to trade me a motor tune-up for the picture of the mechanical doll in the short overalls. She’s the one, you remember, who borrowed one girl’s eye¬ lashes, another girl’s smile and so on down the line. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to meet some of her other friends? AAA We hang all the entries in the living room, then call in a few neighbors and have an art exhibit and critique ILLUSTRATED BY ROBERT DAY

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► THE BLONDE IN THE CLOSET A shot heard by telephone summoned Sam Doney to the scene of murder.. .and every clue pointed to the girl he dared to love! An Oscar Schisgall mystery. And FROST IN HEAVEN by Allene Corliss: Could you resist the offer of another man’s fame, money, and girl? Learn what happens to a man without conscience in this romantic novel, also complete in the January American Magazine. ► 6 LIVELY SHORT STORIES All the exciting variety of a half-dozen short stories, added to the two complete novels, make The American a treat for those who love good reading. Don’t miss a sports story that’s a sure hit; the saga of a Siamese cat named ’’Lorelei;” the tale of a strange pact with the devil; a delightful comedy about the manners and mores of the suburban set; and others. ► WHAT OUR TEEN-AGERS WANT TO KNOW ABOUT SEX AND MARRIAGE At last, the vicious taboo of silence about sex is broken. And our teen-agers are being taught healthy truths about love, mating and secrets of a successful marriage. Learn for yourself all the answers to the 15 most common questions of young people preparing for marriage, from a famous teacher who has found an answer to today’s alarming divorce rate. ► WILL THERE ALWAYS BE A ROOSEVELT? Moving in with, the EISENHOWERS . . . You’re invited to a housewarming— with the first Republican President in 20 years. We Americans insist that our heads of state behave like Presi¬ dents, but live like kings! As you’ll discover when you inspect Ike and Mamie Eisenhower’s 1 07-room new home that even tops their lavish NATO villa outsi*®Paris. The first Presidentiarcouple to occupy the redone White House for a full term can see any movie ever made on a moment’s notice! Will be waited on by 64 servants! Have secret service men do their shopping! Swim in a private pool! Walk through rooms always perfumed by fresh-cut flowers! Ride a pri¬ vate elevator! Take their choice of two dozen limousines, their own railroad car, a private super airliner, or a luxurious yacht! At night they’ll retire to living quarters with 25 rooms and 1 2 baths. (Although the only private con¬ nection between Ike and Mamie's suites is a narrow passageway between their clothes closets!) Want to know the special living habits of Hoover, F.D.R., and Cool- idge? What will happen to Truman’s piano? What it’s like to live in a goldfish bowl? How well they entertain? Walk into the White House with our new First Family! INTERESTING PEOPLE Photo-Section See 12 Pages of Unusual Personalities meiicap. For 20 years, the Roosevelts have been with us! Their political maneuvers, business deals, marriages and divorces make so much news the average citizen can’t follow it all. To bring you up to date, our reporter, Clarence Woodbury, traveled 7,000 miles, to present a rare portrait of the color¬ ful clan now headed by Eleanor Roosevelt, undisputed First Lady of the World! Does the Roosevelt name help or hinder? See for yourself! Meet a fireside fisherman who catches trout from a stream that runs through his living room! A restaurateur who spends $2,000 a year feeding stray dogs! A 100-year-old carpenter who easily totes 100 pound loads up a ladder! The American Magazine Co-ed of the Month — and other interesting people from Main Street to Broadway! A 444 On Sale January 2nd merican Articles, short stories, novels -every- 2 C thing complete in The American! 3 ^ ^

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WASHINGTON'S THIRDS1 Newcomers to tlie capital can forget the rules they observed at home. Iu Washington, six-to-one Martinis are served at teas. And there’s no need to greet the hostess. She may not even show up AS THE son of a President and a long-time /% politician. Senator Robert A. Taft of Ohio has never been a country bumpkin, nor has he ever lacked intestinal fortitude. Nevertheless, the distinguished senator was flabbergasted when he attended his first Washington cocktail party some years ago and surveyed the assorted alcoholic potions, arrayed in soldierly precision for the ex¬ peditious consumption of the guests. “Good heavens," gasped Taft. “Do people drink all that stuff?" The answer is: They sure do. Of all the hazards faced by the new' administra¬ tion, few are more hair-raising than those it will encounter in the salons and saloons of the nation’s capital. Washington offers the unwary officeholder the most awesome and diverse selection of spiritu¬ ous and vinous beverages known to man. As new bureaucrats move in to replace the old, they will find themselves invited to as many as three or four cocktail parties a day. For the cocktail party is as much a part of the Washington scene as the fat expense account. Happily, this problem is of no concern to the top figures in the new team which takes over January 20th. President-elect Dwight D. Eisenhower, a veteran of the Washington party circuit, is well aware of the dangers which lurk in the generosity of an affable host. For years, Ike has stuck to plain Scotch and water, and he generally limits himself to a couple of swigs of the stuff per evening. Occasionally he will take a Martini, and if Southern friends of political power insist, he tries bourbon. But although Ike is known as a play-it-safe drinker, he is far from being a stiff, unbending partvgoer. Washington hostesses remember his ap¬ pearances at their chrome-trimmed shindigs with pleasure because of his easygoing manner and his willingness to join in the fun. One of the proudest memories of Perle Mesta’s halcyon days in the By ANDREW F. TULLY hostess dodge is of the night she persuaded Ike to stand up at a party and warble a passable rendition of Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes. Eisenhower put a fine quaver into his voice for that one, and some of the ladies present like to swooned. “Ike is definitely the romantic type," Perle declared a little mistily, after she’d located her breath. Vicc-President-elect Richard Nixon is on even more solid ground than Ike — Dick simply doesn’t touch the stuff. At Washington parties he sticks to sott drinks. Nixon’s attitude toward strong drink is the sub¬ ject of much sorrowful discussion around the Sen¬ ate. To many senators and hangers-on, the new Veep is going to be a poor social substitute for the convivial, storytelling Albert Barkley. In re¬ cent years, Barkley has been a most sparing tippler, but his office door on the Hill was always open to the friend seeking a medicinal dram. But if Eisenhower is protected by self-restraint and Nixon by total abstinence, others in the new administration face some harrowing nights trying to fight off the temptation to indulge in the fantastic drinks available at Washington cocktail parties. Helpful Hints for the Inexperienced It would be useless to issue the blunt warning: Don’t go! After all, the nation was suffering from prohibition the last time the Republicans were in pow'er, and now they want to have a little fun. But it also would be most uncharitable not to offer a few hints for survival. These are parlous times and we should not like any new man to wake up some morning with a hang-over and decide to give Rhode Island to Joe Stalin. To begin with, a Washington cocktail party is like nothing you ever attended by that name in Sioux Falls. The main idea seems to be to herd as many people as possible into one place and then feed them as much liquor as they can hold. Some¬ times these shindigs are advertised as teas, but that’s just a gag. There were ugly mutterings some time ago when a bunch of free-loaders showed up for a “tea" and found that tea — and only tea — actually was being served. Chances are you’ll never meet your hostess. Usually there’s too much of a crush and, anyway, the lady giving the party doesn’t care about the bowing and scraping, so long as everybody shows up and has a good time. There was, for instance, the occasion when Mrs. O. Max Gardner, widow of the former ambassador to Great Britain, gave a posh drinking party just before the 1950 Jefferson- Jackson Day Democratic dinner. Leaving the party, one naive guest mentioned that he felt caddish because he hadn’t greeted his hostess. “Oh, that’s okay,” replied his companion. “She wasn't even there." He was right. Mrs. Gardner had been busy at¬ tending a meeting to plan the Democrats’ dinner. The first thing the freshly arrived Republican will notice at a cocktail party in the capital is that there seems to be some rule against having it in a big enough room. The basic formula seems to be to crowd 500 persons into a space built to accom¬ modate 250, and then turn them loose on a mini¬ mum of two bars. The result is something like a Texas cattle stam¬ pede. Some guests, who make a show of conceal¬ ing their thirst, stop first for a chat with the hostess, but the smart boys swing right into action. Paus¬ ing only long enough to check their hats and coats, they make an immediate dash for one of the bars — a simple and wholesome form of exercise, provid¬ ing you played fullback last year for Notre Dame, In that case, you generally can make the bar about 10 minutes after hitting the scrimmage line, with only minor bruises. There, Mr. Republican, is where the real danger 8 ?■ y I ^ :: w I I a c a u l. i r Collier’s for January 3, 1933 60

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PARTY — lies. After a hard day at the office, followed by the savage ofif-tackle thrust that carries you to the bar, those bottles will look mighty good. Sample the stufF by all means. Sample it, even, generously. But make your selection with the utmost discretion. At run-of-the-mill cocktail parties, the choice is pretty standard — bourbon, Scotch, Martinis and Manhattans. If you are wise, you’ll stick to either bourbon or Scotch. But if you're normal, you’ll probably be tempted by the cocktails. As everybody knows, a good dry Martini is one of man’s finest works. But to the uninitiated, the Washington Martini is a sinister concoction. A thrce-to-one ratio of gin to vermouth is for babies, and four-to-one is for the youth with down on his cheeks. Men take their Martinis, in Washington, at a five-, six- or seven-to-one ratio, and the capi¬ tal’s bartenders are attuned to their patron's desires. One Martini at a Washington party will shore you up fine and set you to thinking kind thoughts about the Bureau of the Budget. Two will give you the strength (you’ll think) of five men; your de¬ bate with that 200-pounder will take on new vigor. After a third, you’re on your own — but keep your name and address pinned somewhere on your per¬ son so they’ll knew where to ship the body. Veterans in Washington, of course, generally treat the Martini with the utmost respect. An ex¬ ception is Dean Acheson, a particularly healthy gent, and an enthusiastic Martini fan. But Ache- son is sensible; he is content with no more than a four-to-one ratio. “I like,” says the retiring Secre¬ tary of State, “to be at least vaguely aware of the vermouth.” Henry Cabot Lodge, who will head the United States delegation to the UN, mixes one of the finest Martinis in the Western Hemisphere. But his per¬ sonal consumption usually stops alter one. He fa¬ vors Scotch or beer, both in moderation. Hazardous as the standard drinks might seem, they are as milk shakes to some of the more exotic liquors available — particularly at diplomatic affairs. Most newcomers to Washington will arrive with a record of having successfully resisted ruin by champagne, by reason of never having had enough of it put in front of them. But at embassy parties, they will be confronted with fountains of the stuff, into which anyone may dip as often as his co-ordi¬ nation permits. The heady tealization that here. for the first time in his life, is enough champagne, has caused many a bureaucrat to take leave of a party feet first. There are, also, the punches. Some start with rum, some with sauterne and some with innocent grape juice — but they are all deadly. The latest fad, initiated by the ineffable Mrs. Gwen Cafritz, capital social leader, is a bowl that gives forth clouds of steam and conjures up uncomfortable thoughts of the nether regions. The steam is pro¬ duced by dry ice. Then there arc the national poisons. Vodka, a corrosive distillation of potato alcohol, is standard at the Russian Embassy — although ambassador Georgi Zarubin prefers Scotch. It is also pushed at the other Iron Curtain embassies, since a satellite ambassador is well aware of which side his high¬ ball glass is moistened on. Beware of Dynamic Vodka Martinis Vodka has the approximate kick of a small jet engine and should be avoided, particularly when proffered in the guise of a “vodka Martini.” Taken in that form, vodka not only knocks you flat; it stomps all over you. The Yugoslavs proudly serve something called slivovitz . a kind of brandy distilled from plums (not, as some victims have sworn, from second¬ hand sulphuric acid). Still, if you chase it down quickly enough with water, the roof of your mouth is almost sure to heal within a week. Then there is raki, a Turkish liqueur with the flavor — and all the baleful qualities — of anisette and absinthe. General Omar N. Bradley, after sampling some hospitality at the Turkish Embassy, once commented: “Let’s never fight the Turks. Bullets would just bounce off a people who can drink that stuff day in and day out.” Most top officials, having, perhaps, purchased wisdom dearly in their youth, attend as few Wash¬ ington cocktail parties as possible. But almost all of them attend one occasionally; when they do, they generally proceed with caution. Joseph W. Martin. Jr., of Massachusetts, who will be Speaker of the House, is as careful in his drinking habits as he is in everything else. He doesn’t care for liquor of any kind and would as soon drink Scotch as bourbon because he never takes more than a few polite sips. Senator Taft sips Scotch absent-mind¬ edly; no cocktails for him. Of the holdovers. Chief Justice Fred Vinson is probably the party-goingest man in town and one of the gayest guests a hostess could desire. A Ken¬ tuckian, the chief justice naturally favors bourbon. He’s a dignified drinker, but, before a party breaks up, he can sometimes be prevailed on to render My Old Kentucky Home. Justice l orn Clark is another bourbon drinker — and so are Justices William Douglas and Sherman Minton. Justice Harold Burton and Mrs. Burton arc seen everywhere, but the justice is strictly a sipper. Among other familiar faces*— and bourbon drinkers — at Washington parties are Representa¬ tive Sam Rayburn of Texas, the retiring Speaker, and Leslie Biffle, the retiring Senate secretary. As the new administration swings into the height of the social season, you can expect periodic out¬ bursts in Congress against the cocktail party. Democratic Senator Robert Kerr of Oklahoma and Senator Wayne Morse, the Oregon independ¬ ent, always make at least one speech apiece about the evils of the institution, and at least one Senate chaplain has raised a plea to Heaven to protect his legislative babes-in-the-wood from the Martini. It was the late Reverend Peter Marshall who opened one session of the Senate by praying: “Almighty Father, save these. Thy servants, the chosen of the people, from the tyranny of the noncssential, from the weary round of that which saps strength, frays nerves, shortens life, and adds nothing to their usefulness to Thee and to this nation.” But, Republicans or no, Washington will prob¬ ably remain the kind of town where, at day's end. a stiff slug of snake-bite remedy will seem like the best specific for the preservation of sanity. White House sources tell this story about Harry S. Tru¬ man, whose liking for an occasional sour mash bourbon and branch water sometimes troubles his physician. Major General Wallace H. Graham. The night of the 1952 Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner, at which he announced that he would not run again, Truman is said to have come home, kicked off bis shoes and rummaged through a cup¬ board until his hand struck the proper bottle. Then he commented thoughtfully: “The hell with Doc Graham! There are nights when a man needs a couple of good drinks of whisky.” ^ ^ ^ 61 ILLUSTRATED BY ERIC GURNEY V. S'

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f I here Have All the Handi They're ivorking at better jobs , and so are the plumbers , baby sitters and domesti c a MERICANS have always taken service, pref- /\ erably with a smile, as much for granted as xV (resh air or the morning paper. We have been history's most spoiled, smiled-at, experted and sales-talked people. Vet, at a prosperous time when we can atlord to pay more for it, the service itself has slipped out of gear. The symptoms are painfully elear to all of us. We see them each day in an endless reel of mislaid deliveries, missing maids and short-lived repairs. Among the villains in these minor tragicomedies of errors are snippy salespeople, slow-motion re¬ pairmen — and you. As customers, we have always expected as much as possible for as little as possi¬ ble from the people who serve us. The time was bound to come when that attitude would bring on service with a smirk. I talked with many authorities — economists, so¬ ciologists, government officials and labor leaders — and most of them agreed that never before has the customer been so ill-treated, or so hard to please. The resulting deeline in cheerful efficiency, the experts told me, has beeome a creeping, eostly economic ailment. And, ironically, it is a by-prod¬ A typical complaint of serv ice workers: the boss who always expects too much for her money — aud stands there to make sure she gets it. That’s a widespread gripe uet of our present high standard of living. But how is it that good times ean mean a hard time for the served and the servers alike? The main trouble, I found, is that we now have what Harvard econo¬ mist Seymour Harris ealls “a sellers’ market in service.” In plain talk, there just aren’t enough service workers to fill the boom-time demand. American employment is at a peak, with about 62,000,000 on the job. There are more professional and tech¬ nical people than in 1940, and many more indus¬ trial workers. The fatter the payroll, the louder the clamor for service. Yet the percentage of people performing service chores, compared with the total number of workers, has slumped sharply. Take salespeople. We’re buying more than ever; the dollar volume of our production has shot up by 83 per cent since 1939. But the staffs selling those products to us have increased by only about 25 per eent. Over the same years, by comparison, the number of offiee workers has nearly doubled. The World Needs More Electricians We’ve never needed eleetrieians as we do now. We are switching on more and more new electrical gewgaws. Last year, we bought more than 11,- 000,000 radio and television sets, not to mention enormous quantities of new-type appliances — like 2,000,000 steam irons and a half-million clothes driers and a quarter of a million dishwashers. Someone must keep them repaired. In the last 10 years, the eleetrieal-repair indus¬ try doubled its volume of work. Yet an industry spokesman estimates that the number of repair workers has increased by as little as 10 per eent. Not only has it beeome difficult to get appli¬ ances fixed, but — more important — millions of old houses are dangerously in need of modernized rewiring. As it is, they’re fire hazards. But while the shortage of eleetrieians is a sore spot, homeowners probably have been pinehed most by the virtual disappearance of housework- ers and professional putterers. Nowadays, Old Joe, the handy man who used to do odd jobs around the. house, is probably pleasantly engaged in a well-paying 40-hour-a- week faetory job — and who ean blame him? The teen-agers who used to mow the lawn and sit with the baby no longer need the money. Their par¬ ents are earning more; the kids get an allowance or they ean earn handsome pin money at part-time jobs in stores or factories. Maids are becoming as hard to find as the pot¬ bellied kitchen stove. Nearly half again as many women as before the war are working — but there are 350,000 fewer household workers. The help whieh families once got free from unmarried fe¬ male relatives is gone, too. The “maiden aunt” now is a “baehelor girl,” and she has a job. Sinee many workingwomen depend on domes- ties, full or part time, this shortage has put an irri¬ tating kink in the nation’s whole economic setup. Many women sorely needed in the defense effort, for example, either lose valuable time or don't work at all beeause they eannot find household help. A Washington hospital reports that the main excuse for absenteeism among its married nurses is that “the maid didn’t show up today.” It isn’t that housework is particularly unpleas¬ ant. The Women’s Bureau of the Labor Depart¬ ment insists that many women would just as cheerfully wield a dust rag as run a maehine or puneh a typewriter — if pay and working eondi- Collier’s for January 3, 1953 1 x I : *re | sue I riei I >or bUd die as J ] | wb m i tha sill da At [hi ! an cei I bk eai n hk 'VI III I -ct ad pa w "w I c,r' : Fc ft] ?u Ci Ju

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63 fen Gone ? lb CARLE IIODCK yther years. That's why service is at an all-time loir — and costing more than ever tions were comparable and if they were properly treated, as respectable employees instead of as lackeys. These days, a maid’s mop — or a plumber’s wrench — almost always can be turned in for an implement with more prestige. One Washington official recounts the white-apron-to-white-collar success story of his former housekeeper, an un- pleasingly plump young woman who had worked for him seven years. Shortly after the war, she suddenly began attending night school. Then she dieted into slimness. She now is happily employed as a bank bookkeeper. Her endeavor pinpoints tw'o of the shiny lures which cause service workers to cast fond eyes on new fields. First, she understandably yearned for more pay than she could eolleet behind a broom. Except for such skilled craftsmen as plumbers and electri¬ cians, serviee workers are traditionally low-paid. And their plight is worse now than ever before: in tne wartime and postwar inflation, their salaries and working conditions, meager to begin with, | have not kept pace with the general rise. The average maid’s salary has jumped only 51 per cent since 1939, while the cost of living has dou¬ bled. Second, and perhaps even more important than earnings, the Washington official's former maid was striving for the kind of social respect the rest of us bestow too seldom on maids. More and more, we have tried to make the white collar the symbol of what the well-dressed American wears. That attitude, along with the influence of wider schooling and the magic spell cast by movies and advertising, has meant fewer recruits for lower- paid jobs. “Most girls who write to the Women’s Bureau,” says Frances Whitelock of the Labor Department, “want glamor jobs. They want to be air-line stew¬ ardesses or television actresses or to go into the Foreign Serviee.” Male Movie Star in Plumber Role So many starched-eollar Americans have looked down so long on that segment of the citizenry which toils with its hands that a plumbing-trade publication waxed ecstatic a few months ago when Universal-International turned out a movie called Just Across the Street, in which a plumber (John Lund) not only was the clean-eut, bright-eyed hero but also got the girl, who happened to be Ann Sheridan. The publication did not imply that every plumber worth his fittings might get an Ann Sheridan, but it did murmur a “prayer that movie makers finally are laying to rest those tired old jokes about plumbers.” Besides resenting their low social status, serviee workers often complain that their employers don’t appreciate the work done for them, and, worse, frequently don’t understand it. I interviewed many maids, for example, who protested that their lady bosses expect better work than they themselves would do. A frequent grievance of fix-it people is that the customers try to second-guess them. A plumber told me: “Housewives almost always underesti¬ mate the job. If we were always equipped to do any job, we’d have to travel in five-ton trucks. We ean’t, so we often have to return to the shop to pick up more supplies. Homeowners can’t un¬ derstand why we charge them for such trips.” Essentially, all these complaints deal with a lack of consideration on the part of the employer. There are other gripes of a more subtle nature which fall into the same category. A C hicago jani¬ tor, who says his tenants “can’t afford to have servants of their own, so they try to treat the jani¬ tor as their servant,” was deeply hurt one Christ¬ mas. He received an envelope from a resident in the building, and, warm with yuletide spirit, opened it quickly. Instead of a gift, the envelope contained a note which said curtly, “I’ll be home today so please keep the heat up.” There is the story ( reported in a survey by res¬ taurant owners) of a waitress who burst into tears because a customer failed to leave a tip. It wasn't the money that bothered the girl. She was dis¬ traught because the customer had snubbed her. In view of the great gulf that has been devel¬ oping between employer and worker, it should eome as no shock that many once-buffeted trades¬ men and hired girls are asserting a firm inde¬ pendence now that jobs are plentiful. Here’s how a noted sociologist. Dr. Everett Hughes of the Uni¬ versity of Chicago, explained it to me: “In any matter of service, one person is doing as routine what another person regards as highly A typical complaint of employers: the worker who starts a job and takes his own time about finishing it — like the plumber who shut off the water for four days ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY DEVLIN

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64 All over the country , do-it-yourself untl we^ll-tlo-it-for-you agencies are striving tpl#' - - ^ important. You think your repair work is an emergency, hut to the repairman it's just another chore. When there is a change in supply and demand, as there has been recently, the question of what is an emergency comes up. Right now, the performer of the service is doing the deciding, and he is inclined to believe that nothing is an emergency. “Of course, if he were looking for customers, he'd be on the spot.” Siul Experience W ith a Plumber A neighbor of mine knows precisely what the sociologist means. Not long ago, a kitchen water pipe began to leak, and a plumber was summoned. The plumber appeared four days afterward, late on a Friday afternoon, turned off all the water in the building and then ripped into the wall. After a few' min¬ utes, he reported that it was time to quit. “You’ll have to leave the water oil,” he announced, “until 1 come back Monday.” On Monday he worked a few hours, then decided that the trouble all along had been the water pressure upstairs. He’d fix. that the following day; he had a big job to do that afternoon. On Tuesday — eight days after the plumber was called and four days after the water was shut off- the leak in my friend's kitchen faucet was finally repaired. liven worse than such simple slip¬ shoddiness, though, is what seems to be a spreading tendency to fleece the unwary. The television-repair business is an example. In St. Louis, the Better Business Bureau put its hawkshaws on the trail of a television service about which it had been peppered with com¬ plaints. A bureau investigator took a TV set in good working order, replaced a 15-cent fuse with a broken one and took the set to be repaired. A few days later, the bureau sleuth received a bill for $32.60 for “aligning horizontal drive and frequency and adjusting hori¬ zontal and vertical hold and linearity.” Although the high-tension jargon might have impressed the unwitting, the bureau knew it was pseudotechnical jabberw'ocky. However, most TV repairmen obvi¬ ously would no more think of hood¬ winking the public than most electricians or plumbers or service-station workers would intentionally give poor service. It is the dishonest or lazy few who bur¬ den the rest. One ollicial of an electrical union lays the blame, at least in his own field, to second-rate workmen, whose num¬ bers seem to increase in good times because of a relative shortage of skilled men. “Under conditions of full em¬ ployment,” he says, “the level of me¬ chanics tends to be lowered by the marginal workers w ho are carried along by the great demand for maintenance service.” But if there is a scarcity of skilled workers in the fi\-it trades, the un¬ ions themselves must share the blame. I hey long have been inhospitable to newcomers. The plumbers, for exam¬ ple, have two craft organizations, the National Association of Master Plumb¬ ers and an AFL union of journeymen plumbers. Robert T. Morrill of Beloit, Wisconsin. national apprenticeship chairman of the master plumbers, told me flatly that “neither the masters nor the journexmen are keen about having more apprentices.” Keen or not, the plumbers are being forced to relent. Next year, the two organizations will sponsor an active re¬ cruiting program. Faulty services, whatever their intri¬ cate causes may be, arc gnawing like hidden termites at the American busi¬ ness structure, as well as at the repair trades. A recent survey of laundries, as an example, uncovered an overflow of cus¬ tomer complaints— 20 per cent more than two years earlier. And remember the swarms of gasoline-station attend¬ ants who used to wipe your road- stained windshield and check your tires? A checkup disclosed recently that less than half the stations were includ¬ ing those added favors. wSome time ago, the New York Uni¬ versity School of Retailing polled young workingwomcn on their chief gripes against department stores. The career girls were irked most, NYU found, by discourtesy and an insuffi¬ ciency of salesclerks. At about the same BUTCH “Then toznorra you'd tell tlT kid a collier s mean oF burglar swiped it. ISo, thanks" larry Reynolds time, the Willmark Service System, an organization paid by retail stores to keep tab on employee-customer rela¬ tions, reported a new rock bottom in the efficiency of salespeople. A later survey showed improvement, and a Willmark official said that the reason undoubtedly was increased employer interest. 1 ike the Willmark official, a top re¬ tailing authority lays the blame for dis¬ courtesy squarely on management. “Show me a store,” he says, “where management regards retailing as a pub¬ lic service, and not merely as a way to coin cash, and I’ll show you a store with hard-working and courteous sales¬ people.” The significance of poor workman¬ ship and low morale in the services goes far deeper than the irritated cus¬ tomer — or the apathetic employer — might suppose. “What worries me/’ Sumner Slich- ter, another Harvard economist, told me, “is the vast waste of money brought on by inaccuracy and inefficiency. Mis¬ takes by overworked and poorly super¬ vised people run up costs. This waste touches our whole economy.” Professor Slichter related a per¬ sonal experience which, except for mi¬ nor details, might well be the story of any one of millions of us: “We ordered a crib and a mattress recently for our granddaughter. A choice of two kinds of wood was of¬ fered. My wife decided on birch, but the store sent maple. Rather than go through the bother of sending the crib back, we decided to keep the maple — though the color didn't match the other furniture. “But the wrong mattress was also delivered. In the case of the mattress, we felt that we had to get what we had ordered, so the store had to make an extra trip to take back the wrong mat¬ tress and deliver the right one.” Unfair Expense to Consumer •ill Someone must pay for needless extra trips, for mistakes corrected, for work done over. Who digs down? Ultimately, you, the consumer. The statisticians have not tried even to guess the amount of cash which ebb¬ ing service washes down the American drain, but they agree it must be stag¬ gering. There’s a bizarre footnote to the postwar spiral: the cost of mass-pro¬ ducing many low-cost items — inexpen¬ sive clocks, say — has dropped, while the fee for repairing them has rock¬ eted. It's often cheaper to buy a new one than to repair the old. And besides clocks, one repairman pointed out to me, fountain pens, irons, | vacuum cleaners and sometimes even higher-priced merchandise often sell for less than major repairs would cost. I have a table-model radio for which I paid $14 in 1945. In the past nine months. I’ve spent $16 having it doc¬ tored. 1 would have been better olT, obviously, buying a new one, even at slightly higher prices. Most of my money went into salary* for the repairman, who, like the rest of us. is paying fatter grocery bills. It is one of the litttle incongruities of our assembly-line age that the labor costs for manufacturing a gadget can be less, than it costs one man to repair it. The trouble is that most of us, though L. Collier's for January 3, 1933 0

Page 69

65 |i(cice the missing service workers *TII take the coffVo ice cream,*' 1 said without hesitation I Never Mind Me IU I’AltKi; U MVSINUS xc have outlived the nickel hamburger ind the fivc-ccnt shoeshine, still think ff most services— -when wc can get hem at all — in terms ol' our 1 9.V) hudg- ;ts. We react angrily when the cost is much higher than our expectations — and especially angrily when the workmanship isn't all it might be. For¬ tunately, there are some antidotes. Workshops for Smart Fixers We arc learning to do more for our¬ selves. Many unhandy men — I'm an example — couldn't repair a radio even if Marconi stood by to offer advice. But there arc enough skilled putterers to have made fi\-it-yoursclf a booming business. Businessmen have started ga¬ rages in Cleveland and in Parkland, Washington, where motorists can rent space and tools to repair their own cars, and many lumberyards and stores now offer build-it-yoursclf lumber and hardware kits. Because of the growing popularity of washing machines, the commercial laundry business has slowed down the past lew years. But the self-service laundries are going strong, a good ex¬ ample of how technology tends to solve eventually the problems it helps create. I Some wise plumbers have set up (“faucet bars” in their shops. Instead of paying the plumber for the time it takes him to visit your home, you take your faucets to him to be repaired. A young Manhassct, Long Island, industrial engineer heard so much grip¬ ing about the servant situation that he put his scientific know-how to work on the supposedly simple task of house cleaning. Now he runs a company which dispatches two-man teams, laden with specially designed equipment and time-cutting tricks, to tidy up suburban homes. No housemaid could do the job so cheaply. In my own neighborhood in Manhat¬ tan, an e\ -boxer named Jerry Francis has, in a dozen years, parlayed a bent lor mending typewriters into a bustling we-do-an> thing shop employing more than 20 assistants. Jerry and his men will give your frostbitten sedan a push on wintry mornings, or custom build you a television set. They have repaired crutches, hearing aids, baby carriages, bikes and plumbing. I hey can unlock your front door if you forget the key, or send your dog for stud. But not all the Mr. Fix-its nor all the handy home kits can put Humpty Dumpty together again. Slipping serv¬ ice usually can be traced back to the plain old problem of a good-neighbor policy. Not every servicer can be ex¬ pected to purr like a contented cat while he tinkers in your basement. Nor is man constructed so amiably that all customers will beam fondly upon those they hire. The problem of the irascible employer and the irritated worker is still a bothersome one. Formulas for Good Service What can you do? If you're a service worker, find out what you arc expected to accomplish and how much you will he paid. 1 hen, if you agree to take on the task, per¬ form your best. Don’t do a half job because you think the money you’re be¬ ing paid is too little. If you're the customer, hire a com¬ petent service worker and then let him finish the job his way. He’s the expert. Keep your part of the bargain, and ex¬ pect no more from the worker. If you call in a plumber to replace a pipe, don’t expect a free sink-scrub, or floors waxed or the dog walked. These are simple, almost trite, golden rules. But without them wc never again will have service with a smile. AS I finished the last bite of a bacon-and-tomato sandwich at lunch on a recent Saturday my wife announced: “1 here's enough coffee ice cream left over from last night for one of us. and there’s also a help¬ ing of apricots. Which would you prefer?" “The ice cream," I said promptly. She doled it out to me, took the apricots for herself, sat down and subsequently remarked: “Wc haven't made any plans for tonight. There's a pretty good movie playing at the Palace — a musical that’s supposed to have some . underfill ballet scenes. Or w'e coin., have somebody in for bridge." “Have someone in for bridge," I told her. “Of course it's pretty late to get somebody for a Saturday night," \ ir- ginia pointed out, “but we could try. The Pattersons, for instance, or the Sh rivers." “1 he Shrivcrs," I said. Virginia put down her spoon, glared at me and demanded: “Whal’s got into you?" “What do you mean, what's got in’iO me?" I countered, taken aback. “Have you got a headache or a hang-over or something?" she pur¬ sued. “1 haven't got a headache or a hang-over or something," I told her. “I feel fine.’’ “Then why do you keep snapping at me?" she demanded. “Snapping?" I asked. “I've been j snapping?" “I asked you whether you wanted ice cream or apricots, and you said icc cream." “True," 1 confessed. “1 happen to prefer ice cream." “It seems to me you could have had the consideration to ask what / preferred," she pointed out. “And you could have waited to see whether I wanted to go to the movies or stay home and play bridge or whether I’d rather have the Patter — " “Oh," I said, “so that’s it. Well, the fact of the matter is that I've been reading an article." “What was the name of the ar¬ ticle?" she demanded. 1 hesitated. “As a matter of fact," i confessed, “I've been reading a good many articles on the same gen¬ eral subject. There was one called Get off the Fence! There was an¬ other one entitled Don't Be a Mealy- mouth and another one, ('an You Call Your Mind Your Own?" “What were they about?" asked Virginia. “Indecisiveness," 1 said. “The bur¬ den of all of them is that it can be as detrimental to a happy marriage as selfishness." “I don't get it." “I et me explain," 1 offered. “Sup¬ pose when you had asked me whether I wanted ice cream or apricots 1 had countered by asking you what you wanted." “ I hat's what you should have done," she declared. “You've already said that," 1 pointed out. “Well, you'd simply have come back by say ing you asked me what / preferred." “How do you know 1 would have?" she challenged. “Because you've done it before — lots of times. T ake last summer when we debated whether we should take my vacation at a place where 1 could get in some good tennis or whether we should go to M ossip Lake to be near ■ >ur cousins. Wc each kept in¬ sisting the other one should decide, and we’d probably still be at it if the kids hadn't insisted on going to Lake M ossip." “That’s ancient history," said V ir¬ ginia, “and 1 think you owe me an apology for being so selfish just now." “The apology is herewith ten¬ dered,” 1 said. “I'm sorry I took the icc cream it that's what you wanted, and 1 really don't care if we go to the movies or play bridge. Furthermore, whom we invite, if we do decide to play bridge, is a matter of com¬ plete — " “Oh, no you don't." interrupted my helpmate. “You've said your piece, and we're playing bridge - with the Shrivcrs if we can get them, i hat decision’s been made." She paused a moment. “We might ask them to dinner too. What do you think?" “Lip to you," I said. “I asked you.” “Be very pleasant to have them to dinner,’* 1 conceded. “On the other hand, it would he less trouble and Fd he perfectly happy just to cat with my family and — " Virginia sighed despairingly. “It certainly would he nice," she said, “to he married to a man w ho could make up his mind." What's new* downtown? Collier’s for January 3, 1953

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66 r V man of all type* WALLY Portraying a wistful little sriei many hohhies, \\ ally Cox'* pursuit* include sculpturing mule* and the study of of outdoor life. Despite T\ Mieccss, lie lives in one-room New York apartment W ally often whiles away time playing folk tunes on a lTth-eentiiry-ty pe flute ealled a recorder Anthony Kuudull, who plays W ally's history-teacher pal, Harvey Wcskit, on Mr. Peepers show, is also a real-life friend. Here the two rest after strenuous game of paddle hall Oner a jeweler, he works on silver ehess set in shop now' run hv Marlon Brando’s brother-in-law

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67 OX IS “M R. PEEPERS” ‘Jirr on 1olo\i^ion iiioit (lion a mlr. Kncii oil ramrra. lltr now coiikmK M:ir U a dexoh'd lord x\;ilrln r * JAMES POUi\4N at the Village V anguard, a Manhattan night club. Sli\ Mr. Peepers* T V flame i- Patricia Benoit. Site plays school nurse at Jefferson Junior High In typical Peepers dilemma, he is forced to howl with faculty when lie lias dale with nurse PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER S BY JERRY YULSMAN

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68 Wally lias yet to meet a Jones he wants to heep up with. With his new weal\t With television actor Earl Hammond as the passenger on one of his tno motorcycles, helineted Wally Cox stops for a red light in Times Square wearing his only suit, an ancient, shahby combination of chocolate gabardine slacks and light brown tweed coat. At the end of his week’s engagement he had earned $50, almost as many com¬ pliments on the “subtlety of his cos¬ tume,” and a small cadre of fans — chiefly, he says, “among people who like to sit on floors at parties.” In the next three years he played engagements in four more night clubs, made guest appearances on 35 radio and TV shows, got a radio job as an off¬ stage whistle, bought a new suit, and gave a performance in an ill-fated Broadway revue. Dance Me a Song, that won him high personal praise from the critics. He Gave the MC a Hard Time During this period he had only one real opportunity to play himself. He made one of his first IV appearances on the Garry Moore show in 1950. When he had finished his monologues, Moore began the conventional guest- st.ir interview. He tried to query Wally about his days as a silversmith, his ex¬ periences as a herh gardener, his addic¬ tion to motorcycles, and his technique of mending his clothes with plastic ce¬ ment. But Wallv wasn't interested in biographical exhihitionism. Garry Anally became so desperate he asked, “Have you read any good hooks lately?” Wally brightened. “It so hap¬ pens,” he said, “that just this morning 1 was reading a 1921 issue of the Na¬ tional Geographic in which a verhose gentleman had much to say about the ant lion’s voracious appetite for aphids. Now, how can one pretend to be pro¬ found on such a subject? Everyone knows you just walk up to an aphid and start eating.” Garry, a first-rate showman, gave Wally his head for the remainder of the interview. The mail response to Wally’s unique humor was so heavy that Moore eventually used him as a guest star on 16 programs — always letting him roam at will through a world peopled with aphids and cabbages and kings. In October, 1951, Wally won his first hour-long, starring role in the Philco Television Playhouse presentation of The Copper. David Swift, while writ¬ ing this comedy in Hollywood, had amused himself by drawing on his manuscript pen-and-ink sketches of the little, unworldly, bewildered rookie cop he had created. When Swift finally saw Wally — with his fluttery hands, doltish grin, five feet six inches, 130 pounds, unruly hair and horn-rimmed glasses — he did a startled double-take. “It was a damned eerie feeling,” he says. “Wally could have modeled for my sketches. The resemblance was almost photo¬ graphic.” As a result of Wally’s sensational per¬ formance in The Copper, NBC asked Swift to huild a whole program around the little, offbeat comedian — a request that resulted in the Mr. Peepers show. Wally’s whole life has had a Peepcrs- ish quality. His sister, Eleanor, who works for a New York magazine, re¬ members him as “a funny little boy around the house who used to read the dictionary and go around trying out new words on us. “He was so vague he often used to put food in his mouth then forget to chew it. We had to call him hack from his private world and remind him to cat. And he always had his strange sense of humor. When a foreign family we once knew changed its unpronounceable name to Shaw, Wally asked me if they spelled it with a P. And I remember a letter he wrote for a high-school husi- ness-correspondence assignment. It was addressed to a mythical insurance com¬ pany, setting forth a claim for damages as the result of an auto accident, and he began it: ‘Gentlemen: Yesterday I passed another car just after the nick of time Wally says he was always the runt the gang tied to trees and forgot, and that the story of his youth is contained in the phrase, “Go away, you can’t play with us.” And he contends that he was forced into comedy by a universal child¬ hood prejudice. “Kids always have an animosity to scholarship,” he says, “and I always got good grades because 1 was afraid to get bad ones. So I became the clown, as a means of keeping friend¬ ships while still giving correct answers.” Soon after his birth in Detroit, 28 years ago, Wally’s parents were di¬ vorced. With the exception of two high- school years with his father, he spent an ambulatory life with his mother who, until her death last year, wrote mystery stories under the name of Eleanor Blake. He was nurtured on reference books like Legal Medicine and Toxi¬ cology instead of the adventures of Tom Swift or The Rover Boys. Studies Cut Short by Draft After attending nine different gram¬ mar schools and high schools, he set¬ tled, with his sister and mother, in New York. It was only after he'd taken root in macadam, Wally says, that he devel¬ oped his insatiable curiosity about na¬ ture and natural science. In 1942, he entered the City College of New York to study botany, but was almost imme¬ diately drafted. He spent lour months, Peepers-fashion, as a foot soldier in the Army, before his unusual susceptihility to heatstroke brought about his dis¬ charge. When he returned to New York his inquiring mind led him to take an apti¬ tude test to determine where his future lay. Confronted with Wally’s com¬ plex personality, the test fell apart at the seams. “My testers told me I shouldn't try to use my head because it didn’t work very well,” Wally says. “I was advised to engage solely in manual activities, although they thought 1 might possibly be good at memorizing and identifying paintings, which didn't strike me as a very negotiable skill. This sage advice cost only $20 and four years of my life.” Wally ohligingly enrolled in New York University's School of Industrial Arts in 1943. He studied handicrafts and supported himself with some odd johs: working for a silversmith; weav¬ ing cloth; posing as an artist’s model; and teaching the Lindy hop at the Mary Bruce Dance School “. . . for $1.50 a night and some rum cake.” In 1946 he went into business for himself, as a designer and manufac¬ turer of jewelry, with a factory on Tenth : Avenue, in the kitchen of his cold- water flat. He connected a soldering torch to his gas stove, thus outfitting his kitchen as a workshop, and furnished his other three rooms with a bed. He lived in this apartment for two years with a family of mice, for whom he left food on the floor, and a Christmas tree which he never got around to decorat¬ ing or discarding. Wally’s customers were mostly ex¬ clusive Madison Avenue haberdashery shops to whom he delivered tiepins, tie clasps and cuff links, samples of which he took around wrapped in pieces of old shirts or last week’s newspaper. He was regarded as a talented craftsman and a less talented businessman. It was a good week when he cleared $40. During this period he took to travel¬ ing around New York on roller skates. ; These were consciously chosen as an j antidote for his extreme self-conscious¬ ness. He knew people would stare at him, and that he’d either have to over¬ come his self-consciousness or be over- come by it. When he no longer cared whether people stared at him or not, he abandoned his skates — they’d served ( their purpose. Pfe Inspires a Monologue Once he was freed of the more de¬ bilitating aspects of his shyness, he was ahle to start developing another phase of his talent. After his return from the Army he had entertained at a family party with a monologue in which he satirized an absurd Pfc he’d had the mis¬ fortune to encounter, and his listeners had laughed. Later, at another party, his sister urged him to repeat the per- I formance — and, again, he held his au¬ dience. Wally found center stage a very sat¬ isfying spot to occupy, quickly devel- 1 oped three other monologues — based on a grammar-school teacher, a scout- 1 In pleasant weather, W ally likes to picnic on his rural property with friends: dancer Marilyn Gennaro (1.), actress Reha Tassel and Randall Collier's for January 3, 1933

Page 73

69 it bouyht an overcoat, a tliinl suit, ami a motorcycling jacket riaster and a Greenwich Village Dead End Kid — and became a professional xirty-attender. He went to any party o which he could obtain an invitation, n order to have an audience to practice yn. Nor would he forget to bring his ittle pliers1 box as he left for the eve- ling’s assemblage. It held his jewelry samples. According to his sister, his carting words usually were, “Well, I'm yff for an evening of rehearsal and fes- :ive salesmanship.” Wally might have grown old as the- lifc-of-the-party had he not run into Marlon Brando on the street one after¬ noon. Wally and the star of A ,Street- ear Named Desire, The Men, and Viva Zapata! had been schoolmates together in the fourth grade at Evanston, Illinois. Reunion on Seventh Avenue At the time of the encounter they hadn’t seen each other since child¬ hood, and Brando had not yet achieved stardom. According to Fran Loving, Marlon’s sister, they met at a grocer’s empty hand-delivery cart, parked at the curb in a busy section of New York’s Seventh Avenue. Brando was trying to persuade his sister, Frances, to crawl into the cart so that he could take her for a ride. She was bitterly opposed (to the idea. Wally came along and said, “Hello, Marlon.” Marlon said, “Hello, Wally,” and immediately launched into a denunciation of his sister’s unwilling¬ ness to co-operatc in a venture that was obviously of high merit. It was Wally’s considered opinion that Frances Brando was acting like a stuffed shirt. So he crawled into the grocer’s cart. And, Frances says, “Marlon pushed Wally off down the street and they’ve been in complete rapport ever since.” They became constant companions, and Brando, as he progressed in the theater, took Wally to parties more and more populated by theatrical people. Wally performed before tougher and tougher audiences. One night, in 1948, Wally gave his monologues at a party given by Betty Comden, motion-picture and musical-comedy writer. When he finished, Judy Freed, an NBC policy ed¬ itor, cornered him, told him he was wonderful and asked him if he’d like her to arrange an audition for him w ith her friend, Max Gordon, owner of the Village Vanguard. According to Judy, “He said he wouldn’t mind, and then pulled a white cardboard box out of his pocket and tried to sell me some jew¬ elry.” She ignored the jewelry and arranged the audition, which won Wally an en¬ gagement at the Vanguard and launched his theatrical career. Eventually, after he’d become convinced he could earn a living as an entertainer, he abandoned his mice, his Christmas tree and the jewelry business, and took an apart¬ ment with Brando at 53 West Fifty-sev¬ enth Street. Those were halcyon days. They lived in dungarees and T-shirts, ignored shav¬ ing, bought electric train sets, and ehugged happily about on their motor- * eyclcs. Brando gave Wally the nickname “Walrus” — “because it evoked some Ismail satire of my solemnity,” Wally explains. Wally had calling cards printed bearing the message Walrus was here. Brando practiced on his eonga drums and Wally worried about the neighbors. Wally tried futilely to Collier’s for January 3, 1953 keep Brando from cheating at monop¬ oly, a game they both loved, and Brando futilely tried to make a competent sparring partner out of Wally. To¬ gether, they shattered August’s soggy air practicing Christmas carols. Obvi¬ ously. such a calm and tranquil state of affairs couldn’t last. Brando made one of his periodic trips to Hollywood, to make Viva Zapata! He brought Russell back w ith him when he returned. Wally tolerated Russell as long as he could, then said, “Russell must go.” When Russell didn’t, he did. Russell was a raccoon; reputedly the most destructive Procyon lotor ever held captive. “Russell not only had a repulsive personality, he gnawed on ev¬ erything,” Wally says; “people, hair and ukuleles. I didn’t so much mind his eat¬ ing my shoes, but when he started gnaw¬ ing through my suit to get at the candy in my pockets, I left.” He got another suit and a new apart¬ ment. And, since he earns $1,500 a week, this one-room apartment stands as a symbol of Wally’s attitude toward success, possessions and money. The apartment is furnished with two chairs, a bed and a desk. It serves him as a workshop as well as a bed- living and drawing room. In it he whittles, plays on the recorder, sculpts, writes and sings ducts in which Wally-in-person harmo¬ nizes with Wally-on-a-tape-recorder. His attitude is, “I've got chairs to sit on, a bed to sleep in, and a desk I can either work or eat on. There’s a cup¬ board where l can stoic shirts, and I’ve a view of the Hudson. What more do 1 need?” Nothing he can think of at the moment, except, possibly, a second mo¬ torcycle to serve him when his present one is being repaired. Why He Enjoys Having Money Money has only one real value, in his opinion — if you can accumulate enough of it you become “unemploy¬ ment-proof.” He has yet to meet a Jones he wants to keep up with, and he has yet to spend a penny to sym¬ bolize his success. He has bought him¬ self a new' overcoat, a third suit, and a Wally bird-watches from swing on land he owns near New York City leather motorcycling jacket. And he takes his Inends- largely those he had when he thought $40 a week was more than ample to good restaurants, with evident delight in his ability to enter¬ tain them I he fact that sudden success has in no real sense altered Wally’s approach to life is highly significant, according to his friend Alan Brandt, publicity di¬ rector ot the New York radio station WNEW. “It proves to me,” Brandt says, “that Wally, although a really off¬ beat character, is in no sense a guy who’s trying to be a character. He is a man who has asked himself a lot of questions about how he wants to live and what his values are. And he’s ar¬ rived at completely independent an¬ swers. I don’t know anyone who is under less social pressure than he is. And it isn’t that he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him; it's that he cares more about what he thinks of himself.” Wally and II is Four Freedoms Wally's independent answers are simple, but all-encompassing. He wants to be unemployment-proof, to have a home life, to be free to write, and to have time to wallow in nature whenever he so desires. Success has at least carried him part way toward his last desire. It brought him the money to buy two heavily wooded, very sharply tilted, rock-en- crusted acres on a Rockland County, New York, hillside. Aside from his work, these have become the focal point of his life. Wally intends to build a house on his land, with his own hands. “As a social gesture I shall include plumbing,” he says. He has been working on his proj¬ ect for over a year and a half. The house site has been cleared somewhat; a 30-foot swing and a long swinging rope have been hung from the limb of a towering oak, flowers and radishes are planted at appropriate seasons and ground has been broken for the house. There are good and sufficient rea¬ sons for the slow' progress he is making. One day during the last Indian summer, he removed seven shovelfuls of dirt from his foundation trench, smote his earth three times with a pick, and placed 1 1 heavy rocks in a declivity of the roadbed of what he fondly believes is someday going to be his driveway — though it is apparent to even the inex¬ perienced eye that the only sane way to travel to the crest of his land is by fu¬ nicular railway. He also spent an interlude on his swing, resting from his labors; discov¬ ered a gray wolf spider that excited his interest; located an American hop horn¬ beam tree, whose wood is so heavy it sinks in water; came across a Lobelia Siphilitica plant, a blue wild flower the American Indians erroneously thought to be a cure for syphilis; and visited at some length with a family of four sala¬ manders. In the afternoon he took a motorcycle ride through the rock-strewn woods. A friend says, “Nothing interesting ever happens when I go into the woods. Isn’t it strange how' they seem to come to life and perform for Wally?” Considering that Wally performs largely to earn the money which wall give him the leisure to enjoy the woods, it seems only fitting that they should reciprocate in kind. Wake up your taste with a tempting Myers’s Rum Old Fashioned ’ Y ur guests will be delighted . . your party more enjoyable Not too heo vy, not foa light — but RIGHT- BODIED Troditionol, dork JAMAICA RUM 97 Proof Dept. D, R. U Delancnha &. Co.. Inc 655 Madison Ave , New York. N Y. ,kmsnf» '.toOll-W MMJu* unru,,eala National Foreaf Rest fidiing, hunting I'oldor free Webb Yernor, Del. and. Florida. The way thousands of physicians and dentists recommend Here's Why . . Anocin® is like a doctor's prescription. Thot is, Anocin contains not one but o combination of medi- colly proved active ingredients. Anacin is speciolly compounded to give FAST, LONG LASTING relief. Don't woit. Buy Anocin todoy.

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Colliers Editorials ER C GbRNEY J. Stalin Please Note WE BELONG to the old-fashioned or Irving Berlin school of thought which holds that a prettv girl is like a melod\. and not like a do¬ mestic p>vt. So we heu\cd a si/able sigh ol re¬ lief when we read that the "animal influence" in women's hair st\les is a thing of the past In other words, the poodle cut and the pom tail ha\c been ruled out. I he good news must be accepted as authentic, for the ruling came out 4 the tnnual meeting of the National Hair- dre ssers and C osmetologists Association in Mil¬ waukee I his is the same organization, we feel sure, which soicmnK decreed some three wars ago that the girls should earnestly stride to resemble a clipped dog or a pom's crowning posterior glorv Just win the> should was something we newer did figure out Neither, we imagine, did millions of women who nevertheless prompt!) hustled to the hairdresser s for a crimped crew cut. or eNe tied back their hair in a tolerable facsimile of Dobb.nN caudal appendage. 1 he) cCsepted without question that the “animal influe ice" was smart and becoming. Now, and still unquesoonmgl) . the) will accept the dictum that the zoological trend is dead. The time will shortl) be upon us when a girl would no more be seen with a poodle cut than she would be seen in a pair of Arm) shoes. Mavbe the male's griping puzzlement over women's styles is old siuil. But it isn't any older 70 than the mystery of win the gals jump through the hoop in response to something which is. or an\ wav used to be. called the “dictates of fash¬ ion." If the term isn't still in use it should be. For the world of fashion is a real dictatorship. And it is the onh dictatorship which works per- fectlv and painlesslv — except, perhaps, on the pocketbook. I lie fashion dictatorship doesn't need any secret police or concentration camps to enforce its "part) line." and to apprehend and pun¬ ish the nonconformists. I his happv situation might well arouse a bit of envy in the breasts of J. Stalin N Company, who have a party line of their own, and who emplo) an army of en¬ forcers to see that their subjects think and do as the) re told I he dictators of fashion have no such problem of conformity. The desire to look a little dillerent. but — Heaven forbid — not too different, is quite enough to make the ladies toe the mark. Perhaps Stalin would be smart, and the rest of the world would be happier, if he let some of his bright bovs off the leash and sent them forth into the Western World to study the bloodless techniques of persuasion as practiced bv Dior. Fath. Balenciaga. Hattie Carnegie and others of the high-style hierarch)'. Includ¬ ing. of course, the National Hairdressers and Cosmetologists Association. Worth Fvrrv Nirkel. Zo«i * c WL NOTE that former King Zog of Albania has paid S2.9 14.50 in back taxes on his Long Island estate to the treasurer of Nassau Count), New York. Paid 'em under protest, too. For ex-King Zog feels that he should enjoy sovereign immunity from personal or real-estate taxes. And his attorney claims that putting the bite on his deposed majesty is a violation of in¬ ternational law and of treaties between Albania and the United States. It seems to us that Zog's viewpoint is a little behind the times, and we bleed only slightlv at his plight. ApparentK he has forgotten that he is residing not oniv in the land of the free, but also of the free and equal. The exile who settles down among us to enjoy the blessings of libertv must be prepared to get up some cash now and then to keep the machinery of liberty working. I hat goes for kings as well as commoners, and it is an eminentiv fair arrangement. It may be that King Zog's successor. General Enver Hoxha. Albania's puppet premier, lives a tax-free existence over in Tirana, but it can scarce!) be a carefree existence. For the general can look about him in the other Balkan “peo¬ ple's republics" and see what happens to puppet functionaries who fail to toe the exact line that the Kremlin has drawn — like the unhappy gen¬ tlemen in Czechoslovakia, for recent example. No question about it. the vacated throne of Albania has become a hot seat, and King Zog is luckv to be where he is these days. Under the circumstances, we'd say that he has got his $2,914.50 worth. And we rather hope that he won't push his philosophy of the divine right of monarehial tax evasion any further. Now Lives for Free MOST OF Ol R READERS probably saw a recent newspaper story, out of Detroit, about an operation in which a mechanical heart was suc- cessfull) substituted for the patient s during the course of surgery. And they may recall a sen¬ tence in that story which read: “General Motors engineers helped develop the mechanical heart, and are working on (an) artificial lung for hu¬ mans." That one sentence interested us particularly, so we did a little inquiring. And we found that the people at the General Motors Research Lab¬ oratories had done all the engineering details and construction of this new. intricate and deli¬ cate instrument “as a public service" — in other words, for free. Thev are doing the same for the artificial lung, which, if it works as well as the mechanical heart, should permit surgeons to detour blood from both the heart and lungs and thus make possible operations which previ- ouslv had been highlv dangerous or impossible. And that's all we have to say on the matter, except to remark that this public service bolsters our contention that big corporations are not so heartless, money-hungry and generally wicked as some "liberal" economists make them out to be. GM's construction was not an example of the “diversified industry" that we hear and read about. The company is not going into the busi¬ ness of making these lifesaving surgical aids. It just contributed the services of its men and their skills and facilities to build the first model of a machine which, we trust, will save many lives in the years to come. Collirr’s for January 3. 1933

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"FOR 25 YEARS I’ve been a steady Chesterfield smaker/'says prominent tobacco farmer Pearsall L. Rogers. "They buy the world’s best tobaccos and make the world's best cigarette." StCK * r ■ % ETTEn A responsible consulting organization reports a study by a competent medical specialist and staff on the effects of smoking Chesterfields. For six months a group cf men and women smoked only Chesterfield— 10 to 40 a day— their normal amount. 45 percent of the group have smoked Chesterfields from ore to thirty years for an average of ten years each. At the beginning and end of the six-months, each smoker was given a thorough examination including X-rays, and covering the sinuses, nose, ears and throat. After these examinations, the medical specialist stated . . . "it s my opinion that the ears, nose, throat and accessory organs of all participating subjects examined by me were not adversely affected in the six-months period by smoking the ciga¬ rettes provided." Remember this report and buy Chesterfields— regular or ..ing-size. — a GPl mm- "" ‘"'jr KltfG-SIZE JGARTTTE^ ★ CONTAINS TOBACCOS OF BETTER QUALITY AND HIGHER PRICE THAN ANY OTHER KING-SIZE CIGARETTE AND NOW- CHESTERFIELD FIRST TO GIVE YOU SCIENTIFIC FACTS | IN SUPPORT OF SMOKING _ 1 _ _ _ f _ : . . . _ ^ ASK YOUR DEALER FOR CHESTERFIELD — EITHER WAY YOU LIKE ’EM LIGGETT l MYERS TOBACCO CO. LIGGETT i MYIPS TOBACCO CO

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rhe Secret Weapon ?) We Were Afraid to Use By JOHN STEINBECK AFRICAN SAFARI Ruark Shoots a Buffalo The Dog That Traveled Incognito By LUDWIG BEMELMANS £6T V j ; jn yo 3wv?Mnuna i Aovygn Dngnti , HDWV'ifS 3AIM0 NO IS y 3

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3 MOVIE t NOW PLAYING’ 5 .", .1 CIRCLE V//'i 1928 PLYMOUTH — the first Plymouth — was powered by a 4-cylinder, 45-h.p engine. It was the first car in the low-priced class to have 4-wheel hydraulic brakes. THEIR BEST ON THE BEST GASOLINE CARS RUN 1953 PLYMOUTH Belvedere sports a continental look with its op¬ tional wire wheels. Powered by a 100-h.p., high compression engine, it’s described as the ’’first truly balanced car in the low-priced field *’ 1904 GENERAL ELECTRIC had a novel electric trans¬ mission. A gasoline engine ran a generator which supplied power to two electric motors driving the rear wheels. There was no gear shift. IN 1926, automobile advertisements offered "flashing power at your fingertips." Then, as now, car owners wanted better perform¬ ance— and "Ethyl" gasoline helped them get it. And just as the car of today is far superior to the average car of a quarter century ago —so, too, has "Ethyl” gasoline improved over the years. Today’s "Ethyl" gasoline is designed to help your modern, high com¬ pression engine deliver its top power and performance. That’s why it pays to fill ’er up at the pump with the familiar "Ethyl" emblem. Remember, there’s a powerful difference between gasoline and "Ethyl" gasoline! , _ ETHYL - CORPORATION 1900 GASMOBILE was the first six- cylinder car sold in the U. S. Ac¬ tually it had two three-cylinder engines hooked together. Though the car was termed “futuristic,” the company failed in i902. New York 17, New York Ethyl Antiknock Ltd., in Canada ETHYL i

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4 Picture OF THE MONTH The story of “Jeopardy” is one of suspense. And as it comes to its climax, a scream will tremble on your lips. For it could happen to any of us, to people like you and me. It is a drama that flicks the emotions we ail feel . . . love, fear, hate . . . and the will to Jive. Here is a woman in jeopardy ... Barbara Stanwyck in the excitingly emotional role of Helen. Her story begins simply. She and her family drive their car toward a deserted beach where they have planned a wonderful SUL DU) 11 . . . bemuse her fear \va.\ greater than her shame Suddenly, the dreamed-of pleasures become a nightmare. Her husband. Doug, is pinned beneath the treacherous timbers of a rotting jetty. The tide is rising. Helen is confronted with a battle against time. A few hours mean life or death to her man. In des¬ peration. she leaves her young son to com¬ fort Doug while she speeds the car back over the road in her frantic search for help. But fate has not finished with its mali¬ cious v.hims. 1 he man Helen finds has no interest in her plight. He is concerned only * ’? flee mg the police. I ortured by the vision of her husband's peul, Helen begs the cinninul to help her, promises that she will aid his escape if he will come back with her and save her husband. It is his life against her husband’s. And every minute brings Doug closer to death. finally, she thrusts all scruples aside. She offers him everything .. tells him she will go with him . . protect him with her hus¬ band’s identity She will give herself in pay¬ ment for her husband’s life. I h is is the climax . . . and there's a scream on your lips. What happens? You've got to sec... “Jeopardy”! ★ ★ ★ M-G-M presents Barbara Stanwyck as Helen, Barry Sullivan as the husband, Kalph Meeker as the criminal in “Jeopardy”. Screen play by Mel Dinelli, based on a story by Maurice Zimm, directed by John Sturges and produced by Sol Baer Fielding. ALBERT E. WINGER (.ha irman of the Hoard CLARENCE E. STOliCH President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CHAPLIN, Assistant Publisher CORDON MANNING, Managing Editor DWID MANF.SS, Assistant Managing Editor ALLF.N CLKATON, Senior Associate Editor JAMES THU ASHLlt. Editorials MACLE.VNAN FARRELL, WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director Cl-RNEY WILLIAMS, Cartoon Editor JAMES A. QUIGNEY, Photo Editor Fictton Edittsr Associate Editors • J KR M E BEATTY. J R. • WARREN DROWN • JEAN IL CAMPBELL SKY CIIAS.SLF.lt • HOWARD COIIN • WALTER DAVENPORT • BILL DAVIDSON HELEN WORDEN ERSKINE • EVF.LVN IIAHVEY • DIANA HIRSH • llOMER JENKS JERRY KORN * ALFRED M. LANSING • JOHN I.EVIt • FRANKLIN C. LOR ANGER TOM MEANY JOHN G. PEUI.EW • ROGER P1PPETT • ELEANOR PORTER CORNELIUS RYAN • JANET .Ml EPS • FRANCIS WALLACE * WILLIAM WEAVER MARTHA WEINMAN • ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research * ItOSANNK M.YAY, Chief • M A DELIN' ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS • ALAN M. LEVENSOIIN JANICE MOSES • JOILN NEW HOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON: JAMES C. DERI KU\, Chief: TODD WltlCIIT WEST COAST (Los Angeles): THEODORE STRAUSS, Chief; ROBERT CA11N, JOHN FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): ItlUL FAY EUROPE (Paris): .SEYMOUR Fit El DIN, WILLIAM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): CHARLOTTE KNIGIIT, PETEK KALISCHER J January 10 , 1953 Alt IK LI S The Secret Weapon We Were Afraid to Use. . .JOHN STEINBECK 9 Hoic We Can Have Safer Cars . HERBERT YAHRAES 16 Jane By man Dances the Zambesi . 20 De 1 1 at illand The Man Behind the Comet. . . .MARJORIE EARL 30 \\ hat’s Left in Uncle Sam's Pantry? . . J. D, RATCLIFF 34 Bum Ic Shoots a Buffalo . ROBERT C. RUARK 39 (Continuing AFRICAN SAFARI) The Listeners Do All My It ork . DON MCNEILL 42 Who's for Euchre? . . . .SCOTT CORBETT 51 Flashy Bob Consy . collier’s color camera 62 FICTION Dark Hour . CLAR\ L. PARKS 14 File Dog That Traveled Incognito . LUDWIG BEM ELMANS 22 Old TtiL Old Teammate . matt Bin ant 29 (TIIE SHORT SllOlt l > I O It Y ) The Kid's m Town . CHARLES EINSTEIN 46 Ice Storm . JEROME I5ARR\ 56 Fighter . JAMES A, MAXWELL 64 48 States of Mind . WALTER D VYENPORT 69 Editorials . 70 Cover . BILL RANDALL The character n In all uloricj anil .1 crisis in thin magazine are purely imaginary. Ao reference or all union to oti) living person is intended. Subscription Deparlmenl, 204 W. High SIreel, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Executive Offices, 640 Fillh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIER'S T11 ir Nmk.nm \\ ikk r V..I HI No 2. PUBLISHED WEEKLY 1 y I ho Tig .\m.-non Mnc- aim. bioitiv^'in !• » •-* l> It) t* i* 1 1, A \ «*. . Now Voik IV. N \ . A ..-It 1- Utter. I I. t • .11 of tin- Bo.nl. (. till ••no* I* StoiM-h. I’j.-ml.-m 1. \ >• hirmor. r xci tinvo V r.w li-nt T I lit wtiU IVt.T .1. I ).-m.i«rlfin. h .lw»rotu: \ n * -PruMtl^nt* Di*nu» O’Snll van. .V'rct.ny L . F \on*w«• from . . nit r ■»|i., in-i.-i \rtnf M.-,r. h |S7thinl I** | by ai Id tensed eli\ 1 • •!>,*— .111,1 return Jaml.-IKI 1 he Publisher HS-IIIIIOS no ropoDsilii it\ for return of uiiMilieited m.tnuficnpts or art. siona, CanaJu and Philippine M.«n*ia, 1 yen $.'• 00. 2 years. ^ CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reach us five weeks in advance * ~ of the nexf issue date. Give bath the aid and new addresses. * COPYRIGHT. 1 Itv IIIK CROW FI.IM (U.I.IF.R PI fll.IKH I.NG COMPANY (All rights reserved) Pul»lisher» of Collier’s. The Ameriean Mnsj/im*, Woman’s Home Companion The Cover A father whose most exciting boyhood reading dealt with the exploits of Jesse James can get pretty worked up over an out-of-this-world comie book — and he assumes his kids will share his enthusi¬ asm. But, says artist Bill Randall, when his daughter Vieki (eight) and son Bruce (five) fall asleep in the middle of the journey, it’s only because they’re accustomed to seeing and hearing all types of fantastic spacemen on TV. The father on this cover, by the way. is not Bill Randall; he’s fellow artist Bob Hilbert, an obliging accomplice. Week’s Mail The Uninhibited Miss D . Editor: I enjoyed your article Bette Goes Broadway (Nov. 29th) very much and you are certainly right when you say that the Detroit audiences ap¬ plauded delightedly at the opening of Miss Davis' revue. I was there, and she practically had the audience rolling in the aisles. She really let her hair down and kicked up her heels in fine style, which made me wonder as I left the theater whether it was Bette Davis 1 had seen up there behind the footlights, or Joan. Don Kaiser, Gary, Ind. Bette (not Joan) and friends Serniloose Gate Editor: Your article This Way to the Trouble Gate (Nov. 29th) was very in¬ teresting and informative. Interesting because as a mid’n anything about the Army-Navy game is interesting to me. and informative because of the mention made of the “tight gate.” “Tight Gate” is interpreted to mean that everyone attending the game must have a ticket. That is, from the Presi¬ dent on down. I should like to bring it to your attention that wc, the midship¬ men, do not have tickets. I assume that the cadets are in the same situation. It would be rather difficult to collect tick¬ ets from each individual mid’n and eadet as he marched onto the field. S. J. Shaffran, Mid’n 2 e, USN, Annapolis, Md. Biblical Comments Editor: I was surprised to see that all of the comments on A New Bible for the 20th Century (Oct. 4th) in your Week’s Mail column of November 29th were favorable. The language of the Bible admittedly is quaint and of necessity archaic, but that is a part of its charm. For genera-

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! WELCOME HOME , Sergeant! A Telephone Family in Chicago. Sergeant Donald McIntyre got a real family welcome from his sister , Mary, a Service Representative; his mother, who was an Operator for seven years, and his brother, Angus, a Plant Assigner. Sergeant McIntyre's father was also a telephone man. Sergeant Donald McIntyre, former telephone installer, returned home from Korea a few months ago. I Ic served with the 1st Marine Division and was twice awarded the Purple Heart. He was welcomed back to his telephone job, of course. But in a certain sense he had never been away. For his new pav check reflected the increases he would have received on Ins old job if he had not joined the Marines. There are some 16,000 other Bell Telephone men and women now in the service who will receive a similar warm welcome on their return home. BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM ... "A GOOD PLACE TO WORK"

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u\/ 6 V Week’s Mail CONTINUED NEW PLASTIC BANDAGE tions people have loved and understood the Bible, and the musical language is too beautiful to be mutilated needlessly. | If the revisers had stuck to making the ! obscurities clear, yet kept them in the I language of the Bible and left un¬ touched those passages that are clear, all right. But let’s give the people credit j for a little intelligence. I think everyone loves the thvs and j thous . . . they are so much softer and respectful than plain old everyday your | and you. I don’t want the Bihle to sound like the man next door discours¬ ing on religion. It is undoubtedly true that the beauty of the language of the Bible has a great deal to do with stirring feelings of spir¬ ituality in the reader. Words are not just made of letters I and meanings, but of sounds and con¬ notations which make an effect. Virginia Page, Vernonia, Ore. . . . Regarding the comments on Her¬ bert Yahraes’ article on the new Bible, I was rather taken aback by the letter from Dr. Francis A. Reed, of Miami Beach, Florida. Dr. Reed stated that the King James version of 1611 was taken from the Ro¬ man Catholic version. Now anyone can take a copy of the King James version of the Bible, turn to the title page, and there find the words, "Translated out of the original Greek . and with the former translations diligently compared and re¬ vised.” Now we also know that the Roman Catholic Bible was originally translated from the Latin version (which had to be copied from the Greek language that the New Testament was written in), and that all the other versions that have been published with Roman Catholic blessing have been translated from Je¬ rome's Latin Vulgate. For verification of the above, see “Bible,” Collier’s Encyclopedia, Vol¬ ume 3, Pages 395, 406. Louis O. Mitten, East St. Louis, Ill. won't loosen in water . . . John W. Holden, of Somerville, Massachusetts, criticizes the revised edi¬ tion of the Holy Bible for “changing” a portion of the Lord's Prayer. If Mr. Holden will turn to the second verse of the eleventh chapter of the Gospel ac¬ cording to Saint Luke, he will find the phrase, “Thv will be done, as in heaven, so in earth.” Most Protestant denominations use the version in the sixth chapter of the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, verse 10: “Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.” Albert M. Bary, Aberdeen, Md. BAND-AID TRADE MARK Plastic Strips (fcfimut .((ufitnui WATERPROOF! Nnootli plastic sheds water, washes clean, never gets >oggv. FLESH-COLORED ! Blends with the color of your skin. Thin and flexible, it stretches with ever\ movement and fits snuglv (“veil on hard-to bandage places. (Jufimtiiojjt/fimtm You Can Rent It Editor; Permit me to thank you for the excellent article by Sylvia F. Porter, Why Not Rent a Guest Towel? (Nov. 29th). In 1953 our company will cele¬ brate its 35th year of producing sand¬ ing and polishing machines for the rental trade, and thus we were one of the ;\v neers in the “do it yourself” pro¬ gram. Hal Crosby, Clarke Sanding Machine Co., Muskegon, Mich. . . . We are happy to see you give na¬ tional recognition to the equipment- rental businesses. We believe Omaha is one of the most rent-minded cities in the U.S. Proof: in the Omaha-Council Bluffs area (population 296,441) there arc eight United Rent-All stores, exclu¬ sively rentals. In our Midwest chain there are 53 exclusive rental stores. Certainly, as you say, the rental busi¬ ness is rapidly growing. H. E. Thompson, Omaha, Nebr. Vintage Jalopies Editor: Your Don Tracy displays an intimate knowledge of the joys and troubles of antique car hobbyists, in his fiction piece A Nice Quiet Hobby ( Nov. 15th). It will be read wath apprecia¬ tion by the thousands of such people who devote themselves to the acquisi¬ tion, restoration and preservation of the cars of bygone days. A little further information might be well, however, for the benefit of the uninitiated. It is generally not quite so easy to acquire an old relic as the Browns of the story found it. While Brush and Franklin cars are not impos¬ sible to find, Matheson cars are exactly as numerous as Statues of Liberty, there being one of each! And it is approxi¬ mately as easy to locate an Apperson Jackrabbit as it is to find a four-leaf clover in a haystack. And w hen restored by the loving hands of an expert me¬ chanic, they do not, as in the story, collapse upon each other and expire in flame-colored smoke and sound and fury. Being amateurs, the Browns may be forgiven lor trying to outbid each other, but no true antiquer would be caught doing so foolish a thing. Rather, they would toss a coin be¬ forehand, and so decide who w'ould get first chance to buy the car. Harold E. Glover, (Member of the Antique Car Club of America), Minneapolis, Minn. A vintage four-leaf clover — the Apperson Jackrabbit, 1911 model Budgets & Defense Editor: After reading Mr. G. F. Eliot’s article Where We're Losing to the Reds — The Budget Battle (Nov. 29th), I would like to say that the author has expressed my feeling on the matter exactly. 1 believe we are a thinking people and as such can see the merit in his words. The thing we have not been able to see, and rightly so. is the pouring of our taxes down the rathole of hot and cold defense plans. Given a plan with a definite result in view we would better be able to understand what our efforts arc for and where they will lead us. If our leaders can give us such a plan and be wfilling to stand behind it them¬ selves, I believe they need have no fear that the American people will do like¬ wise. Naomi Eguina, San Leandro, Cal. Collier"^ for January 10, 1953

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i rX with a truly different flavor and aroma — extra-mild FATIMA continues to grow in favor among King-Size cigarette smokers everywhere YOU GET an extra-mild and soothing smoke —plus the added protection of - — >.

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8 The Clock Radio with the Almost-Human Mind- A TRIUMPH OF »ENITH QUA UTY WITH "BIG SET" TO HE The Zenith Super-Deluxe Clock Radio, new in design, richer in tone. I n French Green, Kory, Scotch Grey, or Ebony, $51.95*. In Walnut plastic, $49.95*. Want to wake to richer-toned music? Zenith has put new refinement* in thi* new 'Niper- Del.uxe set, for your added pleasure. It even has a Broad Range Tone Control, like big *rt*. for clearer treble* and richer ba*se<. t* Afraid you'll doze back? You won't — with Zenith’s special ‘‘.Sleepyhead Buzzer” that jogs you ten minutes after the music starts. Snuggle down for a newscast or a snatch of song. You can’t oversleep! like hot coffee while dressing ? Ju*t plug in your coffee maker the night before, and your Zenith will * t a r t it going when the inu*ic come* on. Ah, luxury! love to be lulled to sleep with music? Relax! ’tour Zenith (.'lock Radio will torn itself off, and turn off your bed lamp, too! Or your beating pad, or sun lamp. Turns on TV programs, too. automatically — or reminds you of appointments. See your Zenith dealer for a deinon*tration of all the magic things this *et will do for you, all over the house! OTHER ZENITH CLOCK RADIOS FROM $34.95* Thu Zenith Clock Radio will wake you to mu*ic, give you amazing tone at the small price of $51.95*. This Zenith DeLuxe Clock Rodio has all the automatic features shown above. $59.95*. This Zenith FM*AM Clock Radio is the only one of it* kill'd in the world with Zenith’* Super-Sen¬ sitive FM. $74.95*. 'FA li/ ©E The royalty of television and RADIO Zemth Rvdio Corpohaiion, Chicago 39, Illinois Backed by 33 Years of 4 Know-How*’ in Radionics1®' Exclusively Also makers of fine hearing aids Prices slight l\ higher in the Far IT est and s' oath . COFR 1952

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Collier’s, January 10 , 1953 The Secret Weapon We Were AFRAID to Use President Roosevelt liked the author’s plan, hut it shocked the Secretary of the Treasury and infuriated the British Ambassador. We didn't use it. But it’s as potent a weapon now as it was then. Will we he equally timid again? JOHN STEINBECK Early in 1942, Steinbeck (1.) convinced F.D.R. that the weapon would badly hurt our enemies. But Secretary Morgenthau (r.) was aghast, and plan fell through. Germany later tried it, but failed to realize full potentialities 1 GUESS everyone in the world has a secret weapon. That little boy sitting so still, gazing into space with angelic eyes, is probably de¬ signing a mechanism for pulverizing the school- house. Chemistry classes continue popping away with lethal experiments. During World War 11, the government had a large committee which spent its time inspecting the plans and gadgets designed by private citizens to blow up something or other. Even I helped with a weapon once — a weapon so terrible that it horrified everyone who heard of it, for it was designed to set up a chain reaction in the most fissionable of all things: human beings. It came about in this way: 1 have a friend, Dr. M. H. Kniscly, a learned man, a scientist — a thinker. Early in the last war, we put our heads together to devise a weapon which might help de¬ stroy Hitler’s Nazi regime and Mussolini’s Fascist state. We went at it as if we were designing a mod¬ ern drug: first wc had to know as much about the disease as possible, then build the ideal counter¬ agent, and finally turn the specifications over to the chemists and biochemists. The disease was a police state, imposed by a dictator. By using open and secret police, a dic¬ tatorship maintains a pressure delicately calculated to dominate its people without quite driving them to despair. Every unit is made suspicious of every other, so that groups will not get together and op¬ pose the central authority. Such a system also must keep its people a little unsatisfied, so that the oc¬ casional gifts of the leaders arc welcomed eagerly. Again, such a state keeps its people fearful and full of hatred toward everything outside its boundaries; that attitude welds them together and makes them forget their own troubles. We know now that bombing, even saturation bombing, finds desperate, unbelievable resistance. Strike at a people from without and they coagulate into a resisting mass. The qualities our weapon required were these: it must increase the pressure of the state on the people beyond the breaking point. It must work from within, not from without. And, finally, it must not be effective against us. On this basis, wc made our weapon — perhaps more frightful than the hydrogen bomb, and far more penetrating and subtle than chemical or germ warfare. We were young and inexperienced then. Wc thought that since wc had a good thing, someone would want it. It was early in the war and we had not learned about going through channels. We took our weapon to President Roosevelt. It was very easy to get in to sec him. 1 remember he sat at his desk in the Executive Offices, with French windows behind him. His face was in shadow, but as wc talked, he leaned back in his chair and the sun shone on his hair and on his fore¬ head as far down as his closed eyes. His cigarette in the long holder stuck straight up in the air, with curls of blue smoke drifting in the sunstreaks. We had rehearsed our speech so we wouldn’t take too much of his time. Finally we finished and waited. The room was verv quiet. Suddenly the President opened his eves and banged his chair forward. He was laughing. ” 1 his is strictly illegal,” lie said, his eves shining. Then he added in a low voice. "And we can do it! “Why, for the cost of one destroyer we could send Italy spinning. For the cost ot a cruiser, we could have Hitler on a hot stove lid.” He picked up a phone and asked for Secretary of the I reasury Morgenthau. “Henry.” he said. “1 am sending two men to vou with an idea. Listen to them and tell me what you think.” He was still laughing when we went out, and 1 must say we felt prett> good and pretty important. We faced Mr. Morgenthau with confidence and went into our recital again. But something was 9

Page 86

10 Everyone who heanl about it thought it would work , but felt it was ImtnorciL ^Yoi / He went wild. He was gathering money in one liaml anil stuffing it into liis pocket with the other when he ran into Kailin, who charged around the corner chasing a 100-ruhle bill wrong. The atmosphere in the room grew cold and then freezing; we weren't getting over at all. The secretary didn’t like our weapon, or didn’t like us — or both. We didn’t even get to finish. Mr. Mor- genthau broke in on us. I realize now that he was deeply shocked. He said. “It’s against the law, and I will have nothing to do with it.” Hotel rooms were hard to get in wartime Wash¬ ington, but we had one. We sat in it, deflated as punctured hasketballs. We had a cocktail, and on the crest of that bravery we telephoned the White House. Mr. Roosevelt was amused by Mr. Morgen- thau’s attitude. “I guess you gave him a turn,” he said, “I should have known it would shock him. I’ll tell you what the British Ambassador is com¬ ing in a tew minutes and I’ll put it up to him,” * * * We waited around the next day and the next. Gin and vermouth didn’t give us enough courage to phone again, but we got a call the second day. Mr. Roosevelt said no one would touch our weapon. The ambassador. Lord Halifax, had gone out spluttering with rage. Everyone who heard about it thought it would work, but felt it was im¬ moral. It aimed at utilizing something the leaders considered sacred, even when it belonged to the enemy. Our sons could be killed, tortured, disem¬ boweled, hut our weapon appalled authorities and that was the end of that. The subject was dropped. Much later, when 1 sat with the President, he said ruefully, “Killing is all right, and you could attack religion with some impunity, but you were threatening something dearer than life to many people — ” Sometime afterward, it was discovered that the Nazis had thought of our weapon. They used it, in imperfect form, against Britain, and although it couldn't function at its best against a democracy, it gave that nation a nasty jolt. Before the Germans could put the weapon to full use, the war ended. Now it is years later, and there is talk of another war. If it comes, we shall be faced with an enemy who has all the characteristics of that other enemy. I am writing this now to see whether we still have something dearer than life — dearer than survival. Our weapon is just as effective as ever, and it has this advantage: it doesn't matter in the least whether it is secret or not. It’s money. 1 he bills would he made with the most scrupu¬ lous care. Paper and ink would be analyzed and reproduced exactly, and engraving subjected to high magnification, to prevent discovery. The cur¬ rency would be of the most common denomina¬ tions — five rubles, 10 rubles, 50 rubles, 100 rubles. 1 urned out in quantity, the money would proceed from the presses through a turning conveyer con¬ taining dirty, greasy clothes. At the end of this conveyer, it would look as if it had been handled, carried, stuffed in pockets, passed from hand to hand tor a long time. The money would be placed in containers like those used in a leaflet bomh. The paper would he cheap and the process easy. Many hillions could he made for the cost of a heavy tank. It remains now to see how this weapon would work when used properly. * * * The officer of the day completed his routine in¬ spection. In the storm entrance, he removed his gloves and sheepskin coat and entered his office, ruhhing his hands together to drive out the hiting frost of the Russian winter. The telegrapher sat at his instruments, earphones in place, hands laced across his stomach, f rom outside came the sound of the sentry's footsteps, sharp on the frosty ground. The officer of the day went to his table, pulled the report sheet toward him, and wrote, “2200 — all quiet and in order — scattered clouds — wind due east, 14 miles per hour — temperature 8 degrees and falling.” The officer of the day was ahout to wipe the pen when an idea came to him. He dipped the pen again and wrote rapidly: “Pilot Panyin thumb crushed by gun mechanism — suggest investigation into any previous accidents to determine whether malingering.” He felt kindly toward pilot Panyin for giving him this opportunity to show his fitness for promotion. He was so pleased that he did not notice that the telegrapher was hastily scribbling on his pad. The operator came across the room and thrust a sheet of paper into the circle of light on the O.D.’s desk, “Alert!” it said. “Unidentified object at 50,000 feet moving eastward at 42 miles per hour— East 29 15 20, North 52 28 18.” It carried the code signature of the radar station. The officer of the day picked up his telephone. MIG pilot Panyin swept up to altitude and be¬ gan combing the area assigned to him. His crushed thumb throbbed, but he took a certain pleasure in that. It wouldn’t look bad on his report that he had gone up with a crushed thumb. The half-moon shone brilliantly on the scattered clouds far below. Suddenly, far ahead, a large white object loomed and then flashed past. Pilot Panyin made his long sweeping turn and came back to it. He spoke into his mouthpiece. “Object sighted, 52,000 feet. Ap¬ pears to be large balloon. Request instructions.” The reply came Immediately : “Shoot object down,” As pilot Panyin swept near, he could see the great white sphere shining in the moonlight. His finger was on the firing button. Then, as he cen¬ tered his target, there was a small flash of fire and the object disappeared. Far below, there was a second, slightly larger, flash. Panyin dived toward the second flash, his throttles wide open. The airstrip was alive with activity when he whistled in for his landing, just a few minutes later. The commandant and staff were waiting for him and the questioning was hrief, “It is your opinion, and you so report, that the balloon released propa¬ ganda leaflets?” “Yes, Comrade Commandant, I dived through a cloud of them. They looked like autumn leaves falling from the trees in a forest,” “Very' poetical,” said the commandant. “What’s the matter with your thumb?” “It’s nothing — I crushed it.” “Report tor treatment,” the commandant said. “Dismissed, pilot Panyin.” The commandant turned to the officer of the day. “It's not tor us. Call headquarters and report the incident to the security section; it’s their pot of soup. I ell them it will be the area around Gemil. Security knows how to handle such nonsense,” Ilya Shostakovich (no relation to the composer) had organized the 37th Security District and for six years he had held the post of district deputy — ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR SH1LSTONE

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1 1 were attaching something (leaver than life to mang people said Itooserelt ruefully honored, trusted, increasingly wealthy and, he be¬ lieved, due for promotion. He was a steady man, who lived by the book. If he made any move, he included in his report both the rule and the prece¬ dent he followed. The deputy had his district so well organized that there was very little work for him to do. There was no factory unit in Gemil, no apartment house, no work group or farm collective in which he did not have informants. In short, no conversation ever occurred in the area among five or more men or women which, if it took a dangerous turn, was not reported to District Deputy Shostakovich. Over the years, disappearances and sudden raids had conditioned the people so that they discussed little except Stalin and the weather, and even the weather was spoken of kindly, as though Stalin might have had something to do with it. * * * The 37th Security District had never been sub¬ jected to propaganda leaflets before. Nevertheless, the deputy was quite capable of handling the situ¬ ation. When his telephone rang at 2:00 a.m. on Oc¬ tober 12th, and District Air Screen Headquarters informed Security Deputy Shostakovich that his area was the target for airborne leaflets, he was rather pleased. Here was a chance to show how smoothly his office functioned. Still yawning, he glanced through the instruction book to refresh his memory. ‘‘Penalty for reading, repeating or disseminating propaganda . . . penalty for passing, copying, etc." — all there — all down on paper. Methods for combating — all clear — all or¬ ganized. Ilya made a number of phone calls. Squads of young pioneers, elite students from the secondary schools, Stakhanovite workers from the factories and central committeemen from the 12 area collective farms were turned out of bed. Each group had a square marked on the map of the district. In the early dawn, they should be able to pick up and destroy most of the leaflets before the bulk of the population emerged 'The few pa¬ pers that were let t would be dealt with in other ways. Ilya scratched his cropped head, settled in his chair and stirred a big lump of sugar into his glass of dark-brown tea. A toothless old woman crouched beside his office samovar waiting to re¬ fill his glass. Ilya nibbled a thin cake covered with pink sugar icing. The old woman's eyes followed his rising and lowering hand. Reports would be coming in soon. It was sure to go by the book. They thought of everything, those men in the Kremlin. Ilya was glad he was prepared. He might be invited to Moscow; he might even get a two-week vacation on the glo¬ rious Black Sea, at one of those white palaces over the lovely blue water. His eyes were growing heavy. There was no reason why he should not nap while he waited for the reports. He rested his chin on his palm and his elbow on his desk and dozed. The old woman saw' his regular breathing — she waited a moment to be sure — then crept to his side. Her skinny fingers crept to the sugar plate and lifted a large, irregular lump. When she was halfway back to the samovar, the telephone rang. She popped the sugar into the neck of her dress. Ilya lifted the receiver. "Yes, I’ve been waiting . . . of course ... I know you found it ... of course you have. What are you so excited about0 Get yourself in hand and say what you have to sa\ 1 he voice at the other end squeaked hysterically over the phone: ‘It’s not leaflets, I tell you1 It s not propaganda?'’ Ilya spoke sternly. "What's the matter with you? Have you been drinking0 Not leaflets? What is it, then?" The voice gasped in his car "It's . . . Comrade it's money!" Once, long ago, the main street of the city of Gemil was named after a Ukrainian poet He was a popular poet and his \crses were known to every school child. During the revolution, some of his songs had been used to give the people courage to march against oppression. After the revolution, it was discovered that the poet was not specific enough about whose oppression; his books disap¬ peared. his poems disappeared and his street was renamed. It was called first Lenin Street, then Lenin and Stalin Street, then Stalin and Lenin Street and finally Stalin Street. Old people in pri¬ vate sometimes spoke the poet s name, or said his couplets, but many couldn't even remember him In the late 1930s, Gemil. like most Russian cities, broke out in a rash ol workers' apartment houses. They were conceived in marble, carried out in concrete and sometimes lelt unfinished. But workers moved into them anyway, and more moved in, and more, until several families lived in each apartment and then several families lived in each room of each apartment. * * + One of the most grandly conceived of these houses on Stalin Street was the Bolshoi. It had a red marble entrance and 60 two-room apartments. At the time of which we are speaking, 620 people lived in the Bolshoi, The former kitchen of No. 12 was the home of the Panushkins and the Alexan¬ drovs — five Panushkins and four Alexandrovs. They cooked on a primus stove, carried water in from a former bathroom and slept on the floor. In one wav, Gregor Panushkin was luckier than Nikolas Alexandrov because Gregor worked in a great bakery which furnished blaek rye bread to the whole city and surrounding countryside, while Nikolas served in the railway repair shop — much harder and more dangerous work. On the other hand, the bakery was so far away that Gregor had to leave the Bolshoi an hour before Nikolas even began to awaken. The rail shops were only ten minutes' walk away. On the morning of October 12th, in the pitch darkness, Gregor edged and nudged his way out ot the warm clutter of his brood sleeping around him on the floor. He felt for the bench where his trou¬ sers, shoes and sheepskin were laid. The room was bitter cold. In a moment Gregor was dressed. His hand went toward the bench end, where his breakfast waited in a string bag — a lump of black bread, two huge pickles and a slab ot dried salted fish as hard as stone. As he left the apartment, he pulled the bread out and gnawed at the crust. The night still lay on the city, only relieved at every intersection by a naked globe, hanging from a bracket at a building coiner and swaying in the wind. Only a few figures moved in the city : men and women whose work was far away scuttling sleepily toward the bus stop. If the small predawn wind had not been blowing, Gregor’s sleep-heavy eyes would never have no¬ ticed the little scraps ol paper, but when one blew against his leg and clung there, he saw that it was a 50-ruble note. W hile his mouth was still open, a twenty skidded past. Gregor dropped his string bag and his lump ot bread and caught the first and ran after the second. As he went, he saw and caught many more, some in crannies against the buildings, others scraping along the frozen street. He went wild. He tried to run in all directions at once. He gathered money with one hand and stuffed it into his pocket with the other. His pocket k The unrationed store usually opened its doors at ten oVIoek, By 7:30, a queue of 300 people stood nervously waiting. At eight, a large eard was placed in the door: ^Closed' Collier's for January 10, 1953

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12 Tension hung over the town. Squad* of young pioneers patrolled the streets, and troops with submachine guns were sent in. Within an hour, Geniil was quarantined from the world was lumpy with paper when he nearly ran into Comrade Radin, director of the Bolshoi, who charged around the corner chasing a 100-ruble bill. Comrade Radin pounced on the bill and stood up. Gregor saw that his pocket was lumpy, too. The training had been long and deeply learned; they were afraid of each other. Vet each stood his ground, hoping the other would go and leave the lortunc field free. Gregor realized with joy that he had no money in his hands. Radin looked at the hill in his own fist and said, “Damned wind — blew it right out of my hand.” Then he said, “Aren’t you headed the wrong way?” Now Gregor searched frantically for an answer. 'Hole in mv string bag,” he said. “1 lost a fine piece ot dried lish.” “Well, 1 hope you find it,” said Radin. “Oh, 1 forgot to turn out the light in my room.” He plunged back the way he had come, his head down, his e\es searching the dark edges of the street. Gregor sighed and walked hack to pick up his string bag and his piece of bread. In the four blocks lei t to go to the bus stop, he found 15 more bills and thrust them into his pocket. Although the bus was not due yet, the queue had begun to form. It was well to be early and near the head of the line. Sometimes a third of the people in line couldn't get on the bus and had to wait for the next one, but that was not permitted as an ex¬ cise on one’s work sheet. Gregor was a good worker—not a Stakhanovite, but sound. He had been late only twice in a year; once he was off for a v\eek, but only because he had been sent home alter a hand truck had sprained his ankle. Now he took his place in line and his hand moved into his pocket to finger the v\ad of sticky bills. He would not he able to look at them until night. There was no privacy at the bakery, not even in the toilets. A terrible thought came to him. At the bakery, he would have to take off his clothes and put on the coat and pants that had once been white, and his pants would hang on the hook all day long with the money in the pocket. In his apartment he had 400 rubles, saved over a long time to buy an over¬ coat He had never quite dared to bu\ it and strip himself of savings. Now he could buy it. Gregor took a pickle from his string bag and bit off the end. He tried to remember how many bills he had tound and what the denominations were. Then out ol his excitement an idea grew, an idea of such boldness that it frightened him. Suppose he didn't go to work? What would they do to him? With his good record, a fine — a drop in pay — but nothing worse. Suppose he was sick? In his mind, he saw the unrationed store where only officers and officials could afford to trade. He saw the piles of canned crab, the sausages and hams, the counters of chocolate and marzipan, the cheeses big as cart wheels. He saw himself in the sparkling store and his hand touched his bulging pocket. Suddenly, he clutched his stomach with both hands and doubled up. “What is it, citizen?” his queue neighbors asked. “I don’t know. I’m sick. I can’t breathe.” “Let me help you home. Where do you live?” “No, no, 1 think 1 can make it.” And Gregor staggered away, holding his stomach, until he was around the corner. The unrationed store usually opened its doors at ten o’clock. By 7:30 on October 12th, a queue of more than 300 people stood nervously waiting and Gregor was nowhere near the head of the line. At eight o’clock, a large card was placed in the glass door: “Closed.” The clerks drew cloth shades over the windows, concealing the bright piles of canned and smoked delicacies. The people moved slowly away, not grumbling, for no one wanted to talk to anyone else. A tension hung over the town. Squads of young pioneers patrolled the streets, stopping to peer into culverts. On the roofs of the buildings, other squads poked the litter in the lee of chimneys. * * * The back of Ilya Shostakovich’s desk was a sticky mess of rings from his tea glass. The district deputy’s face glistened with sweat. His phone rang every minute or so and he barked short, uneasy orders. Manuals and directives were scattered on the floor around him. The books had let him down. There were no orders to take care of this situation. For a little time, he had tried to improvise, but years of training had crippled his initiative. The moment he had been sure there were no rules to cover the situation, he had phoned the area deputy at Kiev. The area deputy had thought his caller was drunk, but he had laughed with diminishing enthusiasm as Ilya explained. Area Deputy Kaganov was now on the way to take charge, but before hanging up he had ordered Ilya to pick up every scrap of the silly money — every scrap. Then he called Moscow to protect himself. Moscow offices do not open before noon. After an hour of trying, Kaganov finally got some¬ one willing to risk taking action; he had been or¬ dered to investigate and make a report. Meanwhile, Ilya called MVD headquarters. He didn’t actually say the area chief was incompetent, but he cleared himself of blame. MVD acted quickly. Within 15 minutes, heavy-coated troops, armed with submachine guns, from the garrison 20 miles from Geniil, were climbing into trucks. Within an hour. Gemil was surrounded, quaran¬ tined Irom the rest of the world. Weanly, llva Shostakovich motioned to the old Could the weapon he turml v woman for tea. She brought the steaming glass to his desk. A heap of the captured money was piled on the end of the desk; in turning, the old woman brushed some of it to the floor. She murmured an apology, picked up the money and replaced it on the desk. In the process, she palmed three bills. Ilya clutched his brow and sipped the scalding tea. He hated new things. He scooped some of the money in front of him and flattened out the bills with an ironing motion of his palm. He lined them up — three fives, four twenties, five hundreds. He took a large magnifying glass from his desk drawer and held it over a 100-rublc bill. From his tunic pocket, he brought out his wallet, extracted a 100- ruble note and laid it beside the other. He put the glass on both at once, then folded the two in the middle and laid the folds together. He couldn’t detect any difference. The telephone rang and he listened and gave the instructions he was giving to everyone: Stand by for orders. The receiver cord dragged over the money. Ilya put the two folded bills together. He inspected them with the glass. He had no idea which was his own. His hand shook a little as he put both bills into his wallet. Sergei Charsky, Ilya’s second in command, strode in, followed by a security guard bearing a white canvas bag. “Put it down there,” Sergei said. “Dismissed.” The security man went out. Sergei said, “We’ve collected three others like this.” Ilya got up and shook the money out on the floor. The crumpled bills mounded up like a haycock. He stirred the | pile with his foot. “Are the loud-speakers spreading my orders?” “Yes, Comrade Deputy Director.” “Well, are people bringing the money in?” “Some. But it’s funny . . .” “What’s funny?” “Well, when any comes in, two or three people bring it — never one person. It's funny.” “It’s not funny,” said Ilya, and then, sarcas¬ tically: “Have you been alone with that sack?” “Comrade?” “Never mind,” said Ilya. “I have a new idea. For the loud-speakers. Say that this stuff is counter¬ feit and the penalty for picking it up is death . . .” “But wc’rc doing that. Comrade District Dep¬ uty,” Sergei broke in. “I know, but say further that this is germ war¬ fare — anyone picking it up will get the plague.” “How about the squads?” “Have them put on their gloves. Tell everyone that they are special germproof gloves. Say — why, say that our great Stalin anticipated this, that he sent the gloves in advance.” Sergei turned to go. “Wait,” said Ilya. “No word is to get out of the city.” “Yes, Comrade,” said Sergei. “And no railroad passes — and no travel permits of any kind . . .” Sergei said, “Comrade, the town is surrounded. Trains? Why, not even a fly could get out.” “Good,” said Ilya. Ilya tapped on his desk with a pencil when Sergei had gone, and then he tapped on his teeth. A runner brought a typed progress report, and laid it on the desk. Ilya read it. “All stores closed. Buying and selling of any kind forbidden until fur¬ ther orders. Payment of bills, leases, rents, loans, purchases or transfers forbidden. All taken care of.” The signature was formal. Clipped to the report was a second paper. It said, “Ilya for God’s sake, how are people going to cat?” The district deputy studied for a moment and then scribbled on a pad of paper, “Issue disaster rations against identity cards until further notice.” Gemil had one first-class hotel and that hotel had one first-class room, for great visitors. Whereas all other accommodations had bare wood floors and narrow beds, hard and white as tombstones. No. 20 was mushy with red carpets and velvet Collin's for Jnnu:ir> 10. 1953

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13 ii iis? Maybe — but not effectively. Our economy is too stable and our people too free drapes. It had carved and padded settees from the noble country houses of the last century. In the bathroom, the taps did not leak. * * * At 1 1 :00 p.m., October 12th, No. 20 was occu¬ pied. A round table was jeweled with food. Bowls of gray caviar, dishes of hard-boiled eggs, pickles of all sizes, cheese with holes and cheese without holes, platters of black rye bread and tureens of butter. In the center of the table stood four carafes of vodka. A select group sat at the table. There was Area Ground Forces Commandant Zubov, Area Air Forces Commandant Zubiliev, Air Security Deputy Kaganov, MVD Chief Korneichuk and District Deputy Shostakovich. All of these uniformed eminences chatted and picked at the food, but every minute or so their eyes flicked toward Com¬ rade Tula, who had arrived by air from Moscow just an hour before. Tula was a small taut man. His jaw muscles were like wire and he had the bleak, tired eyes of a man without hope or belief, who still goes on work¬ ing. His name was little known, but he was of the inner circle, a Kremlin trouble shooter, an untier of knots who had, at various times, slipped in and out of Tientsin, London, Rome, Washington, Mar¬ seilles and New York. He was always tired, always a little dusty from traveling. If he had a private life, it was very private. Comrade Tula read the sheaf of written reports the men in the room had submitted to him. He had not eaten. He finished the last page, folded the papers neatly and slipped them into his inside coat pocket. Zubiliev pushed a vodka glass toward him, but Tula shook his head. “Thank you — thank you, no,” he said. His speech was dry and dusty and rapid. He spoke with no inflection. “I can’t see where you’ve made any error,’’ he said. They murmured gladly. “On the other hand,’’ he continued, “I don’t see that you have made any progress.’’ They were silent. Ilya Shostakovich said, “We await orders from higher authority.” Tula regarded him for a moment. “I wish I could think of some orders to give you.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “A long time ago, I thought of this terrible weapon, but I assured myself that the capitalist world worshiped money so much that it would not outrage this god even if it be¬ longed to an enemy. This is a monstrous weapon. Authority has only two arms — force and bribery. This weapon destroys one arm of the state.” “We can issue new money or scrip,” Kaganov observed. “Yes, and they can duplicate it.” Tula paused. “It’s worse than you think,” he said. “When any¬ one begins to trifle with the money, there’s trouble always. People must have faith in some medium of exchange, faith at least that it is a medium of exchange. Now, you’ve closed the stores, told them this money is counterfeit. They don’t know which money is counterfeit and which isn’t — and neither do we. They’ll buy something, anything, to get rid of it — and to have something in their hands they can trust.” Area Deputy Kaganov poured vodka and tossed it off. “We have the advantage of superior author¬ ity and the means to apply it,” he said. Tula regarded him. “We have disadvantages, too. The mind that conceived this weapon is capable of raining other things down on us — ration cards, travel permits, identification papers. That’s a kind of currency, too. We’re a paper people.” Tula brought some bills from his side pocket and put them on the table. “This poisons, this fes¬ ters,” he said. “There can’t be any honesty if enough of this comes down. Look, comrades,” he said slowly, “if you — each one of you — were given one of those sacks of money to destroy, knowing it could not be detected and knowing that there Collier’s for January 10, 1953 were no witnesses, would you destroy it? Don’t answer me — don’t answer me!” Commandant Zubov said, “1 am a soldier. 1 think in military terms. T his money is a weapon. Then I say, use that weapon. America has at¬ tacked us with rubles. Let us bomb America with dollars.” “It wouldn’t be very successful, my friend,” said Tula. “Their money is hard to duplicate. I guess we could do it. But they have a retreat that we do not have. They could retreat into their banks. I have been to America and I know. The transac¬ tions of our people are carried on in currency, mostly in small bills. In America, business is done by check. If we dumped money — or if they thought we were going to — they could probably turn in their cash and depend completely on checks with little difficulty.” Air Commandant Zubiliev let a little anger creep into his voice. “We can’t screen the whole heaven for balloons,” he said. “Some are bound to get through. Have you no suggestions?” Tula put a tiny spoonful of caviar on his tongue and tasted. “I am trying to make one,” he said. “Whoever sent this present will be watching for reaction. If there is evidence that we are hurt, they will send more, lots more, everywhere. This is a trial. If there is no reaction, they might think the experiment has failed. I suggest we keep Gemil cut off until all of the money is in. We must let no news of this get out, not even a whisper.” "How can we get people to bring in the money?” Zubov asked. “Oh, that’s easy, very easy Open all the stores Cut prices. I ell the people it's great Stalin’s pres¬ ent. He has sent them this money from the sky as a present because he loves them. They’ll be charmed by the originality of that. With the prices cut, we’ll scoop in every bit of currency in Gemil, and then — then afterward, maybe . The MVD man smiled. “That s my depart¬ ment,” he said. Tula only looked more tired. “Remember: let no news get out. Maybe they’ll think it failed Maybe they will. I hope they will. I’m leaving now for Moscow. We'll expect full reports.” He stood up and walked out of the room. He didn’t have a hat. A heated car waited for him at the hotel entrance. The telegrapher at Air Security Station 22 sat in front of his instrument. The O.D. was out on his first night inspection. There was time for a nap. Suddenly he sat up and began to write an in¬ coming message. “Alert — 5 unidentified objects at 75,000 feet moving eastward at 26 miles per hour, east 30 5 17, north 54 20/8. Investigate.” The telegrapher stepped to a map and his fin¬ ger found the Smolensk area. He pushed a but¬ ton at his desk and the bell clanged to call a guard. AAA i The security official scooped some of the money in front of him. He took a 100-ruble bill and compared it with one from his own wallet. He couldn’t detect any difference

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15 DARK HOUR lt\ CI,\KV I.. I'MiKS In her fear, Carolyn fled to the desert wliieh she loved. I nder the hlaek «,ky and the pure stars, she faeed the most overwhelming prnl>lein of her life CAROLYN stared bleakly through the cracked side window of the dusty red pickup truck as it moved along the highway away from the city, past the irrigated sections with their citrus groves and vegetable and cotton fields and lush green pastures dotted with dairy and feeder cattle, through small outlying communities. Fi¬ nally the truck slowed and turned north onto a dirt road and after two drab miles of cleared des¬ ert, abandoned to weeds and salt cedar, it entered a cheerful untouched stretch on which grew greasewood, paloverde, mesquite and black-bush interspersed with giant saguaros and other kinds of cactus. The October desert looked fine after the gener¬ ous summer rains; the drought was temporarily broken, and the winter feed spread across the land like a green lace mantle. Carolyn’s eyes cleared a little, and she ran the window down carefully, her glance taking in ap¬ preciatively the clean little sand washes, the fat¬ tening steers grazing near the road, the friendly sweep of country leading to the hills and mesas where their ranch lay. She wondered how anyone could describe this as a bleak, barren, godforsaken land. Some did. To Carolyn, it was the home of her heart. She gazed at it yearningly, and tears stung her eyes. She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. ‘The countryside looks fine,” she said without turning her head. She spoke softly so that she wouldn’t disturb the little girl asleep in her arms. Harry glanced at Carolyn briefly. “The cattle¬ men arc jubilant.” He tried to joke, but his voice sounded strained. “Never looked better.” “You can get those yearlings you’ve been want¬ ing,” she said and then was sorry she had said it, because the way things were now, he wouldn’t be able to get anything; the yearlings or the light plant or the new gasoline pump engine to replace the windmill — none of the things they had been planning on. Harry said nothing for a while. The desert road began to rise and dip gently as it approached the foothills. Once a road runner sped foolishly across the road in front of them, and Carolyn wished that Elizabeth had been awake to see him; they were such funny birds, the clowns of the desert. Harry leaned over and picked a gnat olT the windshield and flicked it out the window. “What did the doctor have to say?” he asked with an at¬ tempt at casualness. Carolyn tensed and then tried to relax before replying. “He said I'll have to have an operation,” she began and then stopped and couldn't go on. “Is there any hope,” Harry asked quietly, “that it isn’t — something serious?” Carolyn turned her head then and tried to smile at him reassuringly. “Of course there’s hope.” While there’s life there’s hope, the young doctor had told her, and she had forgiven him for his cheery platitudes, for he was truly kind and con¬ cerned about her condition. “There's a tumor, of course,” Carolyn went on, “the X rays confirmed that, but it's not necessarily malignant; only an operation and laboratory tests will tell about that for sure.” Hut you know now, she told herself, you know; and the doctor's eyes — too many times she had seen the same look in her own lather’s eyes, that look of compassion and holding back knowledge — had unwittingly upheld her own diagnosis. And the operation itself would he dangerous. “Why in Heaven’s name didn't you come in sooner?” Dr. Hollister had demanded. “And you a doctor’s daughter. You knew hetter,” he had scolded her gently. So she had tried to joke with him about how it was a well-known fact that doctors’ families were the last to seek medical care, but in the face of things, the joke was pretty thin. There was so much more to it than that — many trivial things plus, as a doctor’s daughter, her intimate knowl¬ edge of suffering, and above all, the huge un¬ acknowledged shadow of her fear. Like a child with a problem, she had thought that maybe if she pretended the trouhle wasn’t there, it would all go away. But it hadn’t gone away, it had become much worse, the symptoms unmistakable; and there she had sat in that shiny, modern consulting room with the kind young doctor writing things down and telling her she must enter the hospital immedi¬ ately. But at that she had rehelled. She wasn’t ready yet; her little girl wasn’t prepared; she must have more time. So Dr. Hollister had reluctantly set a date for a week from today. Not a minute longer, he warned her. “How soon do you have to go back?” Harry asked now. “In a week,” Carolyn replied, and then the pain hegan again, and she bent over and closed her eyes, pressed her knees tightly together and waited it out. After a while she straightened up and opened her eyes, and she and Harry began to talk too hurriedly, ahout getting Harry's mother to come and help with Elizabeth for the time Carolyn would be away, but not thinking too far ahead, not daring to, although Carolyn knew she would have to eventually. This thing within her was the dreaded enemy, and she would have to face it. Why can’t 1 say the word? she thought. Talking with her father, she could say it easily enough — when it didn't apply to herself. She closed her eyes and forced herself now to think the word— cancer — but in her mind it was outlined in blinding white, and she shivered and opened her eyes to fill them with the sight of her beloved desert country. AFTER fixing supper for Harry and Eli/aheth, . Carolyn sat and sipped a glass of milk while they ate. and thought over what she must do. “1 must go out for a while,” she whispered to Harry as they dried and put away the last of the supper dishes. “Elizabeth must gradually get used to my heing away from her,” Harry held her in his arms for a moment with¬ out speaking, and then he released her and went slowly into the living room while Carolyn went into the bedroom for her sweater. Elizabeth trail¬ ing after her, chattering happily. But when Caro¬ lyn told her she was going out and leaving her for a while, the little girl stared blankly up at her mother, not quite comprehending at first, and icn her chin quivered and her eves filled. “Don't go out. don't go out!" she screamed. She grabbed the bottom of her mother's sweater and jerked at it and sobbed. “Take it oil -take it oil." Carolyn's fingers shook, and she buttoned the sweater wrong and had to unbutton it and start over. “I’ll be back in a little while. >011 stav and play with Daddy; I’ll he back in just a little while.” she said over and over. But the three-year-old Elizabeth wouldn’t lis¬ ten, she couldn't; and Carols n finally, desperate!) . had to pull the clutching fingers awav from her. She walked rapidly into the front room, the wail¬ ing child following. Harry sat near the radio, which was tuned low to a music program. “Ease it for her,'' Carol) n begged him. He looked up at her, his own eves filled with a kind of uncomprehending pain. “In a little while." he told her gently. “Let s see if she will turn to me herself.” CAROLYN took her flashlight from the mantel and went out into the star-filled desert night, the sound of her hahy s cries following her as she stumhlcd hlindly along the dry creek hed. tears pouring unheeded down her cheeks. She followed her flashlight's bright beam, blurred through her tears, needing it. not to see her way — she knew every step of the wav — but to watch for rattlers. That was some kind of iron) Why fear rattlesnakes when this thing inside her was surely more deadly than any venom? The pain was clutching at her middle again, and she lurched up the bank and sank down on the sand. She switched oil the light and sat there breathing sobl.ingly while the pain rode her. The air was cool, hut the sand was still warm from the heat of the day. Octoher in the low des¬ ert was a hlessed month: free at last Irom the terrible heat of summer, the wonderful winter coming, yet the night still mild enough to have a magical quality. When the pain finally lessened, almost ceased, she sat hugging her knees and look¬ ing at the dim black lace ot the small desert trees and greasewood bushes lining the hanks of the creek, and heyond at the dark silhouettes of the near hills, and then beyond them at the stars, bril¬ liant as always in the clear air. Why? she thought despairingly, wh\ ? I ife w as so wonder! uT. it had never been more wonderful: whv was it now to be snatched away from her.’ But she had had so much, more than most women. Nothing bad had ever happened to her. She had always hoped that if trouble had to come, sickness or injury or even death, it would come to her and not to someone near and dear to her. This was partly selfish: she knew she would feel greater pain at the misfortune, or loss, of some¬ one she loved than it she had to hear the misfor¬ tune herself. But. incredibly enough, nothing had hud ever happened. Her childhood had been ideal, with loving and understanding parents; her family and close relatives were still (Continued on page 54) ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR SARNOFF

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16 How We Can Have Safeti Bn Herbert yaiiraes POP O'JT WlNDSH eld speed reflected on upper part of windshield safety locks for doors ROLL-OVER FRAME MEMBER PADDED TOP SUPPORTS LARGE REARVIEW WINDOW GREEN Panels SyOvV CAR HAS ample GASOlNE bakery 5CN charge AND ENG.NE "EmPERaT^PE :S NORMAL SHOCK-ABSORBING SAFETY PAD STEERING LEVERS SHOCK-ABSORBING SAFETY PAD SLIDING ARMREST ENERGY-ABSORBING bumpers completely encircle car HIGH-BACK REAR-FACING SEATS t ( utout '■'hou > of the RB*n* Bring studied Bn (.ornell engineers to make your automobile of thr future a far *afer vehicle r llOD \Y*S automoh les are as safe as practical I ci.!1 ceri lg c\iT m. ke them, hut more than -1 -i,>. it pc son* vt i die in uutomohi e crashes eve n vs o I nti re wee kil’ed or whv «. ne pasveneer u.cd uh.'i .. t lctha • 'rkt r iment* in • i'\’ steer g wheel, which breaks au. U.'lto ^s. ,.4>d li ies n neeks and ehe'sts. r i ' >- \o ti.. » the ele'aths studied bv 1 id.a^a b'.-k P« ,vC ttie e is h*\e been tr \e mg at no nk tet.- 'i i es .. i hoi r a speed .it which sti i T e*s sh he . . e i on without tikii'v 1 I^k v •* *\e-> three eimh de t i s might be a\eTiee A , eJes.-sri ng . i torno’> 'es tor me eased safetv . Thoi's ’ .s n n' c Jens w h.-ve to be ana- 1\ zed be m. - 'e 1 n J • -C nt s's are experimenting w th such ex¬ citing ideas ..n seat ^e >. sho . der harnesses, haerv- ward-Iacing se...s tor a’ occupants except the dri\er. redesigned instrument gauges and steering levers instead ol a steering wheel. Manx o' these developments mav not be adopted lor vears— ii ever. Much research in the labora¬ tories and on the proving grounds lies ahead. But there is a good change some of the lndiana-Cornell findings nuv he incorporated in models coming out m 195h. And researchers stl> extra safetv fea- tuies can he stv ,ed into new models — it hesun at the diawmg-hoa J stage — without extra cost to the car huver. With them vour chances of surviving an automobile crash will increase tremendously. Ihe automobile industrv is clo*el> lollovving the lndiana-Cornell project. C. A. Chavne. General Motors v ee-prcsident in charge ot the engineering stall', savs OM is "verv much interested" and is "extending technical co-operation." George 1.. Mc¬ Cain. staff engineer in the research division at C hi v s'e . s ,\ s c h-v sler *vv ill co-operate in any wav possible", lx he icvcs the project will provide much valuable information which cannot he gained on the ndustrv \ own p' ov ing g •ouiids. Earle S. Mac- Phe'son. v ce-prcsidont-engineering ot the Ford NKuor Ciuiipanv. saw Ford "will make a careful st udv ol the lndiana-Cornell findings. Main Group- Join in Safety Effort The Big Three ol the automobile industrv and mans n ? the ndependent manulacturers aNo sent represcntato.es to Planning Conference for Auto Cr.-sh lniurv Res^k reh held at Cornell Medical Coi'ege m New Vork C ity in December to discuss furthe development of the Indiana and Cornell studies. Steps also were taken at the conference to co-ordinate the lndiana-Cornell research with the vvoik of other organizations interested in high¬ way safety, including the National Safety Council, the American Automobile Association, police or¬ ganizations and casualtv groups. Indiana and Cornell investigators say the auto¬ mobile industry can't he blamed for not introduc¬ ing more safetv features. Flugh de Fiaven, director of the Cornell Medical College's Crash Injury Re¬ search Section, explains: "You have to blame the medical profession in part. Until recently it hasn't given engineers facts on the nature and frequency ot injuries — or what causes them.'* The Indiana phase of the project was begun in 1949 by Corporal (now Sergeant) Elmer C. Paul. He started investigating automobile crashes to find out not how thev occurred or who was to blame, but whv people were killed when they did happen. Two vears later his project was made state-wide and he became founder-director of the Indiana State Police Auto Crash lniurv Research Depart¬ ment. the onlv police oiganization ol its kind in the country. Indiana state troopers now make a spe¬ cial report to this department on every fatal auto¬ mobile accident within their jurisdiction. The state police mostlv cover rural areas. A tvpical recent report concerned an Indiana businessman who was driving his three children and the tumilv maid through an intersection at 20 miles an hour when his car was hit hy another at a right angle. It wasn't a had crash; the business¬ man’s car vva> damaged onlv slightlv . But the maid had been thrown out of the car when a door sprang open at the moment of impact — her body was crushed under the front bumper. State troopers and a doctor who examined the woman victim reported to Paul that she would not have been killed if the car door had remained closed. So the accident went into Paul's records as DRAWINGS BY ROLF KLEP

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17 Auto* are .safer than ever — hut auto makers still itre -t as last as when no belt is used, but it sm ick' ir tv* whatever is in tront ot it with much k" '■ tkc 'I hat’s because the boils usually doesn't ot |or ward freely and add its weight to the force it tl e impact. Also, to the suipnse ot some eng t cerv , safety belt itsell haidly e\ei causes senous interna injury . ) The Thick Man, a full-si/c dummy built ot iron pipe and balsa wood, weighs only ^ pounds but each part has been built to a weight ratio ot a little less than one to live, so the t gu es can repre¬ sent a 1 N()-pound human being. Similarly. Ha'I- Pint. weighing 12 pounds, represents a si\-\ ear-old child, t iom what happens to them in a laboiatorv crash, the experimenter can calculate quickly what would happen to humans. I he laboratory crashes are only simulated, and that is one reason why the highway studies ot ac¬ tual collisions are important. In their efforts to duplicate the effects of a crash on the occupants ot a car. Dye and his stall hook a new sedan to a specially built apparatus they call a crash-snubber. Then they position the dummies, start the car, set the steering wheel and let go. When the car reaches the end of a steel rope, it is jerked to a stop. The crash force is equivalent to five or six Ci‘s — five or six times the force of gravity. This means that what happens inside the car is what would happen it it were driven into the side of a parked automobile at 30 miles an hour. Tests with Dummies Will Sa\r I i\es The Thick Man and Half-Pint trv one seat after another, with their joints adjusted to represent vary ing degrees of tension in their human counter¬ parts. Sometimes seat straps are used, sometimes not. Each part ot the car is coated with a different chalky color so Dye can tell which part ot the body hit where. High-speed cameras elaborate on this information, and energy meters record the force of impact. In the end. Dye thinks he’ll find out what the prospect is of the head and other parts ot the bodv hitting each section of a car during a crash, and the chances of survival in each case. Next the laboratory will cut the car in half and Yon could tell speed without taking eyes from road if gauge were projecled oil w iudMiield

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A 18 Auto-crash researchers say their work may lead to construction of a car so safe‘s - : - - - [ ROCCO PAOULO Indiana State Police Sgt. Elmer C. Paul examines windshield of wrecked car. It was lie who begun study to find out why some persons die in crashes while others are uninjured Cornell laboratory uses “’Thin Man*’ dummy and catapult to simulate effects of a crash Test crash in the Cornell laboratory throws “Thick Man” dummy against steering wheel catapult full-weight plastic heads against all areas found hazardous. Main purpose: to learn how various types of padding reduce the possibility of serious injury. C.A.L. already knows a good deal about padding as the result of a study it made for the New York State Boxing Commission, which asked advice on how to reduce injuries in the ring. The laboratory took a look at the records and found that about half the ring fatalities were caused by blows on the head — administered to a falling boxer by the ring floor. Dye's hunt for safe padding for a ring has convinced him that theoretically the best pad¬ ding for an automobile dashboard would be a low-density material which would give way slowly under impact, spreading out and absorbing the force of the blow. There is such a material; even when faced over with plastic or metal, it probably would eliminate most of the danger of a cracked skull. But it would be a one-shot proposition in an automobile: crash into it and it would save your life, but you’d have to get a new dashboard. Danger in “Bounce” of Foam Rubber How about foam rubber? C.A.L. engineers ruled it out after dropping an eight-pound steel ball from about four feet on a rubber pad. The ball bounced back three feet. “Your head weighs 10 pounds,” says Dye. “Smack it against a rubber-coated panel, and if it doesn't crack on the first bounce, it may on the second. Or it may rebound and hit, for ex¬ ample, the door handle.” For New York boxing ring platforms, the laboratory worked out with the U.S. Rubber Com¬ pany a “slow memory” material know as Ensolite. A plastic described by chemists as a modified uni¬ cellular polyvinyl chloride, it absorbs most of the force of a blow before returning — very slowly, unlike rubber — to its original shape. Dropped against an Ensolite pad from a height of four to five feet, the eight-pound ball rebounds only three inches. Dye thinks the new material will prove almost ideal for padding parts of an automobile forward of the head — doorposts and dashboard, among others — but he has other possibilities he wants to try out, too. Another way to make cars safer is to redesign or relocate potentially dangerous equipment — any¬ thing heavy or solid which vital parts of the body may hit. For example, a four-pound clock on a dashboard could deal your head as lethal a blow as a four-pound hammer if you are thrown against it in a crash. The basic problem, though, is how to keep you in your seat in a crash. If you stayed there, you would have a good chance of escaping critical injury. Bracing won’t help too much because try¬ ing to brace yourself against a five-G crash, for example, would be like trying to do a push up with four people on your back. One solution — now used in some military air transports — is to redesign a car so that everybody except the driver rides backward In crashes that now would kill you, you probably would only be pushed more deeply into the back of your seat. Dye himself has used this principle in designing a rearward-facing seat for children. Aside from engineering calculations showing that such a seat properly bolted to the car’s frame will cradle a youngster safely during even a severe crash, Dye has some firsthand experimental evidence. Once when his young son, then about three, was riding in the seat. Dye had to jam on the brakes, and the boy screamed. It turned out, though, the boy hadn't felt a thing; in fact, he was the only passen¬ ger not shaken up. He yelled because he thought the folks in the back seat, suddenly flung forward, were threatening him. Dye says children love riding backward, and he thinks the rest of us would get used to it, too. But an innovation which Dye thinks is more likely to be adopted is a well-padded panel that Collier’s for January 10, 1953 f

Page 95

19 ! could crush Iteud on into u wall at 50 ntph ivitliout seriously hurtiny the occupants 99866 >ym: Preliminary studies show that head injuries eause more than half the erash deaths. Cornell Aeronautical Laboratory at Buffalo, New York, developed this eatapult to throw plastic heads against structures representing auto doorposts, windows and instrument panels. Lined up behind the catapult are some of the men who arc working to make your automobile safer. The two men in busincs* suits direct the research. They are Hugh de Haven (left) of the Cornell Medical College and Edward Dye (right) of Cornell Aeronautical Laboratory could be pulled forward from beneath the dash¬ board into the lap to hold the body down. It would be equipped with a shock-absorbing device to lessen the body’s impact against it in a crash. Dye would like to see this panel used partic¬ ularly in the seat beside the driver, which research¬ ers believe to be the most dangerous seat in an automobile. Pulled into place, the panel would keep a passenger from being thrown forward more than a few inches even in a head-on collision — and, if safety weren't enough of an attraction, the panel could have a top that would serve as a worktable. As a matter of fact, there’s something anybody can do right now to keep himself and his passen¬ gers where they'll be safest. Time after time, Indi¬ ana’s reports of crashes bear a notation to this effect: “Had safety harness been used, there would have been no fatality.” Paul, De Haven and Dye — three of the men who know most about what happens during a crash — all wear seat belts in their own autos like those in commercial planes. From his work with the Thin Man, Dye estimates they may double a person’s- chances of survival. A seat belt costs about $10 and takes half an hour to install. It must be bolted securely to the floor — if you looped it only around the back of the seat, both you and the seat would plunge for¬ ward in a crash — and for best results should be set to fit over your hips as the safety belt does in an airplane. Shoulder harness would be much more effective but it’s harder to install. Even so, Howard Has- brook, administrator of aviation field research for the Cornell Medical College’s phase of the studies, Collier’s for January 10, 1953 has got himself a set, “1 drive in from Long Island on a crowded highway, and 1 see plenty of acci¬ dents,” he explains. Sometime next year, after it has completed ex¬ periments with the Thick Man, Half-Pint and the catapulted heads and has studied the latest analyses of highway accidents, C.A.L. will build a mock-up automobile embodying what seem to be practica¬ ble suggestions for making a safer car. The dash¬ board— at least that part of it to the right of the driver — will almost certainly be bare of instru¬ ments. gadgets and decorations, and will be con¬ structed of lightweight material. There will be padding at certain points that don’t have it now. Dye’s idea of built-in safety panels may be used. To Aid Quicker Reading of Gauges Another change being considered — more to pre¬ vent a crash than to help people live through one — is the redesigning and relocation of essential in¬ strument gauges. When you pull your eyes from the road to read the instrument panel at present, it’s a second or two before they return: at 60 miles per hour you travel about 100 feet blind. If the gauges were placed directly under the windshield and showed nothing but a red or a green light, you could read them far more quickly. Red, of course, would warn you to stop and check up. What C.A.L. researchers will suggest about the windshield is uncertain. So-called pop-out wind¬ shields have made their appearance and, the re¬ searchers believe, may prove useful. “At the present stage of the investigation, though,” Dye says, “I don’t know if it’s more dangerous to hit the windshield and stay in the car, or not hit it but fly out and hit the ground/' Best bet: keep a person ip the car without hitting the windshield. C.A.L. engineers also are studying more drastic innovations. One would eliminate the steering wheel, substitute small levers, and give the driver a safety panel to keep him from plunging forward. Engineers predict a car of the future, equipped with steering levers and other satety features tested in both laboratory and on the proving ground, could be rammed into a stone wall at 50 miles an hour without seriously hurting anybody in it. The laboratory has spent $8,000 tor preliminary re¬ search on an experimental model theoretically capable of such a feat, but won't talk about it now except to say that the car will use new, lightweight structural materials — presumably plastics — and may be much cheaper as well as much safer than conventional automobiles. Meanwhile the crash-injury researchers offer you these suggestions: ]] Install safety harness. ft If you're a passenger and sec a crash coming, press your hands against whatever is in front of you (the dashboard if you're up front) and pillow your head on your arms. The instinctive gesture is to throw up your hands in Iront of your face, but then your head crashes forward and the weight of your hands makes it strike all the harder. When possible, sit in the back seat. Indiana statistics indicate it's about twice as safe as the front one. When you shop for a car, be as interested in its satety features as in its looks. Dealers then will re¬ alize the public really wants n safer car.

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Wyman Dances the 20 i ANDRr Hay Milland's wife in Columbia's new Let's Do It Again, Jane stages torrid dance in attempt to win back his straying affections. On opposite page, she swings into Zambesi Vs deaf-mute in W arner's Johnny Belinda, she won stardom ami 1948 Academy Award As shy cripple in Glass Menagerie, she fell in love with "'gentleman caller*' Kirk Douglas An actress of many moods, Jane has been sober, sweet, sad and shy on film. Now she gets sassy SOME entertainers reproduce themselves over and over again with the precision of a ma¬ chine stamping out eoins. But a few are able to bring excitement and variety to any role they play. Jane Wyman ean do anything from sweet and low to hot and heavy — and make it good. Miss Wyman has been in the movies under eon- tract to Warner Brothers over 15 years. She started as a blank-faced blonde, playing chorus girls and posing for endless publicity pictures. Then, in 1947, in M-G-M’s The Yearling, as a ragged, har¬ ried mother in the Florida swamps, she proved that she was more than faee, torso and legs. The next year she won an Academy Award for her portrayal of a deaf-mute in Johnny Belinda (Warner Broth¬ ers). And in 1950, 1 95 1 and 1952 she triumphed again — as a shy eripple in The Glass Menagerie (Warner Brothers), as a governess in RKO’s The Blue Veil and as Will Rogers’ wife in The Story of Will Rogers (Warner Brothers). Reeentlv Jane has eomc out daneing and singing in a eouple of Para¬ mount pictures with Bing Crosby. But in Let’s Do It Again, to be released by Columbia Pictures this summer, she gives her talents a real ride. In the story of a singer with marital problems, she eomes out as a fast-moving, energetie doll with brains, beauty and sex appeal. Her biggest scene is near the end of the film, when, after deciding to aeeept a divoree from her husband (Ray Milland), she ehanges her mind. To ehase his very proper girl friend and her family baek to Boston, she shocks them with her own version of an uninhib¬ ited African ritual danee called the Zambesi. Syn¬ chronized with her high-kicking and hip-wriggling shenanigans, she sings a song pleading for love “the jungle way .” Effective? The Bostonians scatter, and Ray bounees back to her, wide-eyed as a boy in springtime. Publicity people will be ealling her the new Jane Wyman. “But,” says a long-time Wyman fan, “it won't be true. It will simply be Jane’s ver¬ satility busting out all over.” AAA As wife of great humorist in Story of Will Rogers, she played a warm, sympathetic role Collier’s for January 10, 1953 1

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Zambesi *1.' ■>

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IOOK what a lovely day we have for sailing, ” I said, pointing my pen toward the sunlit greener\ outside the open window. Birds sang in trees, and the sun shone on a pack of brightly colored baggage tags that I was filling out. Under SS America, 1 had carefully lettered my name, and I answered the gay question. Destina¬ tion? with Cherbourg. 1 was about to fill out a new tag when 1 no¬ ticed Barbara's silence. I looked up at her. She was standing at the window looking at me. 1 re¬ membered that on the day be¬ fore she had said something about a dog; but I had been called away before I could talk about it at length. For the most part, Barbara is a sweet and normal child. When she wants something, she changes, I looked at her now- and clearly saw the symp¬ toms of wanting something, symptoms long known to me and always the same. I recog¬ nized the first stage of a pain¬ ful condition that overcomes her from time to time. 1 saw that this time it would be very grave and complicated. 1 could tell it by her eyes, her mouth, the position she stood in, the peculiar angles of her arms and legs. She was tw isted in an unhappy pose of indeci¬ sion. Not that she didn't know precisely what she wanted. Barbara was merely unde¬ cided about how to broach the subject. There was a long and cold silence. At this point, the child is always under great stress. A trembling of the lower lip precedes the tilling of the beautiful eyes with tears. I am al¬ lowed to see these hopeless eyes for a moment, and then, as a spotlight moves from one place to another, she averts her gaze and slowly turns, folds her arms and looks into the distance or, if there is no distance, at the wall. The crisis is ap¬ proaching. She swallows, but her throat is con¬ stricted F inally, with the urgency of a stammerer and with her small hands clenched, she manages to say a few dry words. Fler voice is like a cold trumpet; the last word is a choking sound. I his morning- — the morning we were sailing — the attack was particularly severe. After the si¬ lence, the tears and the gaze into the distance, Barbara blurted out: “You promised I could have a dog/’ I steeled myself and answered, “Yes, when we get back from Furope you can have a dog.” An answer like that is worse than an outright no, I he mood of "1 w ish I were dead descended on Barbara. She stared coldly out of the window, and then she turned and limply dragged herself down the corridor to her room, where she goes at times of crisis. She closed the door, not by slamming it, but with a terrible, slow finality. From the corri¬ dor I could see how she let go of the doorknob in¬ side. In an unspeakably dolorous fashion, the knob slowly turned, and there was a barely audible click of the mechanism. It was a cutting ofT of human relations, a falling off of appetite, and nothing of joy or disaster in all the world mattered to her. Ordinarily this comatose state lasts for weeks. In this case, however, Barbara was confronted with a deadline, for the ship was sailing at five that afternoon, and it was now eleven in the morning. I usually break down after three or four weeks of resistance. The time limit for this opera¬ tion was five hours. For a while she continued to follow the manual of standard practice, which 1 know like the alpha¬ bet. From the door at the end of the corridor came the sound of heartbreaking sobs. Normally these sobs last for a good while; and then, the crisis ebbing, there follows an hour or two of real or simulated sleep, in which she gathers strength for new efforts. T his time, however, the sobs were dis¬ continued ahead of schedule. There was a period of total silence, during which 1 knew she was plot¬ ting at the speed of a calculating machine. This took about ten minutes. Then the door opened again and, fatefully and slowly, as the condemned walk to their place of execution, the poor child, He was proceeding to mix dog food, and the chances for rescuing Little Bit were slim handkerchief in hand, dragged along the corridor and passed me in phantomlike silence and, in a wide half circle, passed into the kitchen. I never knew' until that morning that pouring milk into a glass could be a bitter and hopeless thing to watch. 1 am as hardened to the heartbreak routine as a coroner is to post-mortems, 1 can be blind to tears and deaf to the most urgent pleading. I said, “Please be reasonable, I promise you that the moment we get back you can have a dog.” 1 was not prepared for what followed: the new slant, the surprise attack. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe and drank the last of the milk. Her mouth was ringed with white. Then she said in measured and accusing tones: “You read in the papers this morning what they did in Albany?” “I beg your pardon?” “They passed a law that all institutions like the S.P.C.A. are forced to turn dogs over to hospitals for vivisection — and you know what will happen. They'll get him, and then they’ll cut him open and sew him up again, over and over, until he’s dead.” “What has that got to do with me?” “It has to do with the dog you promised me.” “What dog?” “The dog that Fiances wants to give me.” Frances is a redheaded girl who goes to school with Barbara, “I didn't know Frances had a dog.” Barbara raised her eyebrows, “You never lis¬ ten,” she said, and, with weary gestures as if she were talking to an idiot, she said, “Poppy, I told you all about it a dozen times. Dr. Lincoln — that’s Frances' father — is going to Saudi Arabia to work for an oil company, and he had to sign a paper agreeing not to take a dog, because it seems the Arabs don't like dogs. So the dog has to be got rid of. So Dr. Lincoln said, ‘If you don’t get rid of it, 1 will.’ Now you know how doctors are. They have no feelings whatever for animals. He’ll give it to some hospital for experiments.” 1 RESUMED filling out baggage tags. When I hear the word dog I think of a reasonably large animal of no particular breed, uncertain in outline like a 1 hurber dog, and with a rough dark coat. This image hovered in my mind when I asked, “What kind of a dog is it?” “Its name is Little Bit.” “What?” “Little Bit, that’s its name. It’s the dearest, - sweetest, snow-white, itsy-bitsy toy poodle you have ever seen. Can I have it, please?” I almost let out a shrill bark. “Wait till you see him and all the things he’s got — a special little wicker bed with a mat¬ tress, and he has a dish with his picture on it, and around it is written Always Faithful, in French. You see, Poppy, they got him in Paris last year, and he’s the uniquest, sharpest little dog you have ever seen, and of course he is housebroken, and Frances says she’s not go¬ ing to give him to anybody but me.” 1 was playing for time, 1 would have set¬ tled for a Corgi, a Yorkshire, a Weimaraner, even a German boxer or a Mexican hair¬ less, but Little Bit was too much. 1 knew that Dr. Lincoln lived some thirty miles out of New York, and that it would be impos¬ sible for him to get the dog to New York before the ship sailed. Collier's for January 10, 1953 It was the last nigFit on hoard. The sun had set, and we came up on deck for ail evening walk. He was there, following us

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23 1 jo — and die poodle was delightful Bv LU)\\ l(, BF.MLLMANS WITH IUT STKATIOYS in THE AL TIIOR “Where is the dog now?” I asked. “He'll be here any minute. Poppy Frances is on the way with him now. And, oh, wait till you see, he has the cutest little boots for rainy weather, and a cashmere sweater, sea-green, and several sets of leashes and collars. You won’t have to buy anything for him.” “All right," I said, “you can have him. We’ll put him in a good kennel until we get back." The symptoms, well known and always the same, returned again; the lower lip trembled. “Kennel,” she said — and there is no actress on the stage who could have weighted this word with more reproach and misery. “Yes, kennel,” I said, and 1 filled out the bag¬ gage tag for my portable typewriter. “Poppy,” she began, but I got up and said, “Now look, Barbara, the ship leaves in a few hours, and to take a dog aboard you have to get a certificate from a veterinary, and reserve a place for him, and buy a ticket.” To my astonishment, Barbara smiled indul¬ gently and said, “Well, if that's all that is bothering you— first of all, the French, unlike the Lnglish, have no quarantine for dogs, and 1 ittle Bit already has a certificate. Second, you can make all the arrangements lor the dog’s passage on board ship, after it sails. Third, there is plentv of room in the ship’s kennels. I know all this because Frances and 1 went down to the U S I ines and got this in¬ formation day before yesterday." AT SUCH times 1 feel for the boy who will some- . day marry Barbara. With all hope failing, 1 said, “But we’ll have to get a traveling bag or some¬ thing to put the dog in.” “He has a lovel) little traveling bag with his name lettered on it. Little Bit." The name stung like a whip. “All right, then." I wrote an extra baggage tag for the dog’s bag. Barbara wore the smug smile of success. “Wait till you see him," she said, and she ran downstairs. She returned w th Frances, who I am sure, had been sitting there waiting all the time Little Bit had shoe-button eves and a p - ten t - leather nose and i straw beir\ -colored co.L, He was fluff) from the n p of his head to hrs s'm tJcr^ and then shorn ike a m mature Persian ainh A* the end of a stub ot *i tail was a pull ot flud, ai d there were other puffs on hrs lour legs He -u re a red ribbon, and a bell on h s cO1 nr. 1 thought th. t sawdust would come out of hun it he were cut open A real dog moves about a rum and snifF his way into corners, he inspects turn ture and people, and makes notes of things. 1 ltt’e Bit stood with cock-sparrow stillness on four legs, as static as his stare. He was picked up and hrought o\er to me. and 1 think he knew exactly what I thought of him. for he lifted his tiny lip on the left side of his tace. up over his mouselike teeth, and snecied. He was put down, and he danced on stilts, with the motion of a mechanical toy, back to Frances. 1 was shown the traveling bag. which was like Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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24 one of the pocketbooks that WACs carry. “We don’t need that tag,” Barbara said. ‘Til carry him in this. Look.” She opened the poeketbook, which had a circular opening with a wire screen on both ends lor breathing purposes, Little Bit jumped into it, and she elosed it. “You see, he won’t be any bother whatever.” She opened the bag again, and, with a standing jump. Little Bit hurdled its handles. He stalked toward me and. tilting his head a little, looked up at me, and then he again lifted his lip over his small fangs. “Oh. look. Barbara,” said Frances. “I ittle Bit likes your father; he’s smil¬ ing at him.” I had an impulse to sneer back, hut instead 1 took the baggage tags and began to attach them to the luggage. I lelt the room then, for now Frances showed signs of crisis; her eyes were tilling, and the heartbreak was too much for me. Little Bit was less emotional. He ate a hearty meal from his Toujours Fidcle dish. 1 hen he inspected the house, tin¬ kling about with the small bell that hung from his patent-leather collar. It was time to leave tor the boat. The baggage was taken to a taxi, and Little Bit hopped into his bag. On the way to the hoat, 1 thought ahout the things I had forgotten to take care of, and also about I ittle Bit. It is said that there are three kinds of books that are always a success; the\ are: a book about a doc¬ tor, a hook ahout Lincoln, and a book about a dog. Well, now I had Dr. Lin¬ coln’s dog, but the situation didn't seem t o hold the elements of anything except chagrin. I wondered if Lincoln ever had had a dog, or a doctor, or if Lin¬ coln's doctor had a dog. 1 wondered il that side of Lincoln, perhaps the last remaining side, had been investigated vet or was still open. YV7T ARRIVED with Dr. Lincoln’s TT dog at the customs barrier, our passports were checked and the baggage was brought aboard. In the cabin we found some friends. Little Frances, with Barbara and Little Bit, looking out of his bag, inspected the ship. The gong sounded, and the deck steward sang, “All ashore that’s going ashore.” The passengers lined up to wave their fare¬ wells. 1 be last of those that were going ashore hurried down the gangplank i good by, good-by!), and then the en¬ gine bells sounded helow, and the tugs moaned and hissed, and the ship backed out into the river. There are few sights in the world as beautiful as a trip down the Hudson and out to sea, especially at dusk. I was on deck until we were in Ambrose Channel, and then 1 went down into the cahin. I ittle Bit was lying on the writing desk, on a blotter, and watching Bar¬ bara’s hand. She was writing a letter to Frances, describing the beauty of travel and Little Bit's reactions. “Isn’t he the best traveling dog we’ve ever had, Poppy?” The eahins aboard the Ameriea are the only ones I have ever been in that don t seem to he ahoard ship. They are large — like rooms in a country home — a little chintzy in decoration. The port¬ holes are curtained, and in back of the curtains, one suspects, screened doors lead out to a porch and a Connecticut lawn, rather than the ocean. I put my things in place and changed to a comfortable laeket, and then I said. ”1 guess I’d better go up and get this dog business settled.” “It’s all attended to. Poppy. 1 took eare of it,” said Barbara, and she con¬ tinued writing. “Well, then, you’d better take him upstairs to the kennels now. It’s al¬ most dinnertime.” “He doesn’t have to go to the ken¬ nels.” “Now look, Barbara — ” “See for yourself, Poppy. Ring for the steward, or let me ring for him.” . . . “Yes, sir,” said the steward, smiling. “Is it all right for the dog to stay in the eabin?” I asked. The steward had one of the most honest and kind faees I have ever seen. He didn't fit on a ship, either. He was more like a per¬ son that works around horses, or a gar¬ dener. He had blight eyes, and squint lines, a leathery skin and a good smile. He elosed his eyes and said, “Dog? f don’t see no dog in here, sir.” He winked like a burlesque eomedian and touched one finger to his head in sa¬ lute. “My name is Jeff,” he said. “If you want anything . . and then he w as gone. “You see?” said Barbara. “And be¬ sides, you save fifty dollars, and coming back another fifty, makes a hundred.” I am sure that Little Bit understood every word of the conversation. He stood up on the blotter and tilted his head, listening to Barbara." She said to him, “Now you know, Little Bit, you’re not supposed to be on this ship at all. You mustn’t allow anybody to see you. Now, you hide, while we go to eat.” There was a knock at the door. Lit¬ tle Bit jumped to the floor, and he was out of sight. It was the steward. He brought a little raw meat mixed with string beans on a plate and eovered with another plate. “Yes, sir,” was all he said. After he left, we took the bell off Little Bit’s eollar as a precaution. BARBARA was asleep when the first rapport between me and Little Bit took place. I was sitting on a couch, reading, when he came into my eabin. By some magic trick, like an elevator going up a shaft, he ascended and sat down next to me. He kept a hand’s width away, tilted his head and then lifted his lip over the left side of his faee. 1 think 1 smiled back at him in the same fashion. I looked at him with interest for the first time. He was em¬ barrassed; he looked away and then suddenly changed position, stretehing his front legs ahead and sitting down flat on his hind legs. He made several jerky movements but never uttered a sound. Barbara’s sleepy voice eamc from the other room: “Aren’t you glad we got Little Bit with us?” “Yes,” I said, “1 am.” I thought ahout the miracles of na¬ ture; that this tough little lion in sheep’s pelt functioned as he did, with a brain that could be no larger than an olive; that he had memory, understanding, taet. courage and, no doubt, loyalty, and that he was completely self-suffi- eient. He smiled once more, and I smiled baek: the relationship was es¬ tablished. Life went on as steadily as the ship. On the afternoon of the third day “The good thing ahout inflation is that collier s I lost 15 pounds worrying ahout it” kate osann out, as I lay in my deck chair, read¬ ing, Barbara came running. “Little Bit is gone,” she stammered, with trem¬ bling lower lip. We went down to the cabin. The steward was on all fours, looking under the beds and furniture. “Somebody must have left the door open,” he said, “or it wasn’t elosed properly and swung open, and I suppose he got lonesome here all by himself and went looking for you. You should have taken him up to the movies with you, Miss.” “He’s a smart dog,” Barbara said. “Let’s go everywhere he might go look¬ ing for us.” So we went to the dining room, to the smoking room, the theater, the swimming pool, up the stairs, down the stairs, up on all the decks and around them, and to a secret little deck we had discovered between seeond and third class at the baek of the ship, where Little Bit was taken for his exercise mornings and evenings, where he ran about freely while I stood guard. A liner is as big as a city. He was no¬ where. When we got back the steward said, “I know where he is. You see, anybody finds a dog naturally takes it up to the kennel, and that’s the end — he stays for the rest of the trip. Well, remember, I never saw the dog; I don’t know about him. The butcher — that’s the man in charge of the kennels — he's liable to report me if he finds out I helped hide him. He’s mean, especially about money. He figures that each passenger gives him ten bucks for taking care of a dog, and he doesn’t want any of us to snatch it. “There was a Yorkshire stowing away trip before last — he eaught him on the gangplank as the dog was leaving the ship. The passenger had put him on a leash. Well, the buteher stopped him from getting off. He held up everything for hours; the man had to pay passage for the dog, and the steward who had helped hide him was fired. Herman Haegcli is his name, and he’s as mean as they come. You’ll find him on the top deck, near the aft chimney, where it says Kennel At moments sueh as this one, I en¬ joy the full confidence and affection of my child. Her nervous little hand is in mine; she willingly takes direction; she is all devotion, and no trouble is too much. She loves me especially then, be¬ cause she knows that I am larcenous at heart and willing to go to the greatest lengths to beat a game and especially a meanie. “Now remember,” I said, “if you want that dog back we have to be very careful. First, let’s go and case the joint.” WE CLIMBED up into the seene of white-and-red smokestacks, the sounds of humming wires and the swish of water. In yellow and crimson fire, the ball of the sun had half sunk into the sea, precisely at the end of the ave¬ nue of foam that the ship had plowed in the ocean. We were alone. We walked up and down, like people taking exer¬ cise before dinner, and the sea changed to violet, and to indigo, and then to that glossy gun-metal hue that it wears on moonless nights. The ship swished along to the even pulse of her ma¬ chinery. There was the sign. A yellow light shone from a porthole. I lifted Bar¬ bara, and inside, in the immensity of one of the upper cages, was Little Bit, behind bars. There was no loek on his eage; there was no one inside the ken¬ nel. The door was fastened by a pad- Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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25 lock. We walked back and forth for a while, and then a man came up the stairs, carrying a pail. He took the pad¬ lock of! the door. “That's our man,” 1 said to Barbara. Inside the kennel, he brought forth a large dish like the body of a kettle¬ drum. The dogs were barking. “Now listen carefully, Barbara. 1 will go in and start a conversation with Mr. Hacgcli. I will try to arrange it so that he turns his back on the cage in which Little Bit is, and you care¬ fully open the door of the cage, grab Little Bit, put him under your coat and then you don’t run — you stand still, and after a while you say, ‘Oh, please let’s get out of here.’ I will then say good evening, and we both will leave very slowly. Remember to act calmly, watch the butcher, but don’t ex¬ pect a signal from me. Decide yourself when it is time to act. It may be when he is in the middle of work, or while he is talking.’’ “Oh, please. Poppy. Let’s get out of here,” Barbara said, rehearsing. I opened the door to the kennel and smiled, like a tourist in appreciation of a new discovery. “Oh, this is where the dogs are kept,’’ I said. “Good evening.’’ MR. HAEGELI looked up and an¬ swered with a grunt. He was mix¬ ing dog food. “My, what nice food you’re preparing for them!’’ I said. “How much do they charge to take a dog across?” “Fifty dollars,” said Mr. Haegeli, who had a Swiss accent. There are all kinds of Swiss, some with French, some with Italian and some with German ac¬ cents. They all talk in a singing fash¬ ion. Their faces arc as varied as their accents. The butcher didn’t look like a butcher. A good butcher is fat and rosy. Mr. Haegeli was thin-lipped, thin¬ nosed; his chin was pointed, and in the light he didn’t look as mean as I had expected. He looked rather fanatic and frustrated. “How often do you feed them?” “They eat twice a day, and as good as anybody on board,” said Mr. Haegeli, “all except Rolfi there. He belongs to an actor, Mr. Gruber. He crosses twice a year, and he brings the dog's food along.” He pointed to the cage where a large police dog was housed. “Rolfi, he is fed once a day, out of cans.” He seemed to resent Rolfi and his master. “You exercise them?” “Yes, of course, all except Rolfi. Mr. Gruber comes up in the morning and takes him around on the top deck, and he sits with him there on a bench. There is such a thing as making too much fuss over a dog.” I said that I agreed with him. “He tried to keep him in his cabin; he said he’d pay full fare for Rolfi, like a passenger. He’ll come up any minute now to say good night to Rolfi. Some people are crazy about dogs.” Mr. Haegeli was putting chopped meat, vegetables and cereal into the large dish. “There are other people that try to get away with something; they try and smuggle dogs across, like that one there.” He pointed at Little Bit. “But we catch them.” He sang it in his Swiss dialect. “Oh, yes, we catch them; they think they’re smart, but they don’t get away with it, not with me on board they don’t. I have ways of finding out; I track them down.” The fires of the fanatic burned in his eyes. “I catch them every time.” He sounded as if he turned them over to the guillotine after he caught them. “Here comes Mr. Gru¬ ber,” he said, and opened the door. Kurt Gruber, the actor, said good Collier’s for January 10, 1953 evening and introduced himself. He spoke in German to Mr. Haegeli, and Mr. Hacgcli turned his back on 1 ittle Bit’s cage. As he opened Rolfi’s cage we were deafened with barking from a dozen cages. The breathless moment had arrived. Barbara was approaching his cage door when the dog lover Gru¬ ber saw Little Bit and said, “There’s a new one.” He spoke to Little Bit, and Little Bit, who had behaved as if he had been carefully rehearsed for his libera¬ tion, turned away with tears in his eyes. Mr. Gruber and his dog disappeared. HERR HAEGELI had wiped his hand on his smock, and, with it still smeary with dog food, had shaken hands when we introduced ourselves. He was now proceeding to mix the dog food, and the chances for rescuing Lit¬ tle Bit were getting slim. “Where do you come from, Mr. Haegeli?” “SchafThausen; you know SchafT- hausen?” Mr. Haegeli asked. on the cage in which 1 ittle Bit waited. “Well, it’s something tremendous. It’s —-so to say — revolutionary.” “Oh?” “There's a friend of mine, a Swiss, who is a baker, but, you know, like 1 am not a real butcher he is not ex¬ actly a baker. I mean, he knows his trade, but he has ambition to make something of himself, and together we have created something that we call a Frankroll.” He waited for the eflect. “What is a Frankroll?” “It’s a frankfurter baked inside a roll. We’ve got everything here to ex¬ periment with — the material and the ovens. 1 make the franks, and he makes the roll. We’ve tried it out on pas¬ sengers here. Mr. Gruber, for example, says it’s a marvelous idea. 1 might add that the experimental stage is over — - our product is perfect. And now it is merely a question of selling the patent, or licensing somebody. You know the way that is done — you make much more that way.” “Yes, yes,” I said in German. “ Wun - derbar'' “ Ja , jay beautiful city.” “And the waterfall.” “You know the Haegeli Wurstfabrik there?” “No; I’m sorry.” “Well, it’s one of the biggest Wurst- fabriken in Switzerland: liverwurst, sa¬ lami , cervelat , frankfurters, boned hams — a big concern, belongs to a branch of my family. I’m a sort of wan¬ derer, I like to travel — restless you know; I can’t see myself in SchafThau¬ sen.” He looked up. He was mixing food with both hands, his arms rotating. “I understand.” “Besides, we don’t get along, my rela¬ tives and I. All they think about is money, small money. I think in large sums; I like a wide horizon. Schafi- hausen is not for me.” “How long have you been traveling?” “Oh, I’m now two years on this ship. You see, I’m not really a butcher; I’m an inventor.” “How interesting! What are you working on, Mr. Haegeli?” At last Mr. Haegeli turned his back “Have you tried?” Mr. Haegeli came close, the inven¬ tor’s excitement in his eyes now. “That is where the hitch comes in. On the last trip I saw the biggest frankfurter people in America; they’re in New York. Well, the things you find out! They were very nice. The president re¬ ceived us, and he looked at the product and tasted it. He seemed to like it, be¬ cause he called for his son and a man who works close to him. I think you've got something there,’ the old man said. 1 think with him we would have had clear sailing, but he had one of these wisenheimers for a son.” As Haegeli talked, he forgot com¬ pletely about his dogs. He gesticulated with his hands, which were sticky with hash, using them as a boxer does when he talks with his gloves on. Standing close to me, he held his hands away, lest dog food soil my clothes. He stood ex¬ actly right, with his back turned to Barbara as she slowly reached toward the door of LittJe Bit s cage. It was all foiled again by the return of Mr. Gruber and Rolfi. Mr. Gruber kissed his dog good night and watched him as he slowl , walked into his cage. He said to Rolfi that it was onl\ for two more nights that he had to be here He wished us a good night also, and after a final good night to his dog. he wen: “Where was 1°’’ said the butcher. “With the f rankroll, the old man. and the wise-guy son ” “Right Well, the son was looking at our product doubtfully, and he took a bite out of it. and in the middle of it he stopped chewing. ‘Mmmm,' he said, ‘not bad, not bad at all. But — ' He made a long pause, and then he said. ‘What about the mustard, gentlemen9' “I said, ‘All re*' what about the mustard?’ So the wise gu\ savs. Tm a customer; I’m busing. I’m at a hot-dog stand. I watch the man in the white jacket. He picks up the frankfurter roll that’s been sliced and placed face down on the hot plate. Then he picks it up in a sanitary fashion, takes the skinless frank with his fork, places it on the roll and hands it to me. Now, 1 dip into the mustard pot — or maybe 1 decide on a little kraut — or maybe 1 want some relish. Anyway, 1 put all that on the frank — ’ He held out his hand. “So 1 said, ‘What’s all that got to do with our Frankroll?’ So Junior says, ‘A lot. Let me explain. It’s got no ap¬ peal. Practical, maybe, but to put the mustard on the hot dog the customer would have to slice the bun first, and that leads us straight back to the old- fashioned frankfurter and the old-fash¬ ioned roll. This may be practical, but it’s got no sizzle to it. No eye appeal, no nose appeal — it’s no good.’ “Well, the old man was confused, and he got up, and said that he’d like to think about it, and then he said he’d like to show us the factory. Well, you’d never think how important a thing a frankfurter is. This factory is shin¬ ing. Now, there are two schools about frankfurters, the skin frank and the skinless. These people specialize in skinless ones, because the American housewife is so lazy she prefers it with¬ out the skin. But— did you know that the skinless comes with a skin and has to be peeled? Now. there is a vast hall, and at long tables there sit hundreds of w'omcn, and music plays, and each has in her left hand a frankfurtenand in the right a paring knife, and all day long they remove the skin from the frank¬ furters. An eight-hour day. And at the end of the room there is a first-aid sta¬ tion, because at the speed at which the\ work there is a great deal of laceration. The man there in charge — ” BARBARA broke in, “Oh, please. Poppy, please!” she urged. “Let’s get out of here.” “The man in charge there explained that in spite of elaborate safety pre¬ cautions, there was a great deal of ab¬ senteeism on account of carelessness. They had people working on a machine to skin the frankfurters. ‘Now if you could invent a skinning device,’ said the old man to me, ‘you’d be a millionaire overnight.’ Well, we’re not licked yet. You sec the beauty of working on a ship is you have everything. One of the en¬ gineers is working with us on a skinning machine, and I have another outfit lined up for the Frankroll.” The light in Mr. Hacgeli’s eyes faded. He wiped his hand again on his apron, and 1 shook it, and slowly Barbara and 1 walked out on deck and down the first flight of stairs to A deck, and I said. “Run for your life, for by now' he has discovered that Little Bit is gone.” We got into the cabin. Little Bit

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28 smiled on both sides of his face, and he bounced from floor to bed and to chair. There was a knock on the door. The thrill of the cops-and-robbers game had begun. Little Bit had vanished. "Who is it?” Barbara asked. It was the steward. ‘‘Did you find him?” Barbara smiled. “You got him back?” BARBARA nodded. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, keep your dog out of sight!” the steward said. "That crazy butcher is ca¬ pable of anything from now on. I got a wife and family.” The steward was not one to bathe in the dark waters of conspiracy. "From now on the dog must not be left,” I said to Barbara. “He must go with us wherever we go, to the dining room, on deck, to the lounge and to the movies. And you can’t carry him around in that bag; you'll have to cover him with a scarf or have him inside your coat.” Barbara started going about as if her arm were in a sling. The steward averted his eyes whenever he met us, and he didn't bring any more dog food. Mr. Gruber said, “The kennelman suspects you of having removed the dog from the kennel.” “We did.” “Good,” said the actor. “Anything I can do, 1 will.” “Well, act as if you didn't know any¬ thing about it. How is Rolfi?” “Oh, Rolfi is fine. You know he’s never bitten anybody in his life, except that kennelman.” Mr. Gruber offered to get Little Bit off the boat. He said he had a wicker basket in which he carried some of Rolfi's things, and he would empty that, except for Rolfi's coat, and in that he would carry Little Bit off the America; for the butcher would watch us closely — if he didn’t find the dog before — and catch us at the customs. “Isn't Mr. Gruber a nice man?” Bar¬ bara said. “People always say such mean things about movie actors.” Camouflaged in his scarf, Little Bit rested on Barbara’s lap during meals. On the deck chair he lay motionless between my feet, covered by the steamer rug. He traveled about under Barbara’s coat, and he took his exercise secretly on the afterdeck, while I watched from above. . . . Alter the morning walk, the next day, the steward knocked, and he looked worried. "The butcher was here,” he said, "and he went all over the room. He found the dish with Al¬ ways Faithful on it, on the bathroom floor.” "How could we be so careless?” I said, my pride hurt. “And of course he saw the bag with Little Bit printed on it. I said I didn’t know nothing about a dog.” We doubled our precautions. Little Bit’s mouth was down at the edges with worry. I contemplated what to do. After all, there was only one more day, and if the worst happened we could sit upstairs near the kennel with Little Bit, the wav Mr. Gruber sat with Rolfi. I said to Barbara. “Perhaps it would be best to pay the passage and have it over with.” “No, you can't do that — think of the poor steward and his family.” “Well, we could settle that. I think, with the butcher, anyway. I don’t like to cheat the line.” After-Christmas Male Judging by the stack of bills That followed close on yuletide thrills, Something else besides the tree Got a lovely trimming — me. — J. L. KNIGHT “Well. Poppy, you can send them a check after, if that worries you, or drink a few bottles of champagne, or buy something in the shop.” There was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” “The purser, sir.” “Please come in.” The door opened, and outside, be¬ hind the purser, stood Mr. Haegeli. “Just wanted to look and see if every¬ thing was all right,” the purser said. “Are you comfortable, sir? Anything I can do?” “Everything is fine.” “By the way, sir,” the purser went on, “we are looking for a small white dog that’s been lost. We wondered if by any chance it is in here.” “Come in; look for yourself,” I said. “That’s quite all right, sir. Excuse the intrusion. Good evening.” The purser closed the door. “What a nice man!” said Barbara. The butcher was excluded from pur¬ suing us in the public rooms of the ship. He couldn’t follow us to the movies or the dining room. But he seemed to have spies. “What a lovely scarf you have there, miss!” said the elevator boy, and after that we used the stairs. The butcher came on deck and followed us on the evening promenade around the deck, while Little Bit sat inside my overcoat and I held him in place with my right hand, in a Na¬ poleonlike pose. We made four turns around deck. We saw the butcher’s shadow on the wall near the stairs several times. He seemed to be nearing a nervous breakdown. Mr. Gruber told us that he had sworn we had the dog, and that he meant to find it at any cost. There was one more night to go, and the next day the ship would dock. At ten Barbara would deliver Little Bit to Mr. Gruber, and we would fill the bag in which he traveled with paper handker¬ chiefs, tobacco, soap, extra toothbrushes, razor blades, dental floss and other things, all of which can be had in Europe but which, for some droll reason, one always takes along. Little Bit was fed from luncheon trays which we ordered for ourselves in the cabin instead of going down to lunch. THE steward was shaking. “I don’t know when that guy takes care of the other dogs,” he said. “He’s hanging around here all the time. I hope you’ll get off all right.” It was the last night on board. The sun had set again, and we came up on the promenade deck to take the evening walk. The butcher was there, follow¬ ing us. He walked faster than usual. It was cold and windy. I went inside with Barbara and drank a cocktail in the bar, and Barbara, with her lemon¬ ade in her hand, suddenly said, “He’s watching us through the third window.” I looked quickly toward the left side of the room; the butcher's face was i _ 1 pressed against the glass, pale and haunting. He kept watch from the outside, and ran back and forth as we moved about inside. We went to the dining room. When we came back I got a cigar, and he was outside the bar. When I went to the saloon to have coffee, he was outside the window. “Don’t give Little Bit any sugar,” Barbara said. “He’s watching us.” BUS boys were clearing the floor for dancing, and we got up to walk back to the library. There is a window¬ less passage between the main saloon and the library, and off this passage is the gift shop. On this last evening peo¬ ple stood there in numbers buying cigarettes, film, small sailor hats, minia¬ ture life belts, and ship models with SS America written on them. Here I sud¬ denly realized the miraculous solution of our problem. It was in front of me, on a shelf. Among an assortment of toy animals, stuffed Mickey Mice, Don¬ ald Ducks, and Teddy bears of various sizes, stood the exact replica of Little Bit — the same button eyes, patent- leather nose, the fluff, the sticklike legs, the pompon at the end of the tail, and a red ribbon in its hair. “How much is that dog?” I asked the young lady. “It’s two ninety-five, sir,” she replied. “I’ll take it.” “Shall I wrap it up, sir?” “No, thanks; I’ll take it as is.” “What are we goine to do now, Poppy?” “Now you keep Little Bit hidden, and I’ll take the stuffed dog, and we’ll go into the library.” We sat down, and I placed the stuffed dog at my side and spoke to it. The butcher was on the far side of the ship, but he almost went through the win¬ dow. Then he disappeared and ran around to the other side. I had ar¬ ranged it so that the dog seemed to be sleeping at my side, partly covered by Barbara’s scarf. I told her to take Lit¬ tle Bit down to the cabin and then to come back, and we’d have some fun with the butcher. When she came back, Barbara took the toy dog and fixed its hair, and combed the fluff, and then I said, “Please give me the dog.” We walked the length of the ship on the inside. The butcher was sprinting outside, his face appearing flashlike, in a series of windows. At the front of the ship we went out on deck, and I held the dog so that the white pompon stuck out in back, and I wiggled it a little, to give it the illusion of life. It took the butcher a while to catch up. He walked fast; we walked faster. He almost ran; we ran. He shouted, “Mister!” I continued run¬ ning; and as we approached the stern, I said, “Can you let out a terrible scream?” “Yes, of course,” said Barbara. “One, two, three — now” As she screamed, we got to the end of the ship. I threw the dog in a wide curve out into the sea. The butcher, only a few feet away, gripped the railing and looked below, where the small white form bobbed up and down in the turbulent water and was rapidly washed away in the wake of the America. I turned to go back into the saloon. We left the butcher paralyzed at the stern of the America. He was not at the gangplank the next day, and on the return trip there was another man in charge of the kennels. Collier’s for January 10, 1953

Page 105

Get it up and move it, A1 boy,” he called brightly Old Pal, Old Teammate By MATT BRYANT ALLEN clomped down the stairs, dressed in old cords and three sweaters. His skates were L slung over his shoulder jauntily, but his ex¬ pression was black and scowling. Betty ignored her son elaborately. Though at seventeen he considered himself a sophisticate, she knew he could not long contain any of his darker emotions. When his legs-apart, head-back pose of agony brought no comment, he collapsed disjointedly into a chair and moaned, “I’m cursed.” ‘‘Aren't we all?” Betty said warily. “You’ve noticed it, too?” he asked darkly. Betty nodded and said, “Oh, yes, nothing gets by me,” and she wondered uneasily where their con¬ versation was going. ‘‘The child-dad, the playmate-pop,” Allen said bitterly. “He’s on my team; I’m his pal.” Betty sighed and stuffed the sock she was darn¬ ing into her sewing box. She had been waiting for this moment of rebellion for so long it was a relief, like the long-delayed crash of thunder after a streak of lightning. And yet, like the expected thunder, this outbreak still caught her unprepared. How could she explain to Allen and make him accept Hal’s delight in playing the role of the young father — especially when she could not rec¬ oncile herself to it? She was as wcaiy of Hal’s hot pursuit of palship these past ten years as she was of doing dishes — and of growing older, alone. And then Hal, as light-footed as a junior tennis champion, came running down the steps. He was wearing sweaters and old corduroys, too. Except for a leaner cast to his dark, handsome face, he could have been Allen's slightly older brother, though he was thirty-eight. ‘‘Get it up and move it, A1 boy,” he said brightly. ‘‘Let’s put this act on the road.” “Some act!” Allen said and heaved himself up, and then they were gone. The telephone rang, and Betty got up to answer it. Kathy Harper was on the telephone. She was a really exhausting girl who pursued Allen with all the finesse of a roaring cannon. When Betty put down the telephone, she prayed forgiveness for thoughtlessly blurting out to Kathy that she would find Allen at Bowman's Pond with his father. Betty excused herself on the grounds that she had more to think about than making up excuses for adoles¬ cents. And she did: Hal. . . . The silence they brought into the house was shattering. Betty looked curiously from Allen’s glowering anger to Hal's sheepish grin. “Well,” she said uneasily, “who did what— and to whom?” Allen stood with his legs apart and his hands clenched into fists. He glared at his father, and then his soft, boyish lips trembled, and he turned and ran up the stairs three at a time. Betty turned to Hal. “All right,” she said, “tell me ahout it, or take it outside and hury it.” Hal ruhhed the back of his neck, still smirking, and said, “Guess I'll have a beer,” and he amhled out into the kitchen. Betty sighed and started wearily up the stairs. When Hal was so inclined, he could shame the Sphinx. But Allen had not yet acquired that talent, and she had to find out what had befallen the two of them at Bowman's Pond. After a great show of stubhorn insistence that reminded Betty of Hal, Allen ate in his room, dressed for the school dance and stoic out of the house. Hal ate in grinning silence across the dining-room table from Betty. When the dishes were washed and put away, Hal got himself another beer from the refrigerator and went into the living room. On her way upstairs, Betty looked at him and said, “Don’t get blotto. Two Beer; I may want you for something.” Hal made a mocking noise in his throat. Betty got out her best cocktail dress. As she put on lipstick, she thought tiredly that it was nice she only felt as old as Mother Eve, not looked it. Hal glanced up as she came down the stairs, fastening the clasp of her one good bracelet. “What arc you about to do?” he asked. Betty stood in front of him. “1 am about to seduce a confession out of you,” she said. Hal looked surprised and said, “You mean he didn’t tell you anything? He kept still?” There was a tribute like a twenty-one-gun salute in his omis¬ sion of the tiresome nicknames. 29 “Oh, yes, he said \ou were his pal. and you were on his team, and wasn't he lucky he h.id such a young father — one who vs. is grossing up vsith him, playing with him,” Belts said And ihen she eyed him warily and tried not to laugh as she added, “And one who made a fool of himself with the dumhest, man-craziest girl in school." Hal choked. “And he wanted to know if / wasn't as fed up with old pal, old teammate, old swoon-bait as he was?" Hal just looked pleasantly embarrassed, not angry at all. “Well?” he asked. Turning her extended arm and watching the lights glint on the hracelet, Betty s id “1 told him J sure as heck was.” “Why, you asp, you,” Hal said, pleased and smiling secretly. “However, hoy," Betty said, “I'd like the story — the one about swoon-bait and the man-crazy girl." “The bridegroom didn’t show up — no story," Hal quoted blithely. “The point of that chestnut, Captain Bill), was to show that the reporter was lousy,” Betty said. “So let’s start with names.” “Can’t answer,” Hal said. “Self-incrimination.” “Now we’re getting somewhere," Betty said, and she sat down on the couch so that she faced Hal. He was sitting with his hands shoved into his pock¬ ets, and he had that silly smile on his face again. “How ahout Kathy Harper?" she asked. He said brightly, “Now, she’s a tiresome but cute little nitwit, isn’t she?” But he actually hlushed when he added, “She chased me all over the pond, honey, me — old gray-head. Know what she told me when she got me cornered alone?” “1 don’t dare imagine.” “Well.” he said, and the silly smile came hack to his face, “she said I was the most fascinating older man in the world — me, who’s old enough to he her father.” “But doesn’t act it,” Betty said. “Touche," Hal said, and smiled at her ruefully. Betty laughed and put her arms around Hal and kissed him lightly on the faintly gray temple. “Kind of pleased with yourself, aren’t you. boy?" “Kind of,” he admitted, and then he added se¬ riously. “but what gives with our young Hamlet?” Betty curled her legs under her and said, “Look, darling, how old were you when you declared you couldn’t wait for me to be eighteen and of age?” Hal leaned back and started to calculate. “You were nineteen, and Allen's seventeen, Hal. If your father had dogged you all the time you were learning the courting game, you’d have thought he didn’t trust you. Wouldn’t you?” Hal said happily, “ Yours never trusted me.” “Of course not!” Betty said. “Anyhow, Allen's grown up, Hal, or at least he thinks he is. And what used to be companionship, well, now it seems to Allen to he spying. He wants to be left alone.” Hal pulled his hands out of his pockets and took Betty in his arms. “Okay, honey,” he said. “1 get it. And I’m sorry 1 couldn't figure it out for myself. Now, how would you like to be kissed by the most fascinating older man in the world?” BETTY was leaning back comfortahly against Hal's chest when he suddenly sat up and said loudly, “That damned kid of ours isn’t thinking of marrying that stupid Harper brat, is he?” Betty laughed. “Changing your tune, old man?” she asked. “Just what does that mean?” “Earlier tonight she was a 'cute little nitwit.’ ” “Now look, that was different.” “You mean,” Betty said, “that she worries you in your new-found role of father? No, darling, rest assured, all Allen wants is one father — not a buddy, not a sweetheart.” She rested her head against his shoulder. It was going to be nice, she thought, to have a man around the house again. And then she began to laugh de¬ lightedly at the mental picture of Hal being scared into middle age by a juvenile Circe. But the way Hal acted when she refused to say what she was laughing at gave Betty cause to de¬ lete middle age. AAA Collier's shout short

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DE HAUL LAX!) - The Man /'j Britain’s Sir Geoffrey do Havillaml, builder of the first jet air liner, barely got oil lb<i” has devoted 45 years to aviation. Th me erasliei Jet-powered Comet air liners, already in operation ONE gray, wet morning last October, auster¬ ity-weary Britons read their morning news¬ papers with extra relish and gloated to anyone who would listen: “The Yanks finally real¬ ize there’s life in the old island yet!” Front-page headlines told the story: Pan Ameri¬ can World Airways had just ordered three sleek Comet jet air liners from Great Britain for de¬ livery in 1956 and had taken an option on seven more. It was the first time in aviation history that an American air line had placed a major aircraft order in Britain. For nearly two decades every air-line operator in the world — the British included — had planned expansion with American equipment. The man who produced the Comet — the world’s first jet-propelled air liner — and thereby lifted the British aircraft industry from the shadow of Ameri¬ can competition to the top of the heap is a shy, self-deprecating genius named Sir Geoffrey de Havilland, often called the father of British aviation. An uncle of film stars Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine, Sir Geoffrey is a tall, rope-thin, nearly bald man of seventy with a quiet voice, a 30 quick smile and distant blue eyes. In a disposition of otherwise temperate enthusiasms, he has had only one passion — airplanes — since he first read in 1904 about the Wright Brothers and their new¬ fangled flying machine. De Havilland’s Comet has ushered in a new era of faster, more comfortable air transportation. Since last May, British Overseas Airways Corpora¬ tion has put the 500-mile-an-hour Comets into operation on three routes out of London — to Jo¬ hannesburg, Union of South Africa, to Colombo, Ceylon, and to Singapore — and expects to begin a London-Tokyo service the middle of this year. Comet service will be extended farther as fast as the planes become available. BOAC's success with the jet air liners has brought orders pouring into the De Havilland Air¬ craft Company. In addition to Pan American, seven British Commonwealth, French, Japanese and Venezuelan air lines are in the queue await¬ ing delivery. The Comet looks much like a conventional air liner both inside and out except for its lack of pro¬ pellers. But it has two advantages: it goes nearly 200 miles an hour faster than any present piston- engine commercial air liner, and there is no vi¬ bration aboard it. In a propeller-driven transport, London is three days away from Singapore; by Comet the cities are only 30 hours apart. When the Comet starts flying the North Atlantic — possi¬ bly in 1956— the gap between New York and Lon¬ don will shrink from the present 1 2 to 14 hours to 8. The Comet carries its passengers so smoothly that Britain's Queen Mother Elizabeth and her younger daughter, Princess Margaret, on their first jet flight last spring, stood coins, cigarettes and pencils on end for 40 minutes at a time. Despite the multimillion-dollar business the Comet has brought his company, Sir Geoffrey still takes small delight in making money and less in spending it. He still wears baggy suits; he still drives a Morris Minor (smallest and cheapest British automobile); he and his second wife still live in an eight-room house without servants in a London suburb. At the De Havilland plant, Sir Geoffrey is still listed as technical director of the company he founded in 1920. His employees laughingly refer to the title as Sir Geoffrey’s disguise. “He is the company,” they say. Collier’* for January 10, 1953

Page 107

>n air routes from London to South Afriea and Asia, may begin service on the New York-London run in 1936. World's air lines get in line to buy Comets Behind the COMET By marjorie earl ground in his 1909 flying machine. Now his Comet streaks through the sky at 500 mph His contributions to aviation have brought him, among other honors, a knighthood from King George VI in 1944 and the 1952 Daniel Guggen¬ heim Medal from the American Society of Me¬ chanical Engineers, This retiring, dedicated engineer and designer did not foresee early in his career that one day he would build a jet air liner. “All my life,” he says, “I’ve just seen the improvements that could be made in the machine of the moment — and tried to make them.” When De Havilland was a boy in a middle-class family in Victorian England, the machine of the moment was a toy steam engine, and he worked to improve it. Next came a motorcycle engine; at seventeen he designed and built one of his own. That started him off on a promising career as an engineer in the automobile industry. But De Havilland forgot everything else after that day in 1904 when he read of the Wright Broth¬ ers and their first flight. For four years he read and thought about their exploits. Then he paid a call on his grandfather in Oxford, He wanted to fly, he said, and he needed money. Impressed by the young man’s conviction and determination, his Collier's for January 10, 1933 ! grandfather gave him $5,000 he had intended as a bequest. De Havilland designed a four-cylinder, water- cooled engine, doing all the drawings and tracings himself. While a motor company was building the engine, De Havilland and his brother-in-law, Frank T. Hearle (now chairman of the De Havil¬ land Aircraft Company), went to work in a shed off London's Fulham Road on a pusher biplane of their own. “We used bicycle wheels for landing gear, bicy¬ cle tubing for fittings and we bought the lightest wood we could find at a lumberyard,” De Havil¬ land recalls. “The covering was predoped cotton which my wife sewed on a hand sewing machine and the struts were ordinary piano wire.” The first Lady de Havilland was to use the same sew¬ ing machine until her death in 1949, De Havilland and Hearle trucked the airplane sections to a shed at Seven Barrows on England's North Hampshire Downs, near De Havilland's home, and there assembled the strange-appearing machine. Finally everything was ready; the engine was installed, and the wings, struts and controls were all in place. One December day in 1909, De Havilland climbed onto the exposed seat for the first test flight, “I was asking rather a lot of my little aircraft because 1 didn’t know how to fly," De Havilland says now. “The engine ran and carried me across the ground, going downhill. 1 applied the elevator and much to my astonishment I went up a little bit. But I didn’t know what to do next, so I came down rapidly." That was an understatement: actually the port wings failed and the plane crashed. But De Havilland reckoned the experience valuable. “In those days there were no books on how to fly,” he says. “It was a good way to learn.” That it was also a good way to get killed didn't occur to him, as it doesn't now. “It could have been dan¬ gerous," he reluctantly concedes, “but fortunately the engine wasn't damaged.” De Havilland and Hearle went back to work in their Fulham Road workshop. This time they built a stronger and simpler airplane around the origi¬ nal engine. Ten months later, the two men were back at Seven Barrows with their new aircraft. Once more they pushed it to the top of an incline, started the engine and sent it off on test runs. De Havilland was at the controls; Hearle lay on the 31

Page 108

32 Skeptics said jet air liner couldn’t make money. De Havilland , ISritish aviation pi oncer, ground and watched lor daylight be¬ neath the wheels. On a calm Saturday evening in September, 1910, the flimsy aircraft really Hew. “We staved oil the ground for 50 yards and later we went to an inn and had quite a celebration," De Havilland says. (“Quite a celebration" meant a tew exultant beers.) Gradually Ihghts in the new plane got longer. Whole minutes were spent olf the ground. I hen there was the ex¬ citement ol learning how to turn a plane in llight. Speeds ol up to 45 miles an hour were attained. 1 hat initial success cost De Havil¬ land all ol his grandfather's $5,000. But the army balloon lactory at Farnbor- ough came to the rescue of the pioneer airmen. It bought their plane lor $2,- 000, gave De Havilland a job in the drawing room and as a pilot, and took on Hearle as a mechanic. Recalled from Active Service In May, 1914, De Havilland went to the Aircraft Manufacturing Company as chief designer. He left to join his squadron in the Royal Flying Corps at the outbreak of World War I, but the government soon ordered him back to his drafting board. There he designed the famous D.H.4, the 1 25-milc-an-hour bomber-reconnaissance plane which be¬ came the principal standard type for United States forces in World War 1. Some 2,500 were built in the United States alone up to October, 1918. It was a D.H.4 which inaugurated inter¬ national air passenger service: in 1919 it carried two persons from London to Paris in a crowded cockpit under a can¬ vas canopy. The D.H.4 also pioneered American air-mail routes. Britain’s aircraft industry fell apart at the seams in 1920. But De Havilland and the men who had worked with him refused to believe there was no luture in the air. With a working capital of less than $15,000, they leased two wooden sheds, an old army hut and a small airfield to go into business for themselves as the De Havilland Aircraft ( ompanv. 1 td. Hearle headed the firm and De Havilland took the title he still has technical director. For two years, it was touch and go for the mlant company. Hearle kept fabric for the fuselage and wings under his desk and doled it out stingily after lecturing everyone on its expense. The company ran a hire-plane service, ad- veitised anv thing for anybody, and thinks it originated crop dusting, the svstem of spraying farm land from the air to kill insects. I he lirst sizable aircraft order that looked as though it might save the com¬ pany from extinction came from the Daimlei Airline C ompany in D>22. But at this moment the owner of the airfield decided he wanted to sell it tor $90,- 000. De Havilland raised $9,000, but after that was stumped. One morning about that time De Havilland received a letter from a wealthy young aviation enthusiast named Alan .$. Butler. Butler wanted De Havilland to build a two-seater, dual-controlled plane to his own speci¬ fications. “dell him how much it will cost," De Havilland told his business manager. “That will soon settle the mat¬ ter." But the $13,500 price tag set by De Havilland did not stop Butler. He called personally to place his order. As he was about to leave, Butler said, "By the way. I’ve been thinking of investing some money in an aircraft company. You don’t by any chance need any. do vou?" He mentioned the sum of $225,000. "Well, wc do happen to need a little," De Havilland said, "but not that much." Butler nodded his head and left. De Havilland wondered if he had let op¬ portunity slip through his hands. “1 couldn’t think of a polite way to tell him it was urgent," he says now. But Butler came back with his check¬ book a few days later and wrote out a check for $22,500 that met the next in¬ stallment on the airfield. With that, Butler became a director of the com¬ pany and two years later was elected chairman — a post he held until his re¬ tirement in 1950. With Butler's money behind it, the company ever after was secure although it never became big. Today it comprises eight factories in England, a new Comet production line just being laid in Belfast, Northern Ire¬ land, and branches in Canada, Austra¬ lia, New Zealand and Union of South Alrica. But it is small compared to Britain's leading manufacturer, the Hawker Siddelcy group. And it is di¬ minutive beside its American competi¬ tors; the De Havilland Company’s net assets including reserves total only about $25,000,000. In the years before the jet engine revolutionized aviation, the De Havil¬ land production line turned out numer¬ ous air transports for British and European air lines as well as the Moth, a small private plane; the single-engine Puss Moth, flown to Tokyo and back by Amy Johnson and across the Atlantic by Bert Hinekler and Jim Mollison, and the all-wood Mosquito fighter of World War 11. De Havilland and his associates plunged into the jet field during the war. Frank Halford, the firm’s engine de¬ signer, began work on a jet engine in 1940. Less than two years later, De Havilland’s Vampire fighter plane, powered by a Goblin jet, was ready. Top Men Hold Bull Sessions De Havilland and his top men met frequently in his plain, ground-floor office during those days to sip tea and pick one another’s brain. In addition to De Havilland, Halford and Hearle, the bull sessions were attended by Ron¬ ald Bishop, the air-frame designer, who joined De Havilland as a sixteen-year- old apprentice; Charles Walker, the chief engineer, a benign scvcnty-ycar- old pioneer; Richard Clarkson, a wizard with the slide rules; Wilfred Nixon, the financial watchdog; and, finally, De Havilland’s namesake son GeofTrcy, then the company's chief test pilot. Young Geoffrey frequently broached the idea of a jet air liner. Alter a test in the Vampire, he would say: "What a wonderful passenger liner it would make! 1 here’s little noise and no vibra¬ tion." The idea, bandied about over the tea¬ cups in the latc-afternoon gloom, be¬ came irresistible to De Havilland, choked with war orders and longing to catch up on civil production. "1 knew there was no point in our trying to build something just a little better than existing air transports," he said. "Wc were far behind; we had to go for the big risks and try something new." He ordered a start made on a jet transport. While the De Havilland team was still in the midst of designs for the air liner that was to become the Comet, the firm completed a tailless, single-seater jet for a try to break the world’s speed record. The attempt was set for Mon¬ day, September 30, 1946, at Littlc- hampton, on the south coast of England. The evening of Friday, September 27th, was calm and cloudless. Young Geoffrey, then thirty-six, thought he would take up the nameless model, in which he had dived and rolled so bril¬ liantly so often, for one final test before the attempt on the record. It was rou¬ tine; his father didn’t even bother to stay. But a half-dozen other members of the company stood about on the apron watching with satisfaction as the jet whined swiftly out of sight. Hall an hour later a fearful chill froze their conversation. They listened for the jet’s returning cry but heard nothing. Five more minutes passed. There was no sound but the singing of wayward birds. "Wc stood around waiting for hall an hour after he was due," said one of the spectators. "But he just didn’t come back." After a gloomy consultation, one of the six was designated to telephone the lather. "GeofTrcy hasn’t come back and we are afraid there's been an accident," he said. There was a terrible silence from the other end of the line. It ended with one word, “Thanks," followed by the click of the replaced receiver. It had happened again. Five years earlier De Havilland’s youngest son, John, twenty-four, had been killed in a collision diving a Mosquito out of a cloud bank. "It is the price you pay for progress," is the only public comment De Havil¬ land ever made. 1 he morning after young Geoffrey's death, the elder De Havilland came into his office as usual, straightened up the papers on his desk, left a few instruc¬ tions for his secretary — and vanished for two weeks. One of the first things he did on his return was to write a letter of condolence to a stranger, the mother of an R.A.F. pilot whose death had just been announced in the newspapers. Trying to Explain a Tragedy During De Havilland's absence, young Geoffrey’s body was found deep in the mud of the Thames Estuary. There was no way of telling what had happened. Company officials presumed Gcoifrcy was trying to fly faster than sound and perished when he tried to break through the sound barrier. An unexplained wall ol resistance encoun¬ tered at speeds over 700 miles an hour, the sound barrier has been pierced many times since by De Havilland's and other aircraft. The development of the Comet went on. It had become Britain's postwar hope. The United States had forged far ahead in the production of conven¬ tional air transports because of the head start in design it got during World War 11. Then the United States con¬ centrated mainly on the production of bombers and transports — easily con¬ vertible into air liners — while Britain's comparatively small aircraft industry specialized in fighters. As a result, even BOAC turned to the United States for its first big transports after the war. With their equipment already in de¬ mand everywhere, American plane Collier’s for January 10, 1953 “Yon could say yoiYro taking me to the movies* go play poker with the men and then pick me up after the show" STAN HUNT

Page 109

33 proved them wrony with his Comet. IXmr C.S. companies are yoiny to bnild jet transports ‘Clio's arranging llir pipe* to give collier s us radiant heating and lent polos" g h green makers decided in 1946 against entering the unknown field of jet transports. But De Havilland and the British industry had no choice. Bar behind the Ameri¬ cans in the design of conventional piston-engine air liners, they had to turn to a completely new field if they wanted to stay in business. American manufacturers knew all along about the British development of jet transports. But they were skeptical that such air liners would prove practi¬ cal. In the beginning, the jet transport seemed uneconomical to operate. It has a terrific thirst; at low- speeds and low altitude, it uses twice as much fuel as the piston-engine machine. Worse, gulping fuel as it does, it cannot alTord to circle over an airport once it has ar¬ rived at its destination. On a flight from London to Paris, a Comet would have to ask for landing clearance before taking off; it would be too expensive to operate if it had to wait its turn to land at a crowded airport. First Comets Priced Too Low Despite these drawbacks, Sir Miles Thomas, chairman of the British gov¬ ernment-owned BOAC, decided to sup¬ port De Havilland in his great gamhlc; he ordered nine Comets in 1947 while the plane still was in the drawing-board stage. With only these contracts and subsequent orders from Sir Miles for 1 1 more Comets, De Havilland decided to lay down a $75,000,000 production line. But he made one mistake. He fixed the price for the first Comets too low and took a loss on them. “It looked like a big price when we started,” he recalls, “but the cost of living made a dramatic rise.” With delivery of his fif¬ teenth Comet recently, he is finally breaking even. From now on, he should be in clover. The current selling price of a Comet is about $1,400,000 and one plane a month is rolling out of the De Havilland factories. The Comet I — as the present plane is known — carries 36 passengers and has a maximum practical range of about 1 ,600 miles without refueling. Comet 1 1 . which will go into production soon, will carry 44 to 48 passengers a maxi mum of 2,500 miles. Delivery of Comet 111 the type ordered by Pan American —will begin in 1956; it will carry 5S first-class or 78 tourist passengers a maximum of 2,750 miles nonstop When the Comet went into regular service for BOAC last May, most ot the anticipated difficulties didn’t material¬ ize. It’s true a Comet goes only half as far on a gallon of kerosene as a four- engine propeller-driven air liner goes on a gallon of high-octane gasoline, hut kerosene is cheaper than gasoline. The Comet uses no oil, which accounts for about 5 per cent of the operating cost of a piston-engine plane; its mainte¬ nance costs are lower because a jet power plant is simpler; it travels so much faster than a conventional air liner it can make half again as many trips in a year. BOAC graphically disproved the seofi’ers’ contention that you couldn’t make money with jet transports. During the first three months of Comet service between London and the Union of South Africa, BO AC's net profit for the run was almost $17,000. During the corresponding period in 1951, BOAC lost $196,000 operating the same serv¬ ice with piston-engine aircraft. The Comet also has proved itself safe. As this is written, the new jet air liners have had only one accident. Last September one crashed while taking off from Rome. More than 7.000 gallons of kerosene — the Comet's fuel — spilled over the aircraft and the airport, but no fire followed the crash, and no one was injured. Britain's Ministry of Civil Aviation investigated the crash and in a preliminary report ahsolvcd the aircraft and its jet engines from fault. Air passengers obviously prefer to travel the fastest and most comlortahle way, other things being equal. There¬ fore, air lines which compete on routes over which Comets fly may have to buy jet transports. Pan American, like other American air lines now talking husiness w ith De Havilland. would like to buy jets at home — hut no homemade products are available yet. three of the largest American air¬ craft manufacturers — Boeing. Douglas and Lockheed have jet projects in various stages of design. Boeing says that it expects to have a prototype, or experimental model, ready for testing in 1954, but has not announced when it hopes to put the jet model into pro¬ duction. Douglas says it is trying to get jet transports ready lor air-line opera¬ tion by 1957. A Lockheed official say s the American switch to jet-transport production has been delayed by the need for more powerful and more effi¬ cient jet engines and by heavy Korean war orders. Jet engines now available are powerful enough for the smaller Comet 1 and Comet 11. he says, but do not develop enough thrust to drive the giant jet transports that American man¬ ufacturers are developing. But he pre¬ dicts American jet transports will be in service by 1958. Meantime, orders lor De Havilland's Comet are piling up. Sir Geoffrey's Daily Routine Sir Geoffrey, though, has little interest in the husiness aspects of his company. He arrives at his office every morn¬ ing at ten o’clock, parks his midget car some distance from the front door so it wont he in anyone's way, then tackles his correspondence. Some ot it is fan letters, which he answers personally. Admiring hoys write him frequently, and one. more persistent than the rest, is now a De Havilland test pilot. Sir GeofTrey also spends part of each day consulting his colleagues about technical matters and part strid¬ ing through his plant. For recreation. Sir GeofTrey has pur¬ sued a lifelong interest in natural his¬ tory. One day recently he walked into his secretary's olfiee carrying a large cooky tin. He looked a little embar¬ rassed. "I have 300 moth eggs here and 1 would he grateful it you would take care ot them for me." he told the star¬ tled secretary. ”1 have no more room for them at home." He provided de¬ tailed instructions for their diet and suggested that if they hecame too much for her. she might “find good homes for them.’’ His interest in wildlife also sent him to Kenya in British Hast Africa in 1949 to “shoot" big game with a camera he had made in 1944 in the basement workshop ol his home. In 1951 he married a fellow wildlife enthusiast whom he had met in Kenya — fifty-one-year-old Mrs. Joan Mary Mordaunt. f he walls of the executive offices and waiting rooms of the De Havilland \ir- eralt Company are decorated with Sir Geoffrey's magnificent photographs, mostly ot wildlife. Sir Geoffrey still has a valid pilots license, hut he doesn't use it. He isn't through flying, however. With some¬ one else at the controls, he takes to the air in a C'omet whenever possible. And it looks as though he will he building Comets and flying in Comets for many years to come. I wo years ago Hdward C. Wells, vice-president ol America s Boeing Air¬ plane Company, said: “ I he British are more than competition in jet transport: they are alone in the field." Most air experts believe the British-— and that means De Havilland will remain alone in the jet transport field for at least an¬ other four or five years. Collier's for January 10, 1953

Page 110

Our national larder is running low on iron ore, lumber and petroleum. And even lower on zinc, copper and lead. To stay in business we’ve got to make up tbe deficit — fast ILLUSTRATED 8Y LOWELL HESS

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SAMS PANTRY? 35 Bn J. I). RATCLIFF ONE of General Eisenhower's first actions as President-elect was to throw his full support behind a conference of private citizens to be held in Washington in March. The growth and security of America may hinge on its success in meeting a twofold objective: to find out what we have left in the nation's resources pantry shelf, and to estimate what resources coming generations will need. We have always thought of ourselves as end¬ lessly blessed, endlessly rich. This rosy view hardly jibes with the facts. If we are not exactly a have-not nation so far as raw materials are con¬ cerned, we are at least a deficit nation. We used to be the world's largest exporter ol materials; now we’re the world's largest importer of such vital minerals as zinc, copper and lead. And we're run¬ ning low on bulk items like iron ore, petroleum and lumber. For every one of its citizens, the United States uses up 18 tons of vital materials, ranging from food to zirconium, each year. Since 1914, we have consumed more of almost all metals and mineral fuels than the whole world had used in all its history up to then. Currently, we are using lumber 40 per cent faster than American lorests can grow it, and we are using almost 7 per cent more petroleum than all the nation's wells can produce. Although we represent only ten per cent of the population of the free world, we are using over half the free world's rubber, manganese, iron and zinc; slightly less than half the copper and lead; and two thirds of the petroleum. Even water is running short, as industry’s thirst increases. In many areas, the wa¬ ter table that underlies the land is sinking, and in some coastal areas salt is beginning to seep in. Alarming? Not necessarily. It is possible that the situation may work out not only to the benefit of America but to the benefit of the entire free world. The story to be presented at the resources con¬ ference will sum up something like this: We have skimmed the cream and from now on will have to learn to like skimmed milk — which isn't a bad drink. In 1900, we were the world’s greatest storehouse of raw materials, exporting about 15 per cent more than we used. Today, we are importing 10 percent of our requirements; 25 years hence, we will be importing more than dou¬ ble that amount. To survive, every successful business house has to keep a running inventory of materials on hand and project its needs months or years ahead. As a nation, we haven’t done this. We've used what we wanted, blandly assuming that there was no end to our wealth: then we've been surprised when supplies ran low. A large share of the credit for getting our think¬ ing on the right track belongs to Stuart Symington, newly elected senator from Missouri. As head of the National Security Resources Board, he ap¬ proached President Truman in the fall of 1950. Why not, he proposed, a real study of the coun¬ try’s resources and future needs? Many people had pecked at the edges of the problem, but their conclusions had been largely guesswork, Petro¬ leum offered a good example. Alarmists were say¬ ing that the last well was about to cough and go dry. Optimists contended that we had enough oil for all foreseeable needs. Where was the truth? There had been no large-scale study of re¬ sources, Symington continued, since 1908, and it was mainly concerned with forest and stream re¬ sources. Why not appoint a top-drawer commis¬ sion to make a complete inventory of the national larder, he asked, and then estimate needs for the next 20 years or so to see how well the larder could Collier's for January 10, 1953 meet our requirements? t hat would give some idea where America was headed. President I runian liked the idea. In January, 1951, he created the Materials Policy Commission, headed by William S. Raley, board chairman of the Columbia Broadcasting System. The mem¬ bership included George R. Brown, of Houston, who directs one ol the country's largest engineer¬ ing-construction companies; Eric Hodgins, editor- author (Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House); Edward S. Mason, dean of Harvard's Graduate School of Public Administration; and Arthur H. Bunker, president ol Climax Molybdenum Com¬ pany of New York. After recruiting a 130-man team of experts from universities, industry and government, the commission went to work. Arbitrarily, it decided to project the nation’s needs to 1975. That, it was felt, would get us past the present emergency, yet not so far into the future that projections would be vague and valueless. One basic assumption governed all thinking: America's growth would continue, with produc¬ tion doubling by 1975, and population rising from 155,000,000 to 193,000,000. At the outset, the commission realized that crys¬ tal balls are notoriously poor instruments for ob¬ serving the future. It would have been impossible for Edwin Drake to visualize a nation-wide chain of filling stations when he drilled his first oil well at Titusville, Pennsylvania, in 1859, and equally impossible lor Charles and Frank Duryea to visu¬ alize Detroit's motor industry when they chugged through the streets of Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1892, driving the first nonexperimental Ameri¬ can automobile. Nor, later on, could the Japanese have foreseen what nylon was going to do to their silk industry. Such developments are beyond man’s myopic eyes. Yet, trom facts available, it is possible to see trends in the use of materials. Today, for example, we may make toy fire engines out ol plastic instead of cast iron, yet the trend in iron and steel use is up¬ ward, A short while ago, the commission finished its w'ork and published its conclusions in five fat vol¬ umes. From every standpoint, the report is a his¬ toric document, the best blueprint ever made of America’s future. Large Imports of Essential Metals With a great many critical materials, the com¬ mission found, our position is anything but se¬ cure. We are importing all our chromium, about 90 per cent of our manganese, nearly half our zinc, a third of our copper and more than half our lead. Glance at a globe to see where our dependency lies. India sends us manganese, sometimes called the “starch for steel ’; South Africa provides chro¬ mium; Burma sends us tungsten for light-bulb filaments and tool steel; Australia contributes lead for storage-battery plates, paint and high-octane gasoline: Mexico sends zinc; and Malaya tin. And so it goes over the face of the globe. Fear of war and the threat of having vital life lines snapped has set us to stockpiling more than 70 such critical items as castor oil (for machine lubricants), opium, chromite, copper, jewel bearings. “The threat of the materials problem," the com¬ mission noted, “is not that we will suddenly wake up to find the last barrel of oil exhausted, or the last ton of lead gone, and that economic activity has suddenly collapsed. The real and deeply seri¬ ous threat is that we shall have to devote con¬ stantly increasing efforts to acquire each pound of materials from natural resources which are dwin¬ dling both in quality and quantitv. thus find ng ourselves running taster and faster in order to stay standing still Our problem, therefore, is one of creeping short¬ ages. By 19~5, the situation will be even more serious than it is today If we are to maintain our industrial growth, we will need, at that time. 40 per cent more copper than our alreudv short supp \ . nearl\ fi\e times as much aluminum; 40 per cent more zinc. 18 times as much magnesium; twice the amount of petroleum. Where is it coming from0 Many alert executives— Eugene Holman, presi¬ dent of Standard Oil of New Jersey, Charles Allen Thomas, president of Monsanto Chemical, and others — feel that the supply of materials is limited only by the supply of human ingenuity An ac¬ celerated search for new supplies, plus substitution, plus conservation and technological advances, they think, will supply all needs as they develop. Synthetic? May Prove loo Cosily To a point, the commission is in agreement. One member, Eric Hodgins. observes: 'The wonders of science are not at issue. We can do almost any¬ thing— make sugar from sawdust, gold from lead, nylon from factory smoke. But vve do it at a price, and the price is often too high if we are to main¬ tain our prosperity on a broad basis.” Look a little more closely at some of the prob¬ lems confronting us — petroleum, for example. The petroleum industry insists that our oil supplies do not face exhaustion; time and again prophets of doom have suggested the last barrel of petroleum would soon be brought to the surface, yet pro\ed reserves have continued to climb, so they are today at an all-time high. Yet it is costing more and more to find oil. and more and more to drill the deep wells necessary to bring it to the surface. Although there is no im¬ mediate prospect of an oil famine in the United States, vve are consuming about T per cent more petroleum than we produce. There is little chance of this demand tapering off. Instead, it may be ex¬ pected to rise, making us still more dependent on other sources. What arc these sources? We can expect new discoveries at home, like the vast new Williston basin in North Dakota. And we can rework old wells. As an example, one field was abandoned in West Virginia in 1923. after producing 705,000 barrels of oil. Chemically treated in 192*'. it pro¬ duced an additional 357.000 bands and is now- being Hooded with water to produce an additional 460,000 barrels. Thus, an “exhausted” field will ultimately be coaxed into yielding more oil than its original production W hen oil becomes too scarce or too costly to get from wells, we can make it from other materials. A single deposit of Colorado shale contains more oil than the world has used to date. Coal, probably our greatest asset, can also be converted into oil. So far, our vast coal reserve is virtually untouched, vve have used only 2’ 2 per cent of known deposits. Natural gas may also he convened into petroleum products; a Texas plant will soon be doing just that. All these advances are expensive in terms of human labor, and in terms of steel and other ma¬ terials necessaiy to build new plants, in most cases, it is far cheaper to obtain oil on the world market, from Canada, Venezuela, the Middle East and el sew here. Iron, which provides the basic sinews for any in¬ dustrial civilization, presents a similar situation. The Mesabi Range. Minnesota's great iron moun¬ tain, is about exhausted, a major portion of it

Page 112

r R RESENTING THE BEAUTIFUL NEW 1953 'gat-Stmak PONTIAC MOTOR D II I S 1 0 N • GENERAL MOTORS CORPORATION

Page 113

A GENERAL MOTORS MASTERPIECE Here, in the greatest Pontiac ever built, is the perfect expres¬ sion of the Pontiac idea — to produce the finest, most beautiful, most luxurious ear that can possibly be built to sell at a price just above tfie lowest. This wonderful 1953 Dual-Streak Pontiac is completely new in every styling detail, inside and out. It has a longer wheelbase for a smooth, easy ride. It has sweeping vision with its one-piece curved windshield and wrap-around rear window. Pontiac’s famous Dual-Range* power train makes it a spectacular per¬ former anywhere, any time. New and fresh as this car is. it has a wonderful tradition built into every line and part — the tradition of Pontiac’s thorough goodness; the tradition of Pontiac’s remarkable year-aftcr-year dependability and economy. This 1953 Pontiac is magnificent new proof that dollar for dollar you can't heat a Pontiac . See it at your nearest Pontiac dealer. *optu»ud <u extra cost.

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38 shot away in two world wars. We have an almost endless supply of taconites low grade iron ores hut while the Me¬ rabi's ore contains about 50 per cent non, the taconites have onl\ about half as much. I bus, they are more expen¬ sive to handle and will mean more costly steel. So. lor the time being, the indus- tr\ is looking elsewhere tor the higb- jrade ore it needs: mainly vast new muling operations in Labrador, Vene¬ zuela and Liberia. IM()() ions a year. It is curious that America, onee an almost unbroken stretch ol virgin tim¬ ber, is today lacing a lumber shortage. 1 he nation s position in timber,” the report says, "is like that ol a man who has long lived in comfort by drawing on his capital and has realized only reeentlv that he must get along on the interest of a much reduced principal. We have cut most ol our original tim¬ ber. not until lately have we given much thought to replacing it.” Forests, the report concludes, must he put on a permanent basis. That means reforestation planting new trees where old ones have been cut down, a process forward-looking lumber eom- p m ics are already engaged in. It also means better utilization; nowadays, about a third ol any tree that is cut is left behind in the I orest. Perhaps the most striking shortage found by the commission is the short¬ age ol water. Many industries are hav¬ ing trouble finding the high-grade water they require lor washing, cooling and v il her purposes. 1 he thirst o! some in- diiMi es is enormous: IS barrels ol water are required in refining one barrel ot oil, and 2M) tons ol water are used to make a ton ol steel. ( urrently, in- dustrv is using N0,(J(M), ()()(), ()()() gallons ol water a day; by 1975 it will need 200 non. non. non. No one can say with surety where that much water will come I rom. Many industnes can settle in coastal aic\ s and use sea water: some can re-usc water, others simply will have to use watei moie sparingly. 1 bus, wherever one looks, shortages loom. In alnn st everv case, we can make up the delMene\ at a price. Hut the price must not he too high. Just as u would be entne'v possible to giow ereenbouse oranges m Nova Scotia, we could produce ali the ma ig.mose we need horn low-grade domestic areas, il we had to. Hut it would he expensive. I be problem is to get ti e materials we i eed at an economical pi kc Chairman Paley ol the President's commission observes: "In main ways our thinking has noi caught up with ■vents- we still act as il we had a urplus of raw materials. We behave is if we had unemployment lor our abor and capital. W’e are importing large quantities of eopper, manganese. COLLIERS zinc, tungsten and mercury — to name only a few deficit materials — hut we are making things harder for ourselves by adding import duties. TarilTs range from 9 to 40 per cent of the import value . . . And we have a Buy American Act which dates from depression days and which is interpreted to mean the government must buy domestic materi¬ als if it can get them even lor 25 per cent more than they would cost abroad. “This is a wasteful pattern. By dis¬ couraging low-cost foreign producers and encouraging high-cost domestic producers, this policy fosters higher real cost for all of us — the cost in¬ creases that can sap our economic vi¬ tality . . I he commission recommends three main courses of action to solve our problems: more complete explorations of our own resources: substitution of plentiful for scarce materials; greater expansion of imports. Let's look at these points one at a time. F irst, exploration. Not more than 1 1 per cent of the country is adequately REAMER KELLER mapped geologically. To date, most ma¬ jor metal discoveries have been made at points where ore veins outcrop from hills or mountains. What lies under the surface of the land is largely un¬ known, but all evidence indicates that tremendous hoards of natural wealth may be hidden there. Discovering this treasure is going to be difficult. Core drills can punch their way into the earth and bring up samples of roek, but that process is tedious and expensive. An Error That We Must Avoid Recently developed electronic instru¬ ments carried by planes are being used in the search for oil and uranium, and will probably help in the discovery of other materials. However we go about it, the job must be done unless we want to find ourselves hungering for vital materials while sitting on top of massive deposits. The second proposed solution, sub¬ stitution, oilers almost endless possi¬ bilities, Relatively plentiful aluminum ‘•Think of it this way ... In eight years you'll get a new suit, a good meal, ten dollars in rash ami marty colliers a train ticket hack to the city" lowenstein already is being substituted for scarce eopper in industrial wiring, gutters and downspouts, and a thousand other prod¬ ucts, Plasties may be substituted for lead in many applications, and lacquers can be used for protective eoatings now provided by zinc and tin. It is quite possible that we shall find still more new materials which will sub¬ stitute for those in short supply. Of the 98 chemical elements, only 30 are widely used. Another 30 are used to a small extent, and the others not at all. Boom in Titanium Foreseen Titanium offers a good example of what may be awaiting us. Six years ago, there was no eommereial produc¬ tion of this versatile metal, which is corrosion-resistant, almost as strong as steel and 42 per cent lighter. Its quali¬ ties open to it a thousand jobs; as piping in chemical plants, in marine uses where salt-water corrosion is a problem, in aireraft where lightness is desirable. To¬ day, production of the metal is up to 5,000 tons a year, and estimates for 1975 production run as high as 2,000,- 000 tons. Finally, we must import. The rest of the world may find our manufac¬ tured goods desirable; we are going to find their raw materials essential. Setting up a broader policy of inter¬ national trade and eo-operation will not be easy. Nationalism and a hunger for industrialization are on the increase among the world’s underdeveloped areas. Many nations are reluctant to part with raw materials, preferring to build often uneconomic local industry. Ways must be found to meet this situa¬ tion, perhaps by a two-way swap bene¬ ficial to all, in which raw materials are exchanged for finished goods. The materials commission feels that we should heartily embrace the idea of free trade. We no longer have many infant industries needing protection, but we do hunger for the world’s raw materials. Many progressive business¬ men support this view. Not long ago, for example, Detroit’s powerful hoard of commerce, which includes most auto makers, proposed that all tariff harriers he abolished, and that the Buy Ameri¬ can Aet he repealed. One obstacle to the enormously stepped-up international trade visual¬ ized by the commission is the reluctance of American businessmen to invest abroad. Iran’s recent expropriation of oil and Bolivia’s expropriation of tin are still fresh in investors’ minds. To get around this, we might nego¬ tiate trade and raw materials agree¬ ments with various nations. And it may be necessary to offer investors some guarantee that they will get their money hack in the event that a foreign government decides it would like to own the mines American dollars have dug. The problems are manifold. But they can -they must — be solved, if Ameriea is to stay in business. Steps have already been taken to put the commission’s recommendations into effect. As one of his last acts in office. President Truman asked 22 gov¬ ernment agencies to study recommenda¬ tions made by the Materials Policy Commission and suggest how they might he implemented. It will he the task of the forthcoming resources con¬ ference to get long-range planning started planning on which our na¬ tional salvation may depend. “It is high time,” as Mr, Eisenhower said recently, "that the conservation conference of 1908 he reborn in a mid- eenturv setting.” ± ^ Jk* CoIImtN for January 10, 1933

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AFRICAN SAFARI 39 Ruark Shoots a Buffalo I he quarry was jusl about tbr u^liesU erurlol. mraiirM hunk of fauna on llu* l)ark ( ,un( inonl. lie looks like he hates you personally . . . like you owe him iuone\ . . . like lie Iminin" \ou Bv IIOBEBT C. KUAKK Robert Ruark' s big-game guide decides the cele¬ brated columnist's ISe tv York apartment must be decorated with the head from a tnbogo , Africa's juggernaut uith horns . The job , of course , fell to Bob . And as the British say: It takes a bit of doing MY WIFE Virginia was adjusting very well to her new life in Tanganyika. Her fears had given away mostly to fascination. She was happy in her khaki drill pants and her Russell Birdshooter boots. She was getting so. she could tell the difference between a leopard’s grunt and the bark of a baboon or the growl of a Colobus monkey. She was fascinated by ants and anthills. She had made friends with all the baboons. She had found a dead cobra in the cook tent and had not screamed. She was taking better pictures all the time, and she had trapped Juma into the job of hairdresser to the queen. Juma, as head boy for safaris for many years, was not surprised at assuming an extra added duty to replace the firm of Ceil et Paul in New York City. Jinny got along very well with the blacks. When she sat alone in the hunting car with Chabani, the car boy, while Harry Selby, our professional hunter, and I were off crawling after waterbucks or some such nonsense, she and Chabani had long conversations in her sketchy Swahili and Chabani’s mission-school English. Virginia had shot a few things with the rifle — a topi bull for meat, which she shot capably, break¬ ing his neck with the first bullet. She also came in from a photographic trip one day with a fine Thomson's gazelle ram, which was only an eighth of an inch away from the world’s record. But after a bit she never hunted but half a day with Harry and me, preferring to sit around the camp in the afternoons, reading some of the whodunits we had brought, watching the baboons and listen- Afriea transformed Virginia Ruark., shown on Land Rover's hood, to a real girl adventuress Collier’s for January 10, 1953 ing to the birds and occasionally picking up the little Sauer 16-gauge to pot the odd francolin (an African partridge) or guinea for the pot. She said she was happy enough, just being away from telephones and New York cocktail parties. But the differences between lile in East Africa and New York City were not always pleasant ones for her. One da) she. Harr) and 1 were drinking beer in our parked jeep and talking about the customs of the natives. Harry was telling us that an African husband's devotion to his wife could be figured out by observing the quality of the shoulder straps he gave her to carry wood, when Virginia interrupted. “Men.” she said, fin¬ ishing her beer, “where is the ladies’ room?’’ “Try over there behind that tree.” Harry said. “Mind the snakes.” Virginia walked off and I had to laugh, a little. She was wearing dust-stained khaki pants and ankle boots, a belted bush-jacket with empty car¬ tridge loops in the front, and a saucy double- brimmed terdi over a gypsy bandanna. What she wore couldn't have cost 20 bucks, if you lorget the Abercrombie \ Fitch boots, and this was the girl who used to pla\ the Stork- '2 1” Club circuit in New York. 1 1 she had her mink with her in those days she was worth 20. 0(H) bucks on the hoof, and she wouldn't ha\e thought of walking three blocks if there was a doorman hand) and a taxicab to hail. She alwa\s needed a quar¬ ter to go to the little girls' room and now here is a raw- stranger. Harry, directing her to the nearest bush anti telling her to mind the snakes. I his. the girl who wore a Hattie C arnegie I rock and a rhine¬ stone hat to ride a camel alter a slightly wet eve¬ ning in C airo . . . We took V irginia back to camp, and then went crawling alter buffalo, which l did not rcallv want to do. I am bitterly ah aid ol buffalo, the big. rope- muscled wild o\ with horns like steel gliders and a disposition to curdle milk. But I walked through a swamp that was lull ol water and snakes and rhino. 1 crawled and stumbled over two voting mountains to reach a herd of the beasts that 1

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40 llis horns van put a hole in you hiy enouyh to Jittfelt A buffalo ha* to work to look anything but belligerent. He's a wild ox with horns like steel girders and a disposition to curdle milk didn’t really want to associate with. I had already shot a buffalo. and figured that was one thing I wouldn’t have to do an\ more ot. But Selby has a mad affection lor the mbogo , a sort of perverse love and a completely unmanageable fascination for the big beasts. Adam, the Wakamba gunbearer, pointed. "Mhoxo,** he said, and I could already feel my stomach start to knot. It was the same feeling 1 used to get during the war when the lookout on the bow would reach lor the phones and ring the bridge. “Periscope." he would say. “Periscope bearing so-and-so many degrees oil the starboard bow,” as if pleased at having done me a favor. Harry looked at the buffalo through the glasses. “There’s a damn’ good bull in that herd," he said. “Better than the one you’ve got by six inches, at least. 1 think we’d best go and collect him.” I didn't say anything. I just prayed inside me arid hoped we would not have to crawl far enough to scare me to death. 1 don't know what there is about bulTalo that frightens me so. l eopards and rhino excite me but don't t lighten me. But that buff is so big and mean and ugl\ and hard to stop, and vindictive and cruel and surly and ornery. He looks like he hates you personally. He looks like you owe him money. He looks like he is hunting you I had looked at a couple ol thousand of him by now, at close ranges, and 1 had killed one of him. and 1 was scareder than ever. He makes me sick in the stomach, and he makes my hands sweat and he dries out my throat and my lips. I hese bulf were a herd of about 200, feeding up the edge of the hills below the escarpment, and following a vague trail that meandered up the side and led eventually straight over the top. They were about two miles away, and it was walking all the way, walking when you could and crawling when you couldn't, and slipping on the loose stones and fighting through the wait-a-bit thorn, pulling and blowing and sweating and cursing in the hot sun in the middle of the day. And finally wiggling along on your belly, push¬ ing the big gun ahead of y ou. sweat cascading and burning into your eyes, with your belly constricted into a tight hard kernel and your hands full of thorns and your heart in your throat. And then the final, special Selby technique, of leaping to your feet and dashing with a whoop into the mid¬ dle of the herd, running at the bull and depending on that 30-sccond bewilderment to hold the buf¬ falo stiff, like cattle, before you shot and hoped you hit him good so you wouldn't have to follow him into that awful thick bush he was certain to head for. And wait for y ou in it. We were in the herd, now, creeping on our bellies and pulling ourselves forward by digging elbows into sharp rocks. The buffalo were graz¬ ing unconcernedly all around us. The herd bull was lying down, resting, and there were a couple of cows obscuring him. It is a difficult sensation to describe, to be surrounded by two hundred ani¬ mals weighing around 1,800 pounds each, animals as testy and capricious of temper as fighting stud bulls, capable of killing you just as dead acci¬ dentally in a stampede as on purpose in a charge. Candid Close-up View of a Buffalo A buffalo close up is not handsome. His body is bulking, short-legged and too long for symmetry. He smells of mud and dung and old milk. His patchy hide is scabby and full of flat ticks. Bits of his own excrement cling to him. Dirty moss grows on his horns, which are massive enough to bust everything up inside you if he even hits you a slight swipe with the flat, and sharp enough to put a hole in y ou big enough to hide a baseball bat in, and dirty enough to infect an army. As 1 crawled along, just behind Selby, with Adam and Kidogo. two of the boys, following me, 1 was thinking these things. 1 knew a lot about buffalo by now. 1 knew how fast they are, despite their apparently lumbering gallop, how swiftly they can turn, how they stop cold on a dime, and how they go through bush at a spurt — bush that an elephant wouldn’t recommend. I knew how much lead they would take and keep coming, especially alter being wounded. You may kill him easily with one bullet, but if you don’t, the next fourteen .470s serve mostly as a minor ir¬ ritant. And you cannot run away from a wounded buffalo. You have to stand and take him as he is, shooting at his nostrils as he comes at you with his head high and his horns swept back, his neck stretched and his cold eye unblinking at you. You shoot for the nose and hope it gets into the brain, because if you shoot too high the bullets bounce off his massive horn-boss like rubber balls off walls. We crept now to a bush and froze behind it and there were the animals, 50 yards away and moving steadily out of range. Harry had his hand palm down behind him and suddenly he lifted it in a curling beckon. I crawled, still puffing, up to his shoulder. He turned his head slightly and whis¬ pered. “We’re not going to get any closer,” he said. “The old boy is nervous. You better bust him now, although he’s too far off for my pleasure. Try to take him just where his neck comes down into his chest.” Selby, when he is working with dangerous ani¬ mals, always wears two stalks of extra bullets stick¬ ing like cigarettes from his right hand. Harry had said: Do what l do. I had two stalks of extra bul¬ lets sticking out between the second and third fingers of my right hand. At this time it had not occurred to me that Selby was left-handed, I got up on one knee and sighted low into the old bull’s chest, and the heavy Westley Richards settled handily in balance, and I squeezed off the trigger, and then the bull was gone, and I was on the ground, my nose full of cordite fumes and my head full of chimes. Away off somewhere a gun exploded and then there came a mournful bellow as morose as a hunting horn. Selby was standing now spraddle-legged with his hands on his hips and looking down at me. “One of you ought to get up,” he snapped. From this I assumed the buffalo was down, too. It appeared that ri^ht-handed shooters are not supposed to store their spare ammunition in their shooting hand. In the effort to emulate Selby, it never occurred to me that the guy was a natural southpaw, and that bullets contained in a shooting hand would ride back against the second trigger and touch off the other barrel simultaneously, loosing 150 grains of cordite against your face. “You all right?” Harry asked. “What hap¬ pened?” “Both barrels,” I said. “At once. Dropped me. Did 1 hit him?” “You knocked him tail over tin cup,” Harry said. “He turned completely over. Then he got up and departed.” “I thought 1 heard somebody else shoot,” I said. “Away over yonder.” “Me,” Selby said. “This buffalo was fiat out for the bush. I'd not taken the time to check his blood pressure, you know. I didn’t know how good you hit him. I thought I’d best break his back before he got stuck into that patch of bush. Very nasty in there.” We walked up to the buffalo. He was dying, bellowing, making mournful sounds, and trying to drag himself toward us. “Slip one bullet into the gun,” Harry said. “Take him just behind the horns in the hack of the head. You know what I always keep saying. The dead ones kill us.” I slid a single bullet into the right-hand barrel of the .470 and squinted carefully at the back of this boy’s neck, where the muscle roll humped out like the hack of the neck on a retired prize fighter. 1 was gun-shy. 1 pulled instead of squeezing, but the bullet went in and poor old mbogo stretched his neck forward to its full length. Blood crept out of his nostrils, and he was dead. Dead and ugly. Uglier dead than alive, and four times as ferocious. He was immense. He was muddy from rolling and the ticks were working on his scaly hide and it was a hot day and the flies were coming down. Maybe he was only 43 inside the horns, hut he looked like a hell of a lot of bull to me there, lying in the yellow grass, his ugly face pointed straight out and the long striated lines of his horns and his ax-edged hoofs and the solid butting weight DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR

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baseball bat in. He lilies tit (lance an if on r carcass. Urea "dead" he is dangerous 41 of his heavy casque of boss making him look like a contrived machine of destruction. This nihogo had accepted a ,470 bullet, 500 grains of hard-nose bullet powered by 75 grains of cordite. He had taken it through the jugular and into the heart, where it smashed all the major arteries and crushed the whole top of the heart. It had ranged backward through him and de¬ stroyed the lungs. When we opened him up about 10 gallons of black lung blood gushed out. Vet he had gotten up off the ground with this terrible wound and taken olT blithely for the bush. “Nobody ever believes it,” Harry said. “Some¬ times I don’t. But these creatures are damned near indestructible.” “I don’t ever w'ant to shoot another one,” I said. “This is all the mbogo I need this day, or any other. Like Virginia says: ‘ Hapana taka pi go tnbogo Ito * Nor any other day. Any man with one buffalo doesn't need another.” A Revolt Against Big-Game Hunting This buff hunt had been a dirty, unpleasant busi¬ ness, and I needed something happy to make me forget it. So one day 1 laid down some law and demanded the right to my kind of shooting, I am a compulsive bird shooter. Therefore, I am accorded to be nuts by people who wish to slay large, angry animals every day. The natives re¬ gard a bird shooter as mad. They cannot under¬ stand a man spending time and energy blasting away at birds when there is a 1, 500-pound eland over every hill and a sleepy topi standing under every bush. Harry was as nearly impatient. He is a trophy man, and considers a six-month hunt worth while if it yields one monumental head. But I was raised on quail and matured on duck and pheasant, and to me the shotgun is the noblest weapon yet devised, I had a hoary Churchill 12- gauge with me — a lovely piece as only the British make them lovely, the scarred Circassian w'alnut stock as slim as a girl’s wrist, all balance and preci¬ sion. 1 was itching to point it at something. There is more good and variegated bird shooting in Alriea than anywhere else in the world, and I was going to have me some. That day a couple of haneolin, those wonderful hig partridge with all the meat while, even on the legs, trotted across the path and into a sedgy field. I got out and put tip both birds simultaneously . I took the cock with the right and the hen with the left, and glanced hackward at the jeep, expecting some applause for a very clean double. Harry was looking at Kidogo and Adam, the gunhearers. and all three were shaking their heads sorrow¬ fully, as over the misbehavior of an unruly child. I had noted that the sand grouse Hocked in to drink at the water hole precisely at eight fifteen every morning. The sand grouse is quite a wonder¬ ful little fellow. He is a desert bird, and not a true grouse at all. I he big imperial is heavier than a teal, and his little cousin, the pintail, is a tew sizes smaller and a few knots faster. Both imperial and pintail have long, back-sw'ept wings, more like waterfowl than any thing else except maybe hawk. He is closer to the pigeon family than he is to a grouse, but he is stripped for speed and he is beau¬ tiful to watch, and also to eat. He is a plump lit¬ tle fellow, deckled in brown, huff and black, and while his meat is black I never saw anyhody sneer at him when he turned up in a pot roast. For sheer sport, sand-grouse shooting is on a par with high-pass shooting of teal in a high wind. A pintail coming in with his eye on a water hide is logging 50 knots or better, and when he swoops he makes a white-winged dove look clumsy and slow. Essentially a desert bird, he comes once a day to dip his sharp little bill in the water hole, and then he takes off to squat in the hot sand or among the rocks for the rest of the day. When he comes, he comes by the thousands, by the hundreds, anti if you wanted to wait you could kill a hundred of him as he hunches up over the watering place. But if you shoot him for sport it is quite a different matter, unlike the habits of one particular Austrian nobleman, who shot some 675 in one morning up on the Northern Frontier. f broke open a couple '4 1 »\es t (. (dlicr's . so yon non't miss it. Ill three installments are part of a hook tchich trill he pub¬ lished this spring by Dottbleday X Com patty. Inc. Lunchtime for a small-fry zebra. Virginia was one of First in party to hit zebra. But she only wounded it; another hunter polished it off Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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The Listeners Do All

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43 I Work My b% don m<\i:iit n.c. Don McNeill says, the fans have been the stars of his show in all its 20 years HAVE you ever found 73 lemon meringue pies stacked up in front of your mailbox? Or four large crates, each containing one large alligator? Probably not. Come to think of it, 1 had never received any lemon meringue pics or alligators through the mail, either, belore the morning of June 23, 1933, when I became mas¬ ter of ceremonies of a C hicago radio program called the Breakfast Club. Since that date, my mailbag has been literally bulging with all sorts of surprise packages — including a 100-pound watermelon. For example, the morning the alligators ar¬ rived (prepaid, thank goodness!) the mailman also delivered a sack of Florida sea shells, a set of cactus ash trays, a birdhouse, two sets of false teeth, three dolls, a rubber fish and a cowboy hat. Admittedly, that is an exceedingly strange assort¬ ment of stuff, but there is a simple enough reason why the content of our Breakfast Club mailbag has run the gamut from ash trays and alligators to lemon meringue pic during the last 20 years. What’s the reason? Well, let’s consider those pies for a mo¬ ment. All I said, during a studio interview with a lady visitor, was: “I like lemon meringue." But that remark was overheard by some 7,000,000 folks listen¬ ing to one of our hour-long programs, which are broadcast over the American Broadcasting Company network of 352 sta¬ tions, five mornings a week, every Monday through Friday, at 8 o’clock (Chicago time). Of course, I’m prejudiced, but I be¬ lieve Breakfast Clubbers are the friendliest audience any master of ceremonies ever talked to. What’s more, they’re the send- ingest audience in radio or TV. So, when I happened to mention pic, 73 ladies among the mil¬ lions of listeners just naturally decided to bake a lemon meringue surprise and send it along to Breakfast Club headquarters. Later, one of those ladies visited Chicago to watch a Breakfast Club broadcast. “You know, Don,” she said, “I've been listening to the Break¬ fast Club for so long — almost 15 years now — that the members of the cast are like old friends. Sending the pie seemed like a neighborly thing to do — same as when 1 bake a batch of cookies, I always put some on a plate and take them over to the folks next door.” Getting back to those alligators, my secretary, Mary Canny, found a comfortable home for them in a Chicago zoo. However, I’ve often wondered what would have happened if the mailman had delivered four lemon meringue pics and 73 alli¬ gators. In fact, I mentioned this disturbing possibility several months ago when Peggy Taylor joined the Breakfast Club cast. “Peggy,” 1 said, “always remember that mil¬ lions of folks are listening and there's hardly any¬ thing you can mention which somebody in the audience can't make, bake or grow. Take my Breakfast Club staff Cl. to r.): Ed McKean, Cliff Petersen, Don McNeill, Sam Cowling (in foreground), Johnny Desmond, Ed Ballan- tine, Fran Allison, Peggy Taylor, Mary Canny word tor it, if you mention an alligator, the chances arc nine out of ten you’ll get one. 'However,” 1 went on, more encouragingly, “you shouldn’t have too much trouble. Our pro gram format is simple as can be. 1 interview folks in the studio audience, tell jokes — most of which arc older than the folks in the audience - and read bits of poetry and sentimental verse contributed by listeners. Johnny Desmond sings and Fran Allison does her Aunt 1 anny monologues. Sam Cowling hcekles evervbody. It's strictly an ad-lib show — no script except a list of musical numbers for the orchestra. Most of the material we use either comes straight out of the mailbag or from the interview cards which visitors fill out as they enter the studio. Each visitor writes down the subject he or she would like to talk about if called to the microphone — and we select the most prom¬ ising subjects. “Matter of fact, Peggy,” I concluded, “you’ll discover that this program is really written by the Breakfast Clubbers who listen to it and who attend our shows.” And that's no exaggeration. Over the last 20 years, more than 2,000,000 letters from Breakfast Clubbers have poured into our Chicago office, and they're still coming at the rate of 10.000 per month. Without those letters — well, 1 doubt very much whether the Breakfast Club would now be celebrating its 20th anniversary. At least. I've got a hunch that a master of ceremonies named McNeill wouldn't be with the show. I'd have run out of things to talk about 19 years ago! When the Breakfast Club first went on the air in 1933, 1 wrote a complete script for each show. That meant I had to fill five hours of air time every week with jokes, verse and humorous or whimsical in¬ cidents culled from the day’s news. That's when I found out that writing was hard work. After two months of pounding out those Breakfast Club scripts. I’d exhausted two joke anthologies, and 1 was beginning to wonder where my next gag was coming from. Luckily, that’s when the Breakfast Club listen¬ ers came to my rescue. The mail — scanty during the first few weeks — suddenly jumped to an aver¬ age of 100 letters a day. Most of the letters con¬ tained a listener's favorite joke or bits of verse clipped from newspapers and magazines. Finally, after Breakfast Club had been on the air about three months, I tried an experiment. Instead of writing a script, 1 used contributions for a whole program; and afterward, my wife, Kay, remarked: “You know, Don, that was the best Breakfast Club program I've heard so far.” “Yes,” I agreed, “and you know why? Fw just discovered the folks who listen in can write this show a whole lot better than I can.” That was more than 19 years ago, and I haven't written a script since. Instead, I read as many fan letters as possible and apportion what's left among the Breakfast Club's cast. Then, once a week, usu¬ ally on a Monday afternoon, the cast meets with producer Cliff Petersen to discuss the ideas sent in. In the conferences are Peggy Taylor, Cliff Peter¬ sen, Sam Cowling, Johnny Desmond and myself. Over 20 years and almost 6,000 programs, many Don McNeill the Breakfast Club's top man since 1933 PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY ROCCO PADULO

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44 Some of JMcNeilVs favorite Breakfast Club mailbag items Tell Him Note If with pleasure you arc viewing any work a man is doing, If you like him or you love him, tell him now; Don’t withhold your approbation ’til the parson makes oration As he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow; For no matter how you shout it, he won't really eare about it; He won't know how many teardrops you have shed: If you think some praise is due him. now's the time to slip it to him, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead! More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny, And the hearty warm approval of a friend; For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver, And it gives you heart and spirit to the end; If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him, let him know it. Let the words of true encouragement be said; Do not wait till life is over and he’s underneath the clover, For he eannot read his tombstone when he’s dead! When Pa Is Sich When Pa is siek, he’s scared to death, An’ Ma an’ us just holds our breath; He erawls in bed, an’ puffs an’ grunts, An’ does all kinds of erazy stunts. He wants “Doc Brown” in mighty quick, For when Pa's ill he’s awful siek; He gasps an' moans, an’ sort of sighs, He talks so queer an’ rolls his eyes; Ma jumps an’ runs an' all of us, An’ all the house is in a fuss, An’ peace and joy is mighty skeerce — When Pa is sick it’s somethin’ fieree! When Ma Is Sich When Ma is siek, she pegs away, She’s quiet, though, not much to say; She goes right on a-doin' things, An’ sometimes laughs, or even sings; She says she don’t feel so extra well, But then it’s just a kind o’ spell, She’ll be all right tomorrow sure, A good old sleep will be the cure; An’ Pa, he sniffs an’ makes no kiek, For women folks is always sick; An’ Ma, she smiles, lets on she’s glad — When Ma is sick, it ain’t so bad. Trees I think that I shall never see A hazard rougher than a tree, A tree, o’er whieh my ball must fly, If on the green it is to lie. A tree which stands that green to guard, And makes the shot extremely hard; A tree whose leafy arms extend, To kill the mashie shot I send; A tree that stands in silenee there, While angry golfers rave and swear, Niblieks were made for fools like me Who eannot ever miss a tree. -A bad little boy is like a canoe — they both be¬ have better if paddled from the rear. -It is often said that exercise kills germs — but how do you get the germs to exereise? -It is a well-known faet that high heels were in¬ vented by the girl who was kissed on the forehead. -Women are a lot like money — you have to keep ’em busy or they lose interest. -Fun is like insurance — the older you get the more it eosts you. -Courtship makes a man spoon, but marriage is what makes him fork over. -Men who say they are boss in their own home will lie about other things too. jf the brightest stars in the entertainment world have appeared on the Breakfast Club, either as cast members or special guests. Of all the guest appearances made by hundreds of Hollywood and Broadway stars, two extremely boisterous performances — by Danny Kaye and Jerry Lewis — never will be forgotten by McNeill and Company. Kaye read the commercials, danced with studio visitors and turned the program into a madhouse. Lewis set fire to announcer Bob Murphy's script, causing Murphy to miss an im¬ portant cut-in cue line for 275 stations. However, the real stars of the Breakfast Club aren’t listed among the east members or special guests. The real stars are the Breakfast Club lis¬ teners, who write the show with their letters and post cards, and the Breakfast Club studio visitors, who come to Chicago at the rate of 1 00.000 per year to wateh the show- being broadcast and take part in the studio stunts and interviews. Somehow, our studio guests always find some¬ thing interesting to talk about. One week, I re¬ member, 1 interviewed half a dozen ladies on such diverse topies as sun suits, Clark Gable’s mus¬ tache, peanuts, the best way to diaper babies, and hamburger. However, my favorite interview took plaee several years ago when a lady remarked she washed the dishes while listening to the Club. To make her feel at home, Sam Cowling pro¬ cured a dishpan and a staek of dishes from the property room. “But I don't feel right,” the lady protested. “I'm all dressed up.” So, 1 took off my eoat and converted it into an apron. Then the lady said, “Don, the dishes don’t look natural. They’re too elean.” Whereupon, Sam put in a hurry-up eall to a nearby restaurant. Finally, when a staek of satis¬ factorily soiled dishes arrived, the lady washed them, and our whole east pitehed in to help dry them — with Sam’s shirt! Something New in Giveaway Programs Every Breakfast Club program ineluding tomor¬ row morning’s, is actually a premiere — a brand- new production, because I never know what my audience interviews will uneover. For example, in 1947, a housewife complained, “Don, why doesn’t the Breakfast Club give away presents like all the other shows?” I explained the Break¬ fast Club was not a giveaway program. However, her complaint touched off our giveaway-in-re- verse program of November 7, 1947, when 800 Breakfast Clubbers from 24 states paeked our Chicago studio — and they eame with $10,000 worth of gifts ranging from washing machines and food to six tons of coal. After the program, the gifts were given to needy families. Occasionally, one studio interview turns into a running gag. For example, there was the railroad fireman named Elmer Feagins from Texarkana, Texas, who sent his wife to Chieago with this note: “Don, if you interview my wife over the air, I will hitehhike from Texas to the Breakfast.” So, I inter¬ viewed Mrs. Feagins, and Mr. Feagins completed his end of the bargain, arriving in Chicago six days later after hitchhiking 820 miles. Inciden¬ tally, he was given numerous lifts along the way by friendly Breakfast Clubbers, who were alerted every morning on his whereabouts and route. Each Breakfast Club program is divided into four 15-minute “Calls to Breakfast.” The First Call (sponsored by O-Cedar Corporation and Bobbi-VVhite Rain) features guest interviews and several lively musical numbers which our musical director, Eddie Ballantine, ealls waker-uppers. The Second Call (sponsored by Swift & Com¬ pany) includes Sunshine Shower. Breakfast Club¬ bers are asked to send a “sunshine greeting” in the form of a letter or card to a patient in the hos¬ pital or institution specified for that particular morning. Since 1946, when Sunshine Shower be¬ came a regular Breakfast Club feature, more than 1,500 institutions have been showered with 3,000,- 000 messages. Memory Time (during whieh I read a sentimental poem), Prayer Time and Hymn Time also are part of the Seeond Call. Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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45 The Family The family is like a book — The children are the leaves; The parents arc the covers That protecting beauty gives. At first the pages of the book Are blank and purely fair. But Time soon writeth memories And painteth pictures there. Love is the little golden clasp That bindeth up the trust. Oh! break it not, lest all the leaves Should scatter and be lost. Untouched Yet Honey, jes’ listen, Don’t cry and fret; There’s a hull day tomorrow Ain’t been teehed yet. Mought be a sunrise ’Twould make your heart shout. Look like ’twas heaven Turned inside out. Mought turn a corner Most any place, Bes’ friend a-smilin’ Right in your face. So heart of mine, listen, Why do you fret? God’s good tomorrow Is all untouched yet. * Men Men are what women marry. They have two hands, two feet and sometimes two wives, but never more than one dollar or one idea at any one time. Generally speaking, they may be di¬ vided into three classifications — husbands, bache¬ lors and widowers. A bachelor is a negligible mass of obstinacy entirely surrounded with suspicion. Husbands are of three types — prizes, surprises and consolation prizes. Making a husband out of a man is one of the greatest forms of sculpture. If you flatter a man, you frighten him to death. If you don’t, you bore him. If you permit him to make love to you, he gets tired of you in the end. If you don't, he gets tired of you in the beginning. If you always believe him, you are a fool. If you don’t believe him, he thinks you are a eynie. If you wear gay colors, rouge and startling hats, he hesitates to take you out. If you wear a little beret and a tailored suit, he takes you out but spends all his time staring at other women. If you are the elinging-vine type, he thinks you have no brains. If you are a modern, intelligent woman, he’s sure you have no heart. If you are silly, he longs for a bright, intellectual woman. If you are bright, then he wants nothing but a little playmate. Man is just a worm in the dust. He comes along, wriggles around for a while, and finally some chicken gets him! The Trill/* About Women She’s an angel in truth, a demon in fiction, A woman’s the greatest of aM contradictions. She’s afraid ol a cockroach, she’ll scream at a mouse. But she’ll tackle a husband as big as a house. She’ll take him for better, she'll take him for worse. She'll split his head open and the^ his nurse And when he is well and gets out of bed, She’ll pick up a teapot and throw' at his head. She’s faithful, deceitful, keen-sighted and blind. She’s crafty, she's simple, she’s cruel, she's kind. She’ll lift a man up, she'll cast a man down, She’ll make him her ideal, she'll make him her clown. You fancy she's this, and you find that she’s that, For she’ll play like a kitten and bite like a cat. In the morning she will, in the evening she won t. You’re always expecting she does, but she don’t. -A boardinghouse is like a game of horseshoes: the closer you get to the steak, the better. -Before marriage a man yearns for a woman — after marriage the “Y” is silent. -The thing a man likes most about a girl is his arms. -Mother Nature is referred to as a woman be¬ cause nobody knows how old she is. Third Call (also sponsored by Swift) gets off to a rousing start with March Time. Then come more interviews and music. The Fourth Call (sponsored by Philco Corporation) features In¬ spiration Time, during which l read an inspiration or whimsical verse contributed by some Clubbers. The bulk of Breakfast Club mail contains inter¬ view suggestions and jokes (for Sam and me), plus contributions for Memory Time and Inspira¬ tion Time. Naturally, over the years, many of the poems contributed have become favorites of Breakfast Club listeners. The most frequently re¬ quested of these all-time favorites are reprinted above. Speaking of favorites, a woman listener in Ta¬ coma recently asked me in a letter: “Don, what’s your favorite portion of the program?’’ There was only one possible answer. My fa¬ vorite Breakfast Club feature is the moment of silent prayer. And, because of the mail and com¬ ment it receives* I know it is the favorite of our listeners, too. I’ll never forget the morning of October 28, 1944, when 1 first asked Breakfast Clubbers: All over the nation , Each in his own words, Each in his own way , For a world united in peace — Bow your heads, let us pray . For a moment — as the studio audience sat si¬ lent with heads bowed — l wondered about the reactions of the millions of people in our unseen audience. Part of my own prayer that morning was that everybody would participate. Prayer Time was conceived during World War 11 when millions of Americans were deeply concerned with the safety of their loved ones over¬ seas. I firmly believed that prayer — the strongest force in the world — was urgently needed to pro¬ vide a feeling of spiritual unity among Breakfast Club families disrupted by war. Even a moment of family prayer, l felt, would make the mothers and fathers in the audience feel closer to their absent sons and daughters. Continued Need of Prayer for Peace Frankly, I had no idea in 1944 that Prayer Time would become a permanent peacetime feature of the Breakfast Club program. When the war ended, so I thought, there would be no need for a prayer for peace. But more than 90 per cent of the 100,000 Breakfast Clubbers who wrote letters commenting on Prayer Time urged that the moment of silent prayer be continued. One listener commented: “For 12 years, the Breakfast Club family has laughed, sung, marched and reminisced together. Why not pray together?” Since the war's end. Prayer lime has been modified, slightly. Now, on Fridays, Breakfast Clubbers offer thanksgiving for all the blessings received during the week. Another Prayer Time variation is a plea "for better family understanding.” In 1948, a woman with five children wrote: "I had decided to give my husband the divorce he wanted until 1 heard you offer the silent prayer for broken families. That seemed like it was meant for me and I prayed, Don. The next eve¬ ning my husband returned. Thank you, Don. for the guiding hand we needed.” Certainly, no family is more appreciative of family prayer than the McNeills. In September, 1947, my wife, Kay, and 1 prayed as only desper¬ ate parents can pray when our twelve-year-old son, Tommy, was stricken with polio. Tommy’s younger brothers, Bobby and Don, Jr., prayed, too. Finally, after seven days, the doctor reported that Tommy could move his leg. Next morning. I told our Breakfast Club audi¬ ence the crisis had passed and asked them to join with me in a prayer of thanksgiving 1 remember that moment every morning when we pray . . . each in his own words . . . each in his own way . . . and millions of Breakfast Clubbers say, “Amen.” .AAA, DRAWINGS BY ERIC GURNEY

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By CHARLES EINSTEIN If Hollywood wanted authenticity, ued give them all they could stand. Wed ambush ’em, shoot 'em up. cut ’em off at the pass. After all, were not in the movie business just for laughs 46 ILLUSTRATED BY ALBERT DORNE

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Guys got up grinning, shaking themselves, and looking around. Stan Hines, the Hollywood Adonis, lay in the dead renter of the Siher Slipper WE’VE been called a lot of things, here in Bad Bend. Old Wax Magoon, the famous movie producer, who got his in the last economy wave, used to call Bad Bend the Holly¬ wood of the Desert. Bad Bend is such a typical Western-movie town, it might well have served as location for a hundred different horse operas. Might well, nothing — it did! They made North of the Pecos here, and East of the Pecos and South of the Pecos, and Sunlight on the Trail and Sunset on the Trail and Moon¬ light on the Trail and Sunrise on the Trail, and Desert Sands, Western Sands, and Sands on the Trail. All this ten, twelve, fifteen years ago, before the movies began looking for realism. Collier’s for January 10, 1953 No two ways about it, realism ruined Bad Bend. It was ironic, in some respects, because if there ever was a realistic town for Western movies. Bad Bend is it. The population of Bad Bend lived from movie to movie in those days. A director never needed expensive Hollywood actors when he filmed in Bad Bend. If he wanted a meek-looking guy behind the bar — you know, the guy who always stashes away the expensive bottles and takes the mirror off the wall before the fight begins — then we had Hector Klimhoff, who tended bar at the Silver Slipper. Wonderful name for a bar, Silver Slipper, or so we thought. Sometimes the movie people even called it the Silver Slipper in the movies they made. even though they were always changing the name of the town. We were never Bad Bend. We were Dead wood, Drywood, Dry Gulch, Gulch Canyon, Canyon Creek, Dead Creek, Lead Creek and Red Creek. That's great. You talk about realism, we didn't even get our real name back till the movies went away and left us. Anyway, there was Hector Klimhoff, the bar¬ tender. And there was old Doc Mason, a doctor who also played the part of the judge, the girl's father, and once — in Silver Spurs W est the part of a mortician. We had a big guy named Morgan who played the heavy, with his beard half-shaved. Sometimes he was known as Morgan, but usually, 47

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48 “He’s so wealthy he hardly has a collier’s penny left after paying his taxes” jeff keate in the movies, he was named Slade or Larsen. Then there was a bunch of guys known simply as “the boys.” They would all line up at the bar, and Mor¬ gan-Slade-Larsen would come in through the swinging double half-doors and say, “The Kid’s in town.” What happened then depended on who was making the picture. If it was Wax Ma- goon, the boys would make a mad dash for the door, jump on their horses, and thunder up past the bank and around the corner out of sight. If it was Green¬ berg, the boys would just stay where they were, and the camera would catch ten hands as they reached deftly for holsters. If it was NeuhofT, a producer who prided himself on the unexpected, the boys would all scurry out the win¬ dows and the back door. No matter whose picture it was, though, Hector KlimhofT, the bartender, always took the mirror down. When the Kid got to town there was always a fight. WE NEVER furnished the Kid for the pictures. He was always a Hol¬ lywood product — we had John Wayne once. Usually, too, Hollywood sent the Kid's side-kick along — a guy with whiskers and a heart of gold. Once in a while Morgan-Slade-Larsen would capture the guy with whiskers and hold him for ransom so the Kid could ride into a trap, but usually the guy with whiskers didn’t do any more than kill a couple of the boys during the fight, usu¬ ally in a comical way, such as shooting one of the boys in the back by mistake, and wind up wounded himself but breathing undying loyalty up at the Kid. Just in case, though, we had Harry Ten- nerman — you can bet his name never got in a picture — who had whiskers and could play the part of the Kid’s crony right up to the hilt. There were two other guys: old Carl Grogan, the grocer, who could play the part of the jailer, the banker or the sheriff with equal aplomb; and Sid Howe, who dealt the cards in the back of the Silver Slipper. You see, when Morgan-Slade-Larsen came in and said, “The Kid’s in town,’’ the hoys were al¬ ways lined up at the bar, but by the time the Kid actually showed up at the Silver Slipper, the boys had always come back and were playing cards, so you had to have somebody to deal. WeU, everybody in town had some sort of a job; we did a little pecan farm¬ ing around there some ten-twenty years ago. But there was no two ways about it, the money was in movies. We had the perfect climate — hot ten months of the year and very hot the other two — and every six weeks, right on the dot, up rolled Magoon or Greenberg or NeuholT, ready to shoot another West¬ ern. The pay was good, the girls were pretty, and after each picture we got to go to Pike City, thirty miles upland, to see ourselves at the Cinema Thea¬ ter there. It was fun going to the movies, not only to see ourselves but to see the extra stuff, like Indians, that they dubbed in at the lot hack in Hollywood. I’ll say this, nohody in Bad Bend ever got a swelled head from going to Pike City to see himself in the movies, un¬ less it was Hector KlimhofT, the bar¬ tender, and with Hector, it wasn’t his acting that prided him so much as his timing. I’ve never seen him miss duck¬ ing under a shot glass. . . . Things got dull when the realists took over Hollvwood. Hollywood can sue me for saying that, but as far as Bad Bend was concerned, life got duller when that happened. It happened at a bad time, too. There was some talk about putting up a small war plant in Bad Bend, but it was just talk. What’s more, old Doc Mason’s son Lorry was just going on eighteen then — a real handsome cuss who made us think that pretty soon Hollywood wouldn’t even have to supply a male lead. Here was Lorry Mason’s movie career finished even before it started. He went away to the war, and when he came back he was more handsome than ever, and all the movie people were gone, so Lorry set¬ tled down to cattle raising. All this, though, was B.K, — Before Katz. You’ve heard of Jeremy Katz. One of those geniuses. Producer- writer-director. He did that documen¬ tary on the Chicago River that won the Academy Award, and that color film that was done all in green, and Heaven only knows what else. They called him the greatest thing to hit Hollywood since De Mille, and they were probably right. He’s only been there three years, and the story about him is that he never saw a movie before he got there. Anyway, we got interested in him, real interested, when Film Daily came to town on the through bus one Tues¬ day morning. Ever since Hollywood went away and left us, we’ve been sub¬ scribing to Film Daily. “They’ll be back,” Harry Tennerman, our guy with the whiskers, always used to say, “and we want to be ready when they come.” This issue of Film Daily gave us the hope. KATZ TO SADDLE , the head¬ line said, and while we pondered over that, a couple of us looked down into the story and there, big as life, it said that Jeremy Katz was going to do a Western. Never done one before, never seen one before, but here he was, headed out into the desert to find the most typical Western town within traveling range of the studio. It was, the story went on, to be a budget picture. Katz would bring with him a leading man — Stan Hines, no less; a leading lady — Jill David. And his production assistant, Morris Le- fevre. Nobody else. If they approved the town they’d sign up the local citi¬ zenry for the other parts, bring in the crew, and start shooting. Too good to be true, that was the consensus in Bad Bend. “He’s bound to come here,” said Hunt Morgan, our heavy. He was heav¬ ier after ten years, but he could still play the heavy. “He can’t miss us.” “Why can’t he?” Sid Howe, the dealer, put in. “You think trains come here? We got one bus a day in each di¬ rection. You think Stan Hines or Jill David would ride on it, even if Katz would? Them stars ain’t rugged like they used to be. The only plane ever landed here was the one that crashed when they were trying out the mail route in nineteen twenty-seven.” “It was nineteen twenty-eight,” old Doc Mason said. “I treated the pilot.” “You see?” Howe said hopelessly. “How they going to get here? Portage?” “Never mind,” said Carl Grogan, the grocer. “The important thing is we have to be ready just in case. What happened to my string tie? Sid, you got a deck of cards?” “Only new ones,” Sid Howe said. Then he cocked his head in sudden cheer. “But we got plenty blank ammu¬ nition down in the basement.” “Get the boys,” old Doc Mason said. WELL, you never saw anything like it, such an oiling of pistols, guys scrambling into old cowboy outfits left and right, and Hunt Morgan, the heavy, cursing himself because he’d gotten into the habit of shaving close. It was like a safari into the past, and not even the insistent ringing of the telephone be¬ hind the bar could break the spell. “That reminds me,” Hector KlimholT said as he reached to pick up the tele¬ phone. “I got to hide this phone.” “You better take down the neon sign, too,” Harry Tennerman advised, “and the — ” Then he stopped, and we all watched Hector as he jabbered excit¬ edly into the telephone. He took the receiver away from his ear and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Wally!” he said in a hoarse whisper. Wally was the projectionist at the Cinema Thea¬ ter in Pike City, an old friend of ours who used to let us in to the movies for nothing. “Katz passed through Pike City twenty minutes ago! He’s headed this way!” Then the scramble was really on. Hector reached down under the bar and came up with a box of toothpicks and handed one to old Verne Hopkins, and Verne stuck the toothpick into his mouth, opened his vest, and sat down at the piano in the back and started playing the old Dawson City music for all he was worth. The boys began to show up, like possessions coming out of storage. Somebody got five horses hitched up outside the Silver Slipper, and I personally threw a shot glass at Hector, so he could practice ducking. He took it on the shoulder. “I'll do it next time,” he promised, and set a cou¬ ple of extra bottles up on the bar. He grinned. “Little out of practice.” Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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49 “Listen,” Carl Grogan said, “just so I don't feel like too much of a damn’ fool, you sure this guv never heard of Bad Bend?” “Don't say in the paper that he ever did,” Hunt Morgan said. “He don’t know about — ahout what we used to do?” “He never saw a Western.” “Hell,” old Doc Mason said, “1 saw someplace where it said he never even read one.” “He must have some idea,” Carl Grogan said. “Mayhe when he was a kid,” Sid Howe said, “Well, don’t start worrying now,” Harry Tennerman said. “You want a new car, act right. Just like it was in the old days. We’re hack in husiness!” “Cigars, everyhody!” Hector Klim- hoff yelled. “Only the piano player smokes cigarettes.” “No, he don’t,” Grogan said. “He just lets one hurn on the side of the piano.” WE WERE a little rusty, you can see, but wc rememhered fast. We heard a car pull up in front, and the hoys reached for their glasses of rotgut, and old Verne Hopkins went to work on the piano so hard he looked like he was in¬ venting it. Hector KlimholT started pol¬ ishing a glass furiously. Now, I don't know whether you real¬ ize this or not, but in most every West¬ ern movie you ever saw, whenever anybody walked into a saloon the har w'us always to his left. You would think that we Bad Bend folks, having played in all those Westerns, would know the reason for that, but we don’t. It’s just part of the rigid art form. I have always suspected it’s so that a man standing at the bar can reach for his gun on his right hip without the enter¬ ing party’s being able to see what he’s doing, but that is merely a personal notion. I bring this up because Jeremy Katz entered the Silver Slipper and looked to his right. Now. there is nothing to see on the right. Seventeen pairs ot eyes had snapped toward the door as he came in. And Jeremy Katz looked the wrong way. He stood there in the door¬ way, just looking, for what seemed an eternity. He was a short man who wore a multicolored shirt, bright tan trou¬ sers, brow n-and-white shoes and dark glasses. He looked, m short, like every producer you ever saw. Everybody no¬ ticed it. “I thought he was different,” Carl Grogan whispered. “He is,” old Doc Mason whispered back. “1 read someolace he decided the height of being different was to look like everyhody else.” He tapped his temple significantly. “Academy Award winner.” Grogan nodded thoughtfully. Finally, Jeremy Katz swung his eyes toward the bar and looked us over. The only movement in the place was Hector polishing the same glass and Verne Hopkins heating the piano. Then Jeremy Katz hunched his shoulders just a hit, put his hand in a beckoning ges¬ ture outside the door, and walked over to the bar. Behind him came the origi¬ nal Tall, Dark and Handsome— Stan Hines. Clutching Hines’s arm, almost as if they were the Romantically En¬ twined Couple that the columnists pro¬ claimed them to be, came Jill David. She wore a summer dress, off the shoul¬ ders, and her hair was the yellow of ripe corn, and she was more beautiful in per¬ son than on the screen, if that were pos¬ sible, Two of the boys had to set down their rotgut as she approached. Behind her, dressed in clothes identi¬ cal, to the last stitch, to those of Jeremy Katz, came a man we identified as Mor¬ ris Lefevre, Katz's production assist¬ ant. The only difference between the two was that Lefevre was shorter and his dark glasses were bigger. The four of them walked over to the bar. Then Katz turned abruptly and led the way to one of the center tables. "Say, Po|», IV© started noticing; girls. At least I think theyY*e girls’’’ BARNEY TOBEY 1 hey .ill sat down. \ eiti Hop1 ns took a good look at them and went i n plav- ing the piano Hectoi Klimh If came around from behind the bar , nd went over to the table. “Afternoon, folks, he said l ittle something? The lady want to Jean up a hit, may he have a hath } W e got rooms upstairs and a nice long-hand ed brush st) she can wash her hack.” “Jeremy,” the short man named Morns I elevre said, 'let’s get out of here. I his guy gives me the meemies ” “No need for that,” Hector said cheerfully. “You folks must have had a long trip, and the boys might he start¬ ing up a game of cards right soon, never can tell.” He was still polishing that damn’ glass. “Had a little excitement today. Fellow- broke out of jail. Cattle rustler.” Hector made a clucking noise with his tongue. “You heard me, Jeremy, 1 said let’s get out ot here.” Morris Lefevre mopped his brow with a hright hlue handkerchief. “There’s another town twenty miles down. It’s got real people in it. It says so on the road map.” Jeremy Katz put up his hand. “Wait a minute. Bartender, we’ll have some drinks. Whisky, and you can mix the lady's. For everybody in the house.” He waved his arm expansively, “Drinks on me.” Stan Hines, the handsome one, spoke up. “Drinks for all these slobs?” We took an instant dislike to Stan Hines, “You crazy or something, Jeremy?” He made a face, “These guys are right out of William S. Hart.” “Be quiet, Stan.” It was the girl, Jill David. “Jeremy never heard of William S. Hart.” “Whisky for everybody,” Hector Klimhoff said happily and rustled back behind the bar. “Listen,” Morris Lefevre called from the table, “ask that piano player does he know Clair de Lune. After he finishes six more choruses of ButTalo Gal, that is. Don’t interrupt him.” “Shut up, Morris,” Jeremy Katz said. Hector poured the drinks. He had just started back around the bar with the tray when the doors swung open. THERE stood Hunt Morgan-Slade- Larsen, six-guns jutting from low- slung holsters, cigar clenched hetween teeth, hat brim pulled down low, blue shirt open at the throat. He looked slowly around, spat out a chunk of cigar. “The Kid’s in town.” He said it slowly, deliberately. It was funny, in a way, because the Kid not only was in town but — if you assumed, as you had every right to, that the Kid would be played hy Stan Hines— he was sitting right there in the saloon. But that minor consideration didn't stop the boys. You should have seen them go. Two of them hurtled out the front door and went pounding away on horseback, just like they used to do when Wax Magoon was in town making a picture. Five others lit out the hack and up the stairs, knocking down Hec¬ tor Klimhoff as they went. The rest, who remembered the Greenberg tech¬ nique and not Magoon’s and NeuhofT’s, just stood there, hands at gun belts. It all happened like a flash. “Listen to me, Jeremy,” Morris Le¬ fevre said plaintively, “we got to get out of here, 1 keep telling you, this is Madman's Gulch; somebody's going to get killed.” Jeremy Katz put up his hand. “Wait a minute. I think 1 like this. This” — he waved his hand to indicate the entire saloon — “is authentic. This is native KEEP RECORDS SAFE Save “headaches” in your office. With B&P NO-TEAR Sheets, valuable rec¬ ords won't tear out of their ring binders and get lost. That exclusive muslin strip is so tough that a single B&P NO-TEAR Sheet will actually support the whole weight of a full, stiff -covered binder wiihout tearing. Four alternate widths of muslin avoid bulking — provide 30Cc more space in binder than with patch rein¬ forcements. NO-TEAR Sheets come in rulings and sizes for every purpose; in paper for practically every reproduc¬ tion method. See your Stationer. -Msit tfic coupon FOR FREE TEST SAMPLE OF B&P NO-TEAR SHEET. NO OBLIGATION. Name. Company. Address.. I Boom in & Pease I I DEPT. C-6, 84 HUDSON AVE BROOKLYN 1, N. Y. | \ - - - - I Collier’s for January 10, 1933

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50 American. This is genuine. You un¬ derstand what I'm saying, Morris, this is rough, undisciplined. It's wild and poetic!” “ I his is ridiculous,” Tefevre said. “I got to come with vou and two actors ninety miles out into the desert, a guy comes over and says there was a jail break, the piano player is held over from Stagecoach, you order drinks, a guv comes in the door and says some- bodv’s in town, and the place goes crazy. Vou sit there and tell me it’s poetry You got the almighty nerve to tell me it’s poetry!” “You know a better place?” Katz asked. “Well, all I can say is, another hour in this place, and we’ll all be crazy. If 1 wasn’t already crazy I’d say there was a guy sitting in the back room dirtying up a new deck of cards.” He laughed, a trifle hysterically. “Silly me. You think I can get a drink without ten more guys knocking the bartender down when he turns the corner?” IN THE back, Sid Howe, our dealer, was in fact scuffing up a new- deck. Old Doc Mason meandered over to Katz’s table. “Couple of the boys get¬ ting up a little card game,” Old Doc said, squirting a copious supply of to¬ bacco juice onto Jeremy Katz’s shoes. “Care to sit in, stranger?” “Certainly,” Katz said, and got up. “How about you, Stan? Morris?” “Sure,” Morris Lefevre said. He spat out of the side of his mouth. “Nothing like a little red dog to get an hombre in shape. Would you mind telling me why the bartender is taking the mirror off the w'all?” “He was supposed to do that earlier,” Doc Mason said. “He’s just getting around to it.” “Oh,” Lefevre said, and slapped the palrn of his hand against the side of his head. “Jeremy, for the last time, the car’s outside.” “Never mind,” Jeremy Katz said. “Jill, you stay here. We’re going to play a little cards with the people.” Morris Letevre sat down next to Harry Tennerman, our guy with the whiskers. “Hey, there. Gabby,” he said to Harry, who hadn’t said a word. “How’s your canasta?” “He, he he,” Harry tittered. Stan Hines sat on the other side of him, then Jerenn Katz, Carl Grogan, old Doc Mason and Sid Howe, the dealer. live-card stud,” Howe said, sitting there erect and alert, the very essence ol the river-boat gambler. “Twenty-five and fitty.” “Twenty-five and fifty what?” Mor¬ ris Tefevre asked. Sid Howe gave him a piercing look and carefully placed on the table in front ot him one of the biggest horse pistols you ever saw. “Listen,” Letevre said, “just for the record the only weapon I got on me is a lighter. Let’s get out of here, Jeremy.” “Shut up, Morris.' “ Jeremy Katz said. Sid Howe began to deal the cards; he included himself in. In the intensity of the game, no one seemed to notice that Hunt Morgan and the boys who had fled by various routes a little while betore had slipped back into the room. They stood in various poses of pronounced unconcern at the bar, all except Morgan, who sat down at the table with Jill David, or¬ dered her drink refilled, and drained his shot glass at one boisterous gulp. The tableau of the two of them, the movie queen and the renovated villain, was nothing compared to the seven figures grouped around the rear tabic, playing cards: a flashy gambler, three old men. an impeccable leading man and two short guys with dark glasses. Sid Howe gave them the old St. Joe deal — a full house to each of the six men grouped around him, a straight flush for himself. Ten years had not dulled his touch. It was enough, indeed, to bring Hollywood’s Stan Hines roar¬ ing to his feet, his face red with anger. “You phony!” he yelled at Sid. “You liar! You cheat!” “Easy, stranger,” Sid said coolly. “These are only chips you're playing with. I wouldn’t get upset if I were you.” “Chips or no chips!” Hines’s voice was breaking. “I pay an analyst two hundred dollars a week to keep me from getting excited, and no phony carbarn cowboy’s going to cheat me. You understand?” “Sit down, Stan,” Jeremy Katz said. “Yeah, Stan, he’s got a gun,” Morris Lefevre said. Hines glared across the table at Sid Howe. “I will not sit down. I will not take this from anyone. J’m going to teach this phony a lesson he’ll never forget. It’s an act, don’t you see? An act, this whole thing, this bar, these people. They’re phonies, every one of them, trying to make an impression. Well, I’ll show them — ” “Sit down, mister!” THE voice came from just inside the doorway. There stood young Lorry Mason, old Doc Mason’s son, dressed up from silver spurs to ten-gallon hat, a deadly six-shooter in each hand, hand¬ some and bold — standing there, playing the part we all had dreamed for him. The tinkling of the piano stopped. The place was in utter silence. Then, from the table where he sat with the beautiful Jill David, Hunt Morgan re¬ acted. He whipped out a gun, fired at the chandelier. Behind the bar. Hector Klimhoff flicked the timeworn switch, and the lights went out. The Silver Slip¬ per was in near darkness. There was a stampede from the bar. A chair sailed through the air. Jill David screamed as if she’d been rehearsing it for weeks. Hoarse male cries and the staccato roar of gunfire filled the room. We’d done it a hundred times before, but it had never gone off so well. Bodies bounced off the banister at just the right time. Hector ducked shot glasses with fantastic enthusiasm. Jill David went right on screaming in excellent terror. Tables were overturned, chairs sailed left and right, fists flew, even the horses outside whinnied in fright. All the other times, there’d been Wax Magoon or Greenberg or Neuhoff to yell, “Cut!” and break it up, but this time there was nobody. We just kept going until the guns ran out of blanks. Then, finally, there was silence. Hector turned the lights back on. THE saloon was in an appropriate shambles. Guys got up grinning, shaking themselves and looking around. Jill David was frozen in terror in the middle of the room. Jeremy Katz crawled out from underneath the card table. There was only one casualty: Stan Hines, the Hollywood Adonis, lay in the dead center of the Silver Slipper, comatose. Jeremy Katz looked around. “Some¬ body hit him?” “I did.” It was Lorry Mason. “On purpose?” “Yes.” “Hard?” “Not very.” “Why not?” “It didn’t take very much.” “Did he call you a nasty name?” “Yes.” “Him and his mouth,” Jeremy Katz said. “His analyst warned him about it. Look at him — black eye, bloody nose. How we going to get him in shape?” Old Doc Mason stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but if you’re looking for a leading man, why — ” Jeremy Katz looked back at Lorry Mason. He turned. “Jill, how about this one?” There was something more than mere appraisal in the eyes of the golden- haired girl. “1 think,” she said softly, “that he'll be fine.” “Well,” Jeremy Katz said, “just one more thing. You think you can stage another fight like this one? I mean, if we bring in cameras?” “Possibly,” old Doc Mason said cautiously. “We’ll need all you people as char¬ acter parts,” Jeremy Katz went on. “This picture is going to be something new, something different. You know? Something that’s never been done be¬ fore.” He looked commandingly around. “What the hell happened to Morris?” “Here,” Morris Lefevre said. He crawled out from behind the piano. “Make arrangements,” Katz ordered. “We’ll need the crew out here. We’ll need measurements. They’ll have to put in tracks for the dolly.” “Maybe they already got tracks,” Lefevre said. “Maybe they got them hidden in the long grass out behind the building.” “Quit the smart talk,” Jeremy Katz said to him. After a while, they went away. They’ll be back in five days, and we’ll be ready for them. Tomorrow, we cut the grass out back. .A A JL Collier” s for January 10, 1953 “What do you mean. I*d look nice in that outfit?*’ JEFFERSON MACHAMER

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Who’s for Euchre? Some of the old card pomes non Id baffle today's players , inclndinp Bn SCOTT COB BE I I canasta fanatics i IT’S been years since I’ve played any eard games except bridge, poker, samba (a form of canasta), eanasta (a form of stupidity) and Zioneheek. In looking through a book of eard games, I find that in my time I have played 14 dif¬ ferent games, the others being gin rummy with my wife, eribbage with a roommate, seven-up with three grade-school playmates, Michigan with neighbors, Russian bank with my mother-in-law, montebank, blaekjaek and faro with two elderly maiden aunts and pinoehle with beer and Lim- burger. I eould forget them all exeept bridge, poker and, of eourse, Zioneheek. Nobody I know plays much else, and yet scattered through the book are 25 other games for two or more players, most of them with half a dozen variations. (My authority for this statement is an edition of Hoyle’s Official Rules whieh I bought in the dime store for 10 cents 12 years ago and whieh you probably eould not toueh today for under 25 cents.) What I would like to know is, who plays those 25 other games? Who plays euehre? Who plays whist or five hun¬ dred? Anybody going in for pitch, slough, or scat? How’s your bezique? When was the last time you had a big evening of eearte, piquet, gaigel or hasen- pfefTer? Now that samba and eanasta, not to mention Zioneheek, have gotten people used to playing with multiple deeks of eards, I am surprised a game like panguingtti has not had more of a vogue. Pan - guingui is played with “eight decks, with the eights, nines and tens of each suit omitted, as in con- quain.” You know. Euehre, now — I ean understand why I never hear of anybody playing euchre. In two-handed euehre, you use a 24-card paek, aee through nine. Ever try to shuffle 24 cards? Shufflers who have developed eanasta hands crumple them right up trying it. So do Zioneheek players. Another bad thing about euehre: it is one of those games that feature a ploppy deal. You are supposed to deal three cards at a time all the way around, then two. and eards dealt in batches of two or three fall with a plop. First you get poor shuffling beeause of too few eards, and then instead of a nice one-eard- at-a-time deal as in bridge you get plop plop, plop plop. That’s in two-handed euchre, of course. In three-handed euchre you get plop plop plop, plop plop plop. The only hope I see for euchre is in auction euchre for eight people, which calls for a 60-card pack with II and 12 spots included. That might appeal to some canasta players I know. The strange thing about this game that nobody plays, though, is that the book devotes a lot of space to describing how to conduct a “large euchre.” First you hire the hall, get your tickets on sale not less than three weeks in advance, and then arrange four rows of 16 tables each for 256 players. The lay¬ out of a “large,” as euchre players affectionately call it, includes five tables to hold the prizes, wide aisles for inspection of prizes, and 14 ladies in at¬ tendance. Personally, I’d hate to try to locate 256 euchre players in only three weeks. Zioneheek players, maybe, but not euchre. It is also hard lor me to believe that a museum piece straight out of the eighteenth century like whist is still lingering on in Hoyle, but I must ad¬ mit I am entranced by Rule 2, “ Forming the Table . Those first in the room have the preference. If, by reason of two or more arriving at the same time, more than four assemble, the preference among the last comers is determined by cutting." I can just see Lady Orkney arriving late in her sedan chair and cutting Lord ffinch-Martin dead in her effort to beat him to the gaming room. My wife has just suggested that perhaps “by cutting" refers to cutting cards, in this case. That shows how lit¬ tle she knows about Lady Orkney. Well, anyway, pray do come over for an evening of whist tonight — we’re having six people in, and the first four get to play. Of course, I am well aware of the reaction that remarks such as I have been making always arouse, so I will save a lot of people a lot of letter writing by writing their letters before I reeeive them: Pebbley, Wyo. Sir: Just because a smartalcc like you does not know anybody who plays euchre does not mean that thousands of intelligent Americans are not playing it and enjoying it every day of their life. Only last week the Pebbley Auetion Euchre Club of this city conducted a Large for which all tickets were sold out well in advance, prizes were donated by leading merchants, and $123.85 was made for a worthy cause. If it was not for stupid people with closed minds like you, euchre would sweep bridge right off the map where it belongs! Brewster, Mass. Sir: If you think whist is such a museum piece I suggest you come to one of the public whists put on with great success, over $32 collected last time for the benefit of the Public Library, by our Ladies’ Club, and try to beat some of our good players. Maybe you’d find you are not so smart after all! Denver. Colo. Sir: The snide sort of way you brush aside the fine old game of solo, or slough, anybody would think nobody ever played it, but let me tell you it is played ail over Denver and by some mighty fine people, too. If you would read your card-game book a little more carefully instead of thinking you're so smart, you might notice that progressive solo is a variation credited to the Denver Athletic Club, which I happen to be a member of. I'd like to see you bid a diamond or heart solo, or even a plain frog, and try to make it! 1 bet you would sweat! Biggerstaff, Kans. Sir : I guess you think you’re pretty smart, don’t you? All 1 ean say to you is. 1 don't believe there is any such a game as Zioneheek. Well, there is. a a a ILLUSTRATED BY CARL ROSE

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52 of your part in bui/ding a better America Something wonderful has happened in our country during the past 10 years, and you have been a part of it. It all started during the first, dark days of World War II. One of Uncle Sam's biggest problems was how to get a thousand and one things done voluntarily on the home front. Public-spirited business leaders olfered their services /m\ They formed The Advertising Council to tell the story. They called upon Amer¬ ica's unmatched communications forces to help. Soon millions of messages were going out in magazines, newspapers, radio and posters, without cost to the taxpayer. Wars take money. So the Council got behind the Treasury’s War Bond Drives, and the nation responded as it always does to a just cause. W ars chew up raw materials fast. So the Council helped Uncle Sam conduct salvage campaigns for metals, fats and paper. Again, you met the need. forest fires were robbing the country of one of our most needed raw materials. Millions of acres of valuable timber were being lost through human carelessness. The Council and Smokey, the fire-preventin’ bear, soon made the public forest-fire conscious and more careful. Vast stores of timber were saved. Then came campaigns on Victory Gardens, “loose talk,” rationing, nurse recruitment and many others. And each time, when they learned of the need, our people acted. But this voluntary service did not end with the war. By popular demand, the Council began to help such peacetime causes as Savings Bonds, Highway Safety, Community Chests, Red Cross, Economic Education, Crusade for Freedom, Better Schools, Civil Defense and Blood Donation, Over a billion and a half dollars in advertising space and time have been given freely by American business to do these vital jobs in the public interest. Hardly an American but knows about them and has had some part in their progress. Collier's salutes The Advertising Council for its ten-year record as a wonderful example of American teamwork. Its achievements are a tribute to the whole American people— to business that supports its activities — to all those devoted workers, in so many fields, who have helped to tell you what needed doing. But most of all to you who did it! yot/mmsom -/Ur/enr/ Remember this wartime poster?

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I Whot YOU Con Dc . MUST Do To Eose the Critical kon and Steel Saop Problem Reminded by ads like this, contributed by the magazines of America at no cost to Uncle Sam or the tax-payer, you now own over $35 billion in Defense Bonds. When scrap is needed quickly to keep our defense plants rolling, ads like this, sponsored b\ leading business and trade publications, help to make that need known. What the Advertising Council is . . . and what it does As it starts on its second decade, The Adver¬ tising Council is a fine example of the con¬ science of America in action. It is a voluntary organization— independent, non-profit, non¬ partisan-dedicated to the welfare and prog¬ ress of all our people. The Council donates its services to the causes it aids. It is composed largely of advertisers, adver¬ tising agencies and media, including maga¬ zines, newspapers, radio and television, the outdoorand transportation advertising groups. The Council’s budget is contributed by busi¬ ness generally. Space and time for Council programs are donated by advertisers and media. Advertising agencies provide free creative talent for the preparation of campaign materials. As the first organized, systematic method of getting important messages to the public quickly, the Council annually reviews hun¬ dreds of requests for help from government agencies and leading non-profit organizations which have learned that advertising— through simplification, dramatization and repetition- gets things done. Closely associated with the Council is an Industries Advisory Committee consisting of 38 business leaders and a Public Policy Com¬ mittee which evaluates requests for campaigns. The latter includes 20 leading representatives of management, labor, education, agriculture, religion, medicine and journalism. All these good Americans have accom¬ plished much by working together. But so much more still remains to be done! This publication is confident that The Advertising Council will continue to do its part by giving you the facts about national problems as they arise, so that in the future as in the past, they will be met in the traditional voluntary American way. The messages you hear and see over radio and tele¬ vision on behalf of national causes such as CARE, Fight Inflation, Government Reorganization, Racial and Religious Prejudice, March of Dimes and United Nations, are scheduled by the Council. Ad¬ vertisers, networks and local stations give the time. The posters along the thoroughfares and in vour transportation vehicles often carry messages in the public interest. The space is given by the Outdoor and Transportation advertising industries. The Council also serves American Cancer Society, American Heritage, Boy Scouts, Brotherhood Week, Christmas Seals, 4-H Clubs, Flag Day, Girl Scouts, Heart Fund, Religion in American Life, Salvation Army, United Negro Colleges, and many other projects in the public interest. You learned of the nurse shortage from ads like this, many contributed by daily, weekly and labor newspapers. In five years, 418,000 young women have responded. We must increase productivity all along the line if we are to meet our defense needs and maintain a strong civilian economy. House magazines of leading companies carry ads like this regularly. This advertisement is contributed hv COLLIER’S as a public service.

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54 Mhtrlt MM out* CONTINUED FROM PAGE 15 alive and well, .md she had a happy, exciting marriage, satisfying in every re¬ spect When alter two years of mar¬ riage, she had become pregnant, she had had an easy time, followed by the comfortable delivery of a healthy, nor¬ mal, beautiful baby. She had never known poverty or hunger or fear— or real illness, until now. I'm not prepared, she thought, panic- stricken; how can 1 face what 1 now have to face without going to pieces, without making life unbearable for Harry and Elizabeth? And myself? Perhaps prayer would help? Hut, al¬ though she was deeply religious, she had never been able to pray for herself; what little disappointments and troubles she had had were not worth troubling Him about. It had been easy enough to pray for other people in trouble — a mother losing a child, or parents with a sick baby, or some line person critically ill or injured or in some other kind of dis¬ tress. She would send a silent prayer out, asking Him to help and comfort them, feeling sure her prayer was an¬ swered, feeling somehow that that was almost the only kind of prayer sure to be answered. I CAN only pray that things will be made easier for Harry and Elizabeth, she decided, and yet the only way I Can he sure of that is to make it easier for them myself. It was becoming harder every day to hold her child, dress her, play with her, tuck her into bed, without bursting into weak tears. Sometimes in the long, still, sleepless, pain-filled night, she would get quietly out of bed, after making sure Harry slept, and slip into Hi/abeth's room and sit by her crib, weeping softly and hopelessly in the dark, until she would finally return to her place by Harry, and, comforted by his warmth and nearness, she would fall asleep. Now she must force herself to talk and laugh and sing and go about her work these last few days as if everything were all right. How could she do it, how could she do it? But she had to. There were only seven more days for her to be with Harry and Elizabeth, to help Eliza¬ beth to do w ithout her. Dr. Hollister was right, of course; she should have gone to him long ago, when she first noticed that something was wrong. As a doctor's daughter she certainly knew better, but there was always something to interfere with getting away from the ranch — roads washed out, sick cows to take care of, truck broken down, water gaps torn out, always something, and she hated to bother Harry; he was so busy, so over¬ worked. Somehow she had managed to hide her trouble from Harry until four days ago when he had seen her in a sudden spasm of pain, worse than any that had gone before. Alarmed, he had insisted on her going into town to the doctor right away, and she had finally given in to him. How could I have been such a fool, she wondered, back there at the beginning? It’s just as hard now to get away, and yet 1 have to do it, and it will be far worse, far more inconvenient, and so much harder on Elizabeth. But the truth was, she realized now, she sim¬ ply hadn’t been able to believe that something bad could finally be happen¬ ing to her. She still found it hard to be¬ lieve, but she had to. It was too real, dear God, the pain was too real. Far ofT in the mesquitc thicket an elf owl called, its funny little Morse-code whistle sounding over and over, a kind of SOS, never answered, yet never sounding hopeless of help. And then he was quiet —his little ship sunk? No, there was no reason to be morbid, now", more likely he had iound himself a cricket. She sat there in the deep black bed of silence. Will it be like this? she wondered. Afterward? Just silence? Always self-suflicient, never minding solitude, she had liked silence, the desert silence, y et it seemed such a waste — just silence for an eternity. Or would she live again, in some other guise, still find¬ ing happiness in another life, not with Harry and Elizabeth, but with others? She was sure this life she had known wasn't to be all for her, and she had never minded the thought of death when she w as younger, but that was be¬ fore Harry and Elizabeth. How could she leave them; how could she bear it? She wept again, bitterly, and lay in the sand, her head on her arms, weeping until she was exhausted and numb. She pulled out a handkerchief. I must get back, she thought in despair, drying her face and blowing her nose; there's so little time left to be w ith them, SHE got up and started home down the creek bed, but she had worn her¬ self out with weeping, and she sank down again, her back against the bank. She moved one hand through the granite sand, scooping it up, sifting it through her fingers over and over, thinking of nothing now, for these few moments, just hearing the soft sighing of the grains of sand in the darkness. She could see the colors of them in her mind's eye: the opaque pink ones, the white ones and yellow ones and red ones and black ones, the flat shiny bits of mica, and the tiny clear crystals, like miniature boulders to her, like giant boulders to an ant. Elizabeth loved the sand. She would cup it in her hands and study it and talk about the tiny shapes ai *! colors. She was so tiny herself, and she loved tiny things — butterflies; lizards and horned toads; the tiny leaves of the mesquites and paloverdes and ironwoods, folded to conserve moisture in the heat of the day; the miniature cactus plants with their small, bright, perfect blossoms; the hummingbirds and canyon wrens and cunning baby quail. THERE was so much to show her. Would Harry show her? Could he? The ranch took all his time. He would need help. His mother would be there, but she was old, full of her housekeep¬ ing and her books and letter writing to relatives and old friends. She would love Elizabeth and be good to her, but would she answer all her questions, give her the response she needed to make her mind and spirit grow and expand? It's up to Harry, Carolyn decided, somehow he must find the time. I must make him see that before 1 leave, I must also make a list of things — about Elizabeth’s diet, and where things are so Harry can find everything with¬ out trouble; and then I’ll write him a letter telling him how I feel, how much I have loved him and how happy he has made me, how thankful I am to have had this much; and the same kind of letters to my mother and father. And then a letter to Elizabeth, No, a series of letters, she decided, one to read each year until she is sixteen, tell¬ ing what 1 hope for her and some things I want her to read and do and learn each year. That way she'll never, never lorget me, and somehow I'll still live for her in spirit, and she ll know' how much I loved her. Love her, she amended, thoughtfully, wonderingly. No matter what else, she knew that her love was the one thing that would never die. Carolyn became calm and almost happy as she began to plan the letters. She would write each one by hand rather than use the typewriter, and she would seal each one in a separate enve¬ lope, marked to be opened on Eliza¬ beth's fourth birthday, fifth birthday, sixth and so on. And I'll enclose a brand-new* dollar bill in each one, she decided, and tell her exactly what I want her to buy for herself with it. Caroly n herself had never liked presents of money; she preferred chosen gifts, no matter how small; and she wanted Elizabeth to have gifts her mother had chosen, even though she wasn't there to buy them for her personally. And now she began to plan the gifts; a book, a doll, a scarf, a small vase for desert flowers, a little wooden box for trinkets, a silver ring, a copy of a favor¬ ite picture — nothing big or expensive, but things she could keep and look at and use, and remember her mother had wanted her to have them. Am I being maudlin? Carolyn wondered. No, she decided. It was what she herself would have wanted most of all if anything had happened to her own mother. Mother, Carolyn thought now, oh. Mother, how can I tell you? They had always been so close, were still close even though they were hundreds of miles apart. Please don't grieve too much, Mother. You and I had good years together. If only you could be here with Elizabeth, But Carolyn's father couldn’t leave his patients, they were his precious responsibility, so it was out of the question for him to come and settle way out here in a useless, un¬ productive life in the desert. The real solution, Carolyn knew, would be for Harry to find someone else to take her place, not to wait too long — but her mind and heart shrank at the thought. Harry had good sense. When the time came, he would choose some¬ one who would be good to Elizabeth and probably love her dearly, but Caro¬ lyn could hardly bear to think about it. Anyway, that would be up to Harry; she couldn't tell him how to run his life after she was gone, any more than she told him how to run his life now. That had been one of the best things about their marriage: the way they had allowed each other to retain their own identities, to remain individuals. It kept them interesting to each other. What lively talks they had had, at night and at mealtimes and on horseback rides in the hills before the advent of Elizabeth. Even their arguments had been friendly. They had had so much to say to each other, so much of life and living to share, THEY had met six years before — just think, only six short, beautiful years — when, run-down after a siege of flu, Caroly n had taken a vacation from her teaching job and had spent a month on a local guest ranch, Harry had stopped by one Sunday for dinner — his place was three miles up the winding moun¬ tain road from the dude outfit — and Carolyn had suddenly felt a strange stirring in her breast when she placed her small hand in his big, brown one, and their eyes had met. There had been two other Eastern girls present, however, pretty, self-as¬ sured girls, and Carolyn had sat quietly apart, smiling and listening to their teas¬ ing banter, letting them monopolize Harry at the dinner table. Later she had slipped quietly out to the barn for her usual afternoon ride alone in the hills, and, to her surprise, Harry had shortly followed, waiting un¬ til the wrangler had saddled her horse; then, tightening the cinch on his own horse, he had mounted and ridden be¬ side her to the gate. “Which way you headed?" he had asked when they were out on the road. Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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55 “1 never know when I start out,” she nad replied, smiling faintly, pleased and excited in spite of herself. “Good,” he had said then. “Let's go up past my place — there are some things I’d like to show you.” As they rode otT, Carolyn couldn't help saying, with a glance toward the house, “You're forsaking some gay company.” Harry had grinned. ‘They're trying too hard,” was all he had said. A simple beginning. And she had gone with him, and he had shown her Indian ruins and graves he had discovered and left untouched, picture writings which they had laugh¬ ingly tried to decipher into some an¬ cient gossip, and finally from the top of a high mesa he had named the far mountains for her and shown her the magic of his beloved desert. During the week he was too busy for social calls — he worked his spread alone — but he had urged her to ride the range and help him work cattle and fix fences; and in the afternoons she would sit on the corral fence and watch him do chores, helping him when she could, listening to the pleasant sounds of the cattle and horses and the sweet, insist¬ ent calls of Gambel’s quail in the mes- quites or the chatter of cactus wrens. How she had loved the life and re¬ sponded to it! THEN there was that last day. She knew he would speak, would ask her to come back, yet when he did, there in the dusty, warm, fragrant hush of the barn, it had been so wonderfully sweet and beautiful, she could hardly bear it. She, the rather plain grade-school teacher, he, the lonely rancher hungry for an understanding companionship, drawn together by their interest in the strange and wonderful life of the desert, had come to love each other deeply through the sharing of that interest. Carolyn had no illusions about her¬ self; she knew and accepted herself for exactly what she was; she dressed sim¬ ply, wearing her long, shining brown hair in an old-fashioned knot at the back of her neck, using only a little lip¬ stick and never pretending to be some¬ one not herself. But she never felt plain or commonplace with Harry. He made her feel completely desirable and lovely in all the ways a woman in love and loved for the first time should feel. Although at thirty-three Carolyn had never been in love, she had not been unhappy about it. She had always felt that love would probably come to her someday, but if it didn’t, no matter. She could still find happiness and satis¬ faction in her work. A woman didn’t have to become bitter and frustrated if she never married. Carolyn had cer¬ tainly never wanted to marry just any¬ one, simply to be married. What use was a marriage, Carolyn had often won¬ dered, if people were impatient and critical and dissatisfied, nagging and fussing at each other? Yet those seemed the very ones who showed a pitying condescension toward the unmarried older woman. To Carolyn, a marriage was no marriage at all if it hadn't been made for love, no matter what the world thought. I have had the perfect marriage, she thought now'; I have been perfectly happy. How many women can say this? Even if 1 do have to die, she decided, I have really lived to the limits of my be¬ ing. I have been spared the torment of wishing that I could live my life over, live it differently. How many other peo¬ ple, faced with the end of life, could say the same thing? Collier’s for January 10, 1953 She lay back against the sand and looked up at the stars. “Thank You,” she whispered. A kangaroo mouse or pack rat rustled the dead leaves under a bush on the bank, and Carolyn lay there, hardly breathing, listening to the scampering of the tiny feet. She thought of the baby pack rats she and Elizabeth had found when Harry cleaned out a nest in a corner o( the barn. Harry had fixed a box for them with poultry netting and a dark, en¬ closed secret place for a nest. What cunning mites they had been with their clean white feet and big, shiny, dark eyes. Bummie and Sissie. Carolyn smiled to herself. What a toughie that Bummie had been, shoving his smaller companion away from the choicest morsels of food, making her wait while he had his drink of water first, and Sis¬ sie meekly letting him get away with it. What fun she and Elizabeth had had, watching the tiny creatures play, and drink from the toy saucer, and eat the scraps of bread and fruit, and carry in¬ side for their nest the bits of string and cloth and feathers and leaves the little girl poked through holes in the netting. When the pack rats had grown to their full size, they had moped around and seemed to pine for their freedom. Elizabeth had agreed to let them go, and so they had released them one day in a protected place in the mesquites, up out of flood danger. She'll have her pets, thought Caro¬ lyn now, her kittens and the good and faithful dog Alex, her chickens and ducks, and later her own horse to care for and ride, and before long she could ride the range with Harry; she was al¬ ready riding in the saddle with him for short distances. She’ll have a happy, busy time and not grieve too long, Carolyn reassured herself. But the first few days — they would be hard on Elizabeth. She w'as still too young to understand being abandoned by her mother, her loving friend and constant companion, so suddenly. If only, in these last few days, I can get her used to being left, Carolyn thought bleakly. Will it work? Or will it make things harder? Will she cling to me more than ever each time I go off? Her heart turned over at the memory of the agonized wails and clutching hands, the pitiful, hrimming eyes 1 h pe Ham- holds her and cuddles her vJose and talks to her and kisses her tears awa\. How much easier it would he it there were other children lor be/ to ploy with, a brother or sister It c-nlv they could have had other child en Her arms hungered to hold a tiny haby again, but never again, newer again. She mustn't even think ahout it. jV^OW she was anxious to get hack i x and see how- things had gone in her absence. She groped tor her llushlight, but when she started to get up, she heard a soft whispering sound like what? — like a rope being dragged in sand? She froze. Now she knew why the pack rat had scurried through the leaves. When she forced herself to snap on her light to see where the snake lay. there was, abruptly, a buzzing noise like a child's toy car unwinding as it lay on its side. The rattler was coiled under a bush on the bank of the wash, two or three feet horn her head, his tail a sounding blur behind his wedge- shaped head. He was too close. If she got up, he would strike. She snapped off the light, and at the click, the snake moved. In the dark, the snake's cool, smooth, dry body brushed harmlessly against her cheek. It landed singing in the sand, ten feet away, so that when she shined the light again, she had the advantage. Thank goodness desert rattlers were slow-moving and seldom aggressive, preferring escape to fight whenever possible. If they could move like the red racer she had found stealing eggs in the chicken house, she'd have left the country long ago. Carolyn rested the flashlight on the bank of the wash so that its beam took in the coiled rattler and the ground surrounding him, then, moving slowly, cautiously, hardly breathing, she picked up a large flat stone, stepped closer and heaved it squarely on the snake. But the sand was too soft, and the snake, still alive, writhed and began to work its way out from under the rock. Caro¬ lyn snatched up a piece of dead branch from a pile of flood debris and began to pound the snake's head with the large end, but the paloverde wood was old and rotten and kept breaking until finally she held only a foot-long piece. When . t i ist 'he snake su p* cd i rh v- ing. his hi d# .. s a most v. e ol the rock Only wher Carolyn started for the house did she tee a rush or tear at what had happened but the I e .+ r g \e way shortlv to growing tee ng o< wonderment It was almost as it the snake were a symbol she thought — or perhaps some kind ot a messenger * No, that was hemg toohsh She w.s worked up. her im igination wts run¬ ning away with her. th. t was the trou¬ ble with too much si cnee and solitude, you had too much time to think. Alter all. this mounta n-dc^ert countrv was full of rattlers, whic i, no matter how afraid you were, had to he killed it they were found in trails or washes where people would he pass ng. Still, it made one think. She walked slowly, her burning face turned up to the eool stars, feeling pain within her¬ self again, yet hardly noticing it now with this new sensation gripping her. 1 faced certain death, she thought, yet 1 fought; 1 didn’t run. 1 never thought ot running. Life was full of hazards that you had to fight, that you couldn’t run away from, and fear was the greatest of these. Why. then, was she giving in to this — this other thing, without a fight * Didn’t she owe it to Harry and Elizabeth, and herself, to put up the best fight she knew how? What could she have been thinking of? After all. Carolyn said to herself there in the quiet peace of the desert night, you’re still not sure your trouble is cancer. (She thought the word now without shrinking.) A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Even if she was a doctor’s daughter, she certainly didn't know everything. Even the doc¬ tors admitted that they didn’t know everything. /'HAT w^as that man's name0 . . . O'Brien, that was it; her father had thought his case hopeless: a day la¬ borer, untrained, ignorant, he didn’t know he was supposed to die: he knew only that he wanted to live and work hard and drink beer and have a good time with his wife and kids, so he had fooled them all and had his operation and other treatment and had lived and was still living, her father had reported happily only last spring. Still liv ing, ten years after he was supposed to be dead. And now that she stopped to think about it. there were other cases she had heard of, supposedly hopeless cases, hut the people had lived, upheld by a faith and hope and determination she could only guess at until now. when that same faith and hope and determi¬ nation began to flood through her own being. Maybe she, too. had a chance. Science had made great strides in the last few years. Only science couldn't do it alone: you had to co-operate, let them help you. and as soon as possible. Her heart pounded with an excitement and exhilaration she hadn’t felt in her battle with the snake. She made lip her mind quickly. She would go into town to the hospital as soon as she could, just as soon as Har¬ ry's mother arrived to care for Eliza¬ beth; she would not wait any longer than she had to. Oh, she would go ahead with her plans, the letters and all. just in case, but she would fight for her life; she wouldn't give in, and that was the way she would make the next few days (she no longer thought of them as “the last few days’ ) bearable for all of them. There was so much to do. Carolyn saw the lights of the house and began to hurry toward it. COLLIER’S 6Bascom, you look tired and deserve a change. I’m putting you on Florida for the winter!” FRITZ WILKINSON

Page 132

Sheila hall turned her hack to the door to the hallway. “This is Police Chief John Wentworth,*’ a harsh male voice said over the telephone ICE STORM JEROME BARRY The conversation was civilized and quiet. With an effort of will, Sheila played the part of a charming hostess, smiling, concealing her knowledge that one of these men was a murderer SHt ILA PENNELL looked out of the library window and watched the freezing rain turn¬ ing the hare, spreading branches of the huge willow trees into crystal chandeliers. The tele¬ phone wire had become a glass rope. Mead, Simeon Barrington's aging butler, who was bun¬ dled in a dark overcoat and hat and a red plaid mulller, was scattering ashes with little futile ges¬ tures on the steep, curving drive. Sheila was glad that she had been able to get back to the house before this ice storm had set in. After lunch, in response to a telephone call. Mr. Barrington had had her take him to the railroad station to catch a local train into the city. Bill Gurney, who would ordinarily have driven him, had gone to town that morning with the station wagon, to pick up some new slip covers for one of the guest rooms, and then, later in the afternoon, to call for the three men who were coming to din¬ ner that evening. During the last month the three' had written at dillerent times, each asking to see part of the celebrated Barrington collection of prints and manuscripts. Each had a specialty and each was interested in only a portion of the collec¬ tion. They were strangers — from different parts of the world — and Mr. Barrington had decided to lump their visits into one, ask a few other guests, and have a small dinner party. At the shrill insistence of the bell, Sheila picked up the telephone on the library table. Probably another guest, she thought, calling to say he wouldn't be able to come because of the storm, perhaps one of the three from the city. Those who lived nearby had already made their excuses. It was Simeon Barrington himself. “Sheila, pay close attention,'’ he said. She noted a strange urgency in his usually un¬ ruffled voice. Listening to the precise enunciation, she seemed to see the lean, calm New England features beneath the neatly parted silver hair. Mr. Barrington's life, like his person, was as orderly and well planned as the collection that Sheila, as his secretary-librarian, had the task of cataloguing. “I'm listening carefully,” she said. The unusual inflection in his voice was un¬ mistakable now. “Eve had an unpleasant shock, Sheila. I've learned something that leads me to believe that one of the men I’ve asked to dinner may be an impostor/' “But why should anyone — ?” “Sometimes psychopaths get a twisted pleasure out of impersonating some distinguished person. Or there may be a more formidable reason.” Sheila said, a little breathlessly, “The collection, of course. Which one is the impostor, Mr. Bar¬ rington?” “My information isn't complete yet. However, 56 ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR SARNOFF

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For money-making supplies, without cost or obligation, mail a postal card u ith your name and address to: \ Independent Agency Division, Desk C-61 THE CROWELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. I’m following it up. I called to alert you. I’ll be moving about unpredicta- biy for the next hour or two. I shall call from time to time to see if there are any messages. If you receive any peculiar communications, you’ll know now what they’re about.” Sheila frowned with misgiving. “The weather has gone bad up here. Every¬ thing is icing over. The Newcomes and Mrs. Dell have called to say they’re not coming. Wouldn’t it be wise to tell your three guests from down there in the city that the dinner is off? That would avoid all danger.” “That’s just what I shall do, Sheila — as soon as I have evidence to turn the fraud over to the police. That may be any minute now. Then 1 shall make my excuses to the other two, meet Bill at the University Club, where he was to pick them up, and drive back with him in the station wagon. Please tell Mead and the cook about the change in plans.” Sheila carried out his instructions and then busied herself in the library, sitting at the heavy fumed-oak table before the window. Behind her, solid tiers of bookshelves rose to the beamed ceiling. Lost in the task of bringing the catalogue up to date, she forgot the passage of time until the daylight waned and she put her hand out to the switch of the gooseneck lamp. It did not light. The storm had appar¬ ently cut off the power. She glanced out at the blue-gray glitter of the landscape. THE station wagon, chains churn¬ ing, was slithering slowly up the drive. Before it reached the spot where Mead had strewn the ashes, it faltered and skidded sidewise. Then a big branch from a willow tree broke off with a loud report and crashed down across the hood of the car. Sheila ran into the hail, snatched a coat from the closet, and hurried down the driveway. Needles of sleet stung her face. Bill, darling, she thought, are you hurt? To her intense relief, she saw the doors of the car open and Bill Gurney ease himself from the driver’s seat, hob¬ bling, as a man emerged from the other side. Mr. Barrington had come too, apparently, as he said he would. But in a moment she realized that the man was someone she had never seen before. Another stranger emerged, and then a third, to stand by the station wagon and hold on to it for support against the slippery footing. Drawing nearer, she could see that there was no one else in the car. A shiver ran along her skin, colder than the sleet. These were the three guests who should not have come; one especially should not — the pretender, the cheat. Or perhaps — she reassured herself with the thought — it was possible that Mr. Barrington had discovered his sus¬ picions had been groundless. Perhaps he would arrive later on the train, qui¬ etly amused at the whole incident. The tallest of the three hooked an arm under Bill’s and helped him along the icy slope. “Crocked up your leg, cobber?” he asked, and by the idiom Sheila ticked him off mentally as an Australian. Bill grimaced with pain. “Forgot about my had ankle When the tree fell on us, 1 automatically tramped hard on the brake and twisted — ” He ended in a grunt of anguish. The big man helped Bill into the house, where Sheila made him com¬ fortable in an easy chair in the living room, with his injured foot resting on an ottoman. “Where’s Mr. Barrington, Sheila?” Bill asked. “He took a train into town after lunch. He’ll be back in time for din¬ ner.” She wanted to tell him of her em¬ ployer’s curious telephone call, but the big Australian stood near them, lis¬ tening. “How’s he going to get up from the station?” Bill asked. “We barely made it ourselves. Another half hour and there won’t be a thing stirring on the roads.” “I’m sure he’ll call and tell us what to do.” Sheila turned then to the Aus¬ tralian. With a hand on his arm she urged him toward the great entry hall, hoping to get rid of him and have a word with Bill, but as she turned him over to Mead and started back, a slight man with gray-blond hair tagged along with her. “American ways puzzle me,” he said. “You won’t mind if I ask a question or two, will you? The chauffeur chap — he doesn't wear a uniform, and you’ve installed him in the best part of the house. I say, is he a servant or a friend of the family? He told us he was the chauffeur. Was he having a bit of fun with us? Of course, you Americans do these things differently.” “He’s Lieutenant William Gurney,” Sheila said. “He was badly hurt by antiaircraft while he was piloting a Sa¬ bre jet over the Korean mountains, and he’s back in civilian life now, getting over it. In February, he is starting as an instructor in a city high school. He’s as poor as a churchmouse, and I’m going to marry him. Mr. Barrington invited him to stay with us until his job begins. He eats with us and helps out with this and that, and I’m sure I don’t know whether you’d call him an underpaid servant, or an honored guest. We're proud to have him here. Does that cover the high spots of your inquiry?” As they reached Bill’s side, the man smiled down at him. “I say, Gurney, your fiancee’s a remarkably interesting young woman.” Bill’s frank face twisted into a rueful smile. He moved his leg and winced. “I don’t know why a smart girl like Sheila ever got engaged to a dumb lug like me. Knocking myself out — ” “The name should tell you, old boy. Sheila’s Irish for Cecilia, and that’s the feminine of Cecil, from the Latin, meaning kdim-sighted.’ Quite pat, I mean to say.” He chuckled. “Nothing dim-sighted about Sheila, Professor Beecham — except what she sees in me. She was an honor student in college. If Mr. Barrington can’t get here, he might give her permission when he calls to show the collection. By now she knows it as well as he does.” SHEILA thought of the vault where the most precious of the Barrington items were stored, protected by a heavy steel door and a lock to which only she and her employer knew the combina¬ tion. I’m sure that everything is all right, she thought, but I do wish Tom hadn’t said that. “Could he give permission at zis time?” The third man — dark, spec¬ tacled, and round-bodied — spoke with a faint accent. “Are the wires not down?” He gestured toward the butler, who was setting lighted candles about the room. “The telephone was still working when last I tried it,” Sheila said. “Mead, may we have cocktails now?” She knew I that the butler had prepared Martinis earlier in the day and left them in the refrigerator to blend and chill. “Now that we’ve caught our breath, shall we introduce ourselves?” “I told you I was dumb!” Bill ex¬ claimed. “Gentlemen, this is Miss Pennell, Mr. Barrington’s secretary- librarian. Sheila, may I present Pro¬ fessor Percy Beecham, who is an BUTCH 4*This‘s embarrassin*. Would ya mind not mentionin' it. sir, collier’s when you report the burglary?*’ larry Reynolds Collier's for January 10, 1953

Page 135

59 eminent authority on the Shakespear¬ ean drama?” “I’ve been looking forward to seeing the folio of King John, Miss Pennell. There are a few' points — ” “I read zc reviews of your book about zat play,” the stout man said to Beccham. “Zey were complimentary — on zc whole. You are supposed to have done a definitive study.” He grunted. ‘‘Definitive studies have a habit ol being upset before ze ink is dry.” Beecham’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “I take it that you’ve read the reviews but not my book.” The stout man shrugged. ‘‘A musi¬ cologist is too busy wiss his own field to do more zan skim about in ozzers.” “This is Dr. Hans Ten Hagen of Am¬ sterdam, Sheila,” Tom explained. “His¬ torian of music and a composer in his own right.” “Very little composition,” Ten Hagen said. He seemed the testy sort of man who likes to contradict others about small details. “I am more interested in examining ze manuscripts of Jan van Ockeghem’s canons zat Mr. Barrington has in his collection.” ‘‘It’s a pity,” the tall, sandy-haired Australian said, in a deep bass, “that a chap can’t get a bit of recognition be¬ fore he’s centuries dead like Ockeghem. I’m Arthur Trench, Miss Pennell — curator of prints at the Melbourne mu¬ seum. I was thinking particularly of Hugh Ramsay. He was one of our few' great Australian artists. Mr. Barrington has found some engravings that he thinks may have been done by Ramsay, I understand. If they were, this is a happy pilgrimage for me.” ‘‘Ah! Engravings?” The Dutchman's round face, behind his thick horn spec¬ tacles, promptly puckered in a frown of challenge. “I have only read of his paintings. But zen I am not an ausority on art.” “Ramsay managed to get to Paris in the ’nineties. I understand these mezzo¬ tints turned up in an old shop there.” “They’re signed ‘H.R.,’ ” Sheila said. “If it can be established that they’re by Ramsay,” Trench told her, “we’d very much like to acquire some for the museum.” THE telephone bell shrilled. “I’ll take it in the library, Mead.” Sheila felt suddenly completely at ease. Mr. Bar¬ rington was calling, of course. He would clear up the situation, if there was really anything to clear up. She turned back for a moment. “If you'd like to freshen up before dinner,” she said, “Mead will show you the way.” As Sheila picked up the telephone, she half-turned her back to the door to the hallway. Ten Hagen and Beccham, cocktail glasses in hand, had wandered out of the living room and stood chat¬ ting not twenty leet away “Who’s this speaking?” a harsh male voice said “Mr. Barrington’s secretary.” “This is Police Chief John Went¬ worth, Miss Pennell. We've received word from the city that they found Mr. Barrington’s body this afternoon. He’d been shot. Have you any idea who might have killed him?” The flame of the candle on the table wavered and danced before her eyes. She thought wildly: The murderer is here now' — and he must not know' that I know'. Perhaps he is one of those two, looking at me. He killed Mr. Barring¬ ton to escape discovery, and he is here now' because he didn’t expect the body to be found so soon. She forced her lips into a polite smile. “You can’t come tonight? I’m so very sorry.” Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she made a little face toward the men at the door, whispering loudly, “The last of our guests, washing out on us.” THE chief went on: “No, Miss Pen¬ nell, we can’t get over there tonight. We’d like to start investigating right away, but both our squad cars arc stranded on the icy hills, and 1 don’t think we could get out to your place on foot. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The dial tone indicated that he had hung up. “Thank you for calling,” she said graciously to the dead telephone. “I do hope you can come another time.” She walked back through the hall. Her heart was pounding. The men turned away and started up the stairs. She must give them a few' minutes to get out of hearing; then she would call the police chief back. She made her way at an even pace to Bill’s chair. She dropped to her knees beside him and put her lips close to the side of his head. He started to slip an arm around her shoulders. That solid, reassuring pressure brought a wonder¬ ful relief. Once Bill knew, they could plan together. She whispered, “Bill, one of these — ” Someone was coming across the hall. Sheila rose slowly, avoiding a hasty mo¬ tion that would indicate alarm. She said casually, “If your ankle swells any more, we’ll put cold applications on it at intervals.” Trench, the Australian, came in, fol¬ lowed by Mead, who beckoned to her. She went out into the hall with him. “The cook is quite out of hand, miss,” he said. “She says first a dinner, and then no guests, and now — ” Sheila’s heart slowed its pounding. “I can’t talk to her. Mead. Surely she can prepare something quickly. Canned soup. Fried chicken.” “She’s gone tempera¬ mental, Miss Pennell.” “Handle it as well as you can, Mead. We shan’t be critical under the circumstances. Any¬ thing will do.” “Not for her, miss,” Mead said. “Her pride as a craftsman — ” “I have not time to discuss it. Mead.” “Thank you.” The butler retreated, shak¬ ing his head. She must telephone now', before the others came dewmstairs. She would have to tell Bill the next chance she had. She went into the library Xexl \\ eeU in Collier's HOW MARCIANO CAN BE BFATEN By CHARLEY GOLDMAN The lrniner who molded a green, awkward wonhLhc pri/e fighter into l hr v*orl > w eiglil champion iuo\cs in close to annl>/e the new king of the ling's weaknesses and strong points. "I his is must read¬ ing for e\er\hody who follows sports THE CASE OF THE IRATE WITNESS By ERLE STANLEY GARDNER For the first lime, America's most popular mvslcry writer tells a short story abonl his famous character. Perry Mason. In a brilliant, eourt- rooni duel of wiis, Mason battles a shrew d, am bilious district attorney ON THE ROAD WITH JULIE HARRIS Until recently, the theater, so far as the talented >oung actress Julie Harris was concerned, centered upon the Broadway siage. Bui now she is tra> cling cross. connlr> in her show I Am a Camera. Here, in text ami intimate color photos, > 011‘lt li>e on the road with the \ibrant star Japan’s Balloon Invasion Of America By Du. LINCOLN LaPAZ Now, at last, an expert gi\es a full, uneensored report on the ominous balloons found here during the last war. Japan's ultimate aim was germ warfare. Could we defend onrsehes against Midi a serious threat today? Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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Folder free Webb Vernor. ’ ) land, f! nd.i. and picked up the instrument, keeping her eves on the door and her ears alert. There was no dial tone. She jiggled the bar impatiently, but there was only dead silence. Sleet ticked against the window^. Through the glass she heard the deadened sound of a tailing tree, or a giant ice-sheeted branch. Replacing the telephone, she went to the front door, opened it softly, and stepped out onto the porch. The tele¬ phone line, which had hung like a glass rope among the candclabras of the trees, was down. On the ground, plain in the ghostly gray light, lay the shat¬ tered crystals of its icy coating. Her eyes went to the bathroom window; near it, the line had entered the house. There was no tag end of ware hanging down. The break had taken place close to the window. As she stepped indoors she found her¬ self shivering as if the freezing rain that pelted down w'ere peppering her naked skin. She was certain that the wire had been cut. It would have taken the killer only a moment to raise the bathroom window and hack through the line — the last line of communication with the out¬ side world. He would know' that the iee would be blamed. She must tell Bill at once. Even though he was lamed, he was a man. He had seen violence and killing. He would know what to do. AS SHE crossed the hall, the visitors . came downstairs, arguing. “How can you say zat?”Tcn Hagen exclaimed. “Of course zere are American folk songs. I have heard zem myself.” “Name one, old boy.” Beecham showed his prominent teeth in irrita¬ tion, rather than good humor. “Not the Old Kentucky Home sort of thing. That was written by Foster, you know. Name one real folk song.” “Red River Valley,” Ten Hagen countered promptly. “Zis was sung for me ze ozzer night by my hostess. Jt grows up in ze western parts a great many years ago.” “None of the characteristics of a true folk song,” Beecham declared flatly. “No simply stated tragedy or down-to- earth humor. Nothing but sickly senti¬ mentality.” “You judge by words,” the Dutch¬ man retorted, nettled. “1 judge by music. Ze air is typical folk melody. My ear tells me. You may be omniscient ausority on Shakespeare, Professor Beecham. but — ” “Don’t try to gild the lily, old fellow,” the Englishman snapped. “I’m just a run-of-the-mill scholar, but I do have a feeling for words. The Red River Valley is no more a folk song — ” “Folk music is not your field,” Ten Hagen almost shouted. “What do you know about it?” The words beat against Sheila’s ears, only half heard. Would she never get a chance to talk to Bill? And if she did, what could he do against a gun? There was only oneway: someone must slip off to get the police. Bill was lame; Mead and the cook were too old. She herself must go. “You’re both bluffing,” the big Aus¬ tralian said contemptuously. “You’re stating unsubstantiated opinions. Very unscholarly. Miss Pennell, what has your library got on folk song?” Sheila shook her head and said, “I’m sorry.” Tom, following the argument with a grin, spoke up. “How about that history of popular music by Spaeth, Sheila? I was looking through it the other day. Would it help settle this argument?” As she fetched the book, she was un¬ sure what to do. The crash of a falling branch came dully through the window. If she didn’t break a leg on some icy slope, her head might be caved in by a falling bough. But was she losing vital time by agonizing over the risks in go¬ ing? Why w'as the killer waiting? What sort of cat-and-mouse business was this? Why didn’t he go about his looting at once? The men huddled by a candle, leafing through the book. “Here!” Beecham crowed. “Origi¬ nally called In the Bright Mohawk Val¬ ley and written by a man named Kerrigan in eighteen ninety-six! Right out of Tin Pan Alley,’ my dear Ten Hagen! There’s your folk song!” The Dutchman’s fat face slowly turned a deep red. “It is not really in my field. After all, most musicologists do not concern zemselves very much w'iz zis sort of — ” Sheila did not follow Hagen’s lame explanation. She was too absorbed in trying to think things through. If she was held prisoner by the iee, so was the killer. He could not get away as long as the storm lasted. For a little while, surely, she had nothing to fear. Mead served dinner by candlelight. As Sheila tried to take part in the con¬ versation that rippled around the tabic, she found herself checking over her reasoning with growing doubt. The storm had made temporary prisoners of them all, but it had not brought safety. As she ate and chatted, she tried to fol¬ low, with unflinching logic, the course the impostor’s reasoning must take. He had had to kill Simeon Barring¬ ton. He was already a murderer and so had little to lose. Now he must get away with all that he could carry of value. He must leave nothing behind to set pursuit in motion before he had a good start. Anyone left here must be tied up — or killed. Tying up would not be feasible. Too many to keep under gun point while the roping went on. But a quick volley of shots at an unexpected moment would take care of Bill and the two guests. She would be spared until she could be forced into opening the vault. Then Mead and the cook could be hunted down at leisure. The killer need get only as far as the railroad sta¬ tion, and the first train would take him to safety. She looked at Bill’s powerful shoul¬ ders. If she could tell him which of these three was the killer, and he could get his strong hands on the man . . . There was no way of knowing which was Simeon Barrington’s murderer. Certainly he would not be kind enough to announce himself. Murderers usu¬ ally don’t. HER breath caught in a sharp little gasp of excitement. Mightn’t he an¬ nounce himself unknowingly? Two of these men were experts in their own fields — the third was only pretending. If she could get him to talk enough, he might give himself away. Even if he had learned a few pat facts to impress every¬ one, he might betray himself by some little blunder. “You were speaking of unusual greeting cards, Mr. Trench,” she said, joining the conversation with a show of bright interest. “Do you really mean everyone should make his own? Take me. I’m utterly hopeless at drawing.” “I do mean everybody,” the big Aus¬ tralian declared. “Then the messages would be truly personal. Gay, colored prints to suit the occasion. Very simple designs, of course.” “Linoleum cuts?” Sheila suggested. “Woodcuts?” “I recommend potato cuts.” “How does the process work, Mr. Trench? I’ve heard about it.” “Slice a potato in half, cut a design into it, and use that as a stamp to pick up wet color from a pad and transfer it to paper.” “At least,” said Beecham, the gray¬ haired Englishman, “you advise using a simple pattern. Nowadays so many paintings arc puzzles. Sculptures are enigmas. And in your field. Ten Hagen, it’s no better. I’ve often thought that most contemporary music would be lovely if it only didn't sound so horri¬ ble.” He chuckled over his little joke. The Dutchman allowed himself a half-smile. “Trench would probably “She‘s remarkably well-preserved for being as old as I know' she must be*’ JOHN RUGE COLLIER’S Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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61 protest if we told him zat his most ad¬ vanced artistie possessions would be charming if zey only didn’t look so ugly.” The Australian’s mouth twisted. “Your modern poets, Beecham, are no better. Why do so many of them use ehopped-up meter?” “We call it sprung rhythm.” “I’m afraid,” Sheila said, “that the rest of us are dreadfully ignorant about the technical aspects of poetry.” Beeeham glanced at her shrewdly. “ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ as Hamlet said to his mother. Gurney tells us you’re a very elever girl. I’m sure you know as mueh about these things as we do.” “I’ve never heard of sprung rhythm, Professor,” Bill said. “Every eraft has its own jargon,” the Englishman remarked lightly. “You and I, Treneh, wouldn’t be able to follow our musical friend through one of his compositions. Not teehnieally, that is.” “Do you write in the atonal manner, Dr. Ten Hagen?” Sheila asked quiekly. The Dutchman frowned. “I am steeped in ze older musie. What little composition I have done is not Sehoen- bergian but on ze conservative side. I do not eare for ze twelve-tone system. I sooner make melodies in ze five-tone seale.” The others broke in, and the talk went on and on. Above the siek excite¬ ment that Sheila hid with an interested smile, the question kept pounding through her mind: Which is the fraud? ( The grave Australian? The eheerful little English scholar? Or the careful, didaetie Dutchman? THE after-dinner eoffee was soon fin¬ ished. She rose, and the men stood up too, and all moved toward the big living room. A erash outside the win¬ dows marked the fall of another tree. “Seems a pity we ean’t be looking at the eolleetion,” Beeeham suggested, running slender fingers through his gray hair, “after venturing out into this beastly storm.” “You’ll stay the night, of course,” Sheila said, “and tomorrow Mr. Bar¬ rington will return and—” “I must leave as soon as possible,” Ten Hagen objected. “I have ozzer ap¬ pointments.” “I, too,” the Australian said. His manner was almost bullying, Sheila thought. “Didn’t Gurney say you could show the collection if your employer approved? Surely our presence here is a sign of approval, or are your Ameri¬ can ways different from ours?” His wry smile was angry. Voiees joined in a protesting trio. Two were innocently eager; the third man, she knew — and the knowledge set the blood pounding in her veins — had the means and the will to force her into obedienee. He eould threaten her. hurt her in ways she would not let herself think about, until she opened the vault. Afterward, he would leave no witness. Even as she told herself that her only hope was to stall for time, to postpone as long as possible the inevitable mo¬ ment, she knew that she was drawing near the end of her resources. She said, “Bill, perhaps our guests have a point. Come into the library with me, please. I’d like to talk it over with you.” There was a pleased murmur from the three as Bill hobbled after her. She leaned against the oaken table. “Darling, no matter what I say, look pleasant and undisturbed,” she said. “Mr. Barrington was shot in the city today. That telephone call 1 had before Collier’s for January 10, 1953 dinner was the police chief. Beyond any doubt, the murderer is here now, intending to loot the collection. He’s eut the telephone line.” Bill kept his eyes on hers. His voice was low and even. “Which one is it?” “The last message I had from Mr. Barrington was that one of the three is an impostor; which one, he didn’t know. 1 hoped the one who was pretending to be an expert would give himself away, make some mistake in what’s supposed to be his specialty.” “Have you spotted anything phony?” She glanced desperately around at the dark shelves of books. “No,” she said. “Have you?” “They all sounded off the beam to me. Potato cuts are okay?” She nodded. “I’ve seen them.” “Sprung rhythm? Sounds as if Beecham made it up.” Bill saw the change in her faee. “What is it?” She pointed toward the window. There was no ticking ot sleet . gainst it now— only the rush ot ram. She raised the sash a little. A branch outside, al¬ ready weakened by the weight of ice, clattered to the ground, but the breeze had grown perceptibly warmer. In a lew hours the ice would be off the roads. At any moment, the killer would realize the situation had changed and act Her gaze swept the room frantically. Books, books. In them she could check everything that had been said this eve¬ ning — if she had weeks to recall each word and verify its accuracy in these volumes. Surely somewhere the impos¬ tor had made one tiny mistake that might give him aw'ay. But she had not heard one. He had been too clever, too well prepared. Apparently, anything She made a gesture toward the big dictionary on its stand. “You’ll find it in Webster. It’s a meter built up of different kinds of poetie feet.” “Then Ten Hagen’s your man! Five- tone scale! There are seven tones in the seale — do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, and ti. Everybody knows that. That pins it right on him.” She restrained him with a hand. “That’s the pentatonic scale. Deep River is written in it, and lots of Scottish and Irish songs. They leave out the fourth and seventh of the scale.” His face suddenly brightened. “We forgot! Why, we’ve got him! Before din¬ ner he blundered. The Red River Val¬ ley — remember? He’s supposed to be a musician, but he didn’t know his stuff on that one. Come on.” She held his arm. “Wait. Bill! We don’t dare make a mistake. If he’d blundered about Baeh or Beethoven, we’d be really sure. But he was right when he said that folk songs aren’t very important to most musicologists. They’re a special field.” Bill gave a little grunt of defeat. In the silence that followed, she heard the laughter and talk of the three guests, but behind that, her sensitive ears be- eame alert to a sound that was softer and infinitely menacing. unusual that he had mentioned, he had earefully eheeked while getting ready for his impersonation. Unusual? Her mind raeed back over the evening. Hadn’t there been some¬ thing? Every nerve in her body sud¬ denly tightened. “Bill, go in there. Stall. Stay near them. When I signal you which one it is, you’ll know what to do. Good luck, darling.” As he limped out, she had already- snatched a book from a shelf and was looking swiftly through it. A FEW moments later, she moved toward the door. In a mirror she caught a glimpse of a slender, attractive figure, smiling as if it were stepping out onto a dance floor — instead of going in to confront a murderer.. The four men stood in a group near the broad window. She saw Ten Hagen raise his hand to quiet the others. His fat face was alert. “It is sawing." “What’s sawing what?” Beecham asked. "Oh — thawing, you mean. The ice is melting." The Englishman’s merry- little eyes turned intent and serious. He started toward the window. “Let’s have a look.” The Australian’s voice said abruptly. “Let’s attend to something more imp — ” The picture window broke with a erash. Glass c evaded over the carpet and the top ot a wet. iee-en^rurted tree fell across the sola, smashing ihe back down into the cushioned seat A length of drapers, torn from its rings hung from ihe end of a branch Sheila grabbed the heavy red cloth, as the men stood motionless with sur¬ prise. Then quickly she flung the dra¬ pery over the head ot one ot them, wrapped it tightly around his body with her arms, and clung to him with the sharp-clawed tenacity of an enraged alley cat. “Grab him. Bill'" rtie cried. And Bill Gurney made a diving tackle at the man. VV H F\ they had removed an auto- ▼ ▼ made pistol from his shoulder holster, they lashed his hands with a curtain pull and pulled the drapery from his disheveled gray head. All the twinkle was gone from Professor Beecham’s eyes, and the English aceent gone from his speeeh, loo, as he demanded sul¬ lenly, “How’d you know?” Sheila’s knees buckled. She sat down quickly on the edge of a chair. “You were clever enough to make sure be¬ forehand of anything unusual you in¬ tended to say about your supposed specialty. But I realized you might make a mistake in something that seemed usual and ordinary and safe. And then 1 remembered. When you were arguing with Dr. Ten Hagen be¬ fore dinner you spoke about ‘gilding the lily.’ ” “What’s wrong with that?" Bill asked. “People say it all the time.” “People often misquote. When I looked baek on it carefully, there was something about lily-gilding that both¬ ered me. It took only a moment to eheck in a book of familiar quotations. The line is from Shakespeare’s King John, Aet IV. ‘To gild refined gold, to paint the lily.’ The real Professor Beecham had written a scholarly work on that play. He wrould never have fallen into that eommon error.” “A thief caught by a single slip of the tongue," the big Australian said. “Not just one,” Sheila said. “Perhaps 1 wouldn’t have noticed the lily-gilding if I hadn’t suddenly remembered what he said at the dinner table. ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ ” “Every one says that too, Sheila,” Bill Gurney said. “Everyone who does is wrong. I looked it up in Bartlett, too. The quo¬ tation is: The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ And it wasn’t Ham¬ let who said it. It was his mother, the queen, speaking of one of the company of players.” “1 sink ze greatest error of zis man.” said Ten Hagen, “was neglecting to foresee so clever and charming a host¬ ess.” He bowed with precise courtesy and added wistfully. “We eould see ze collection now? 1 would help keep every sing safe by sitting on zis rascal robber's head.” f rench awkwardly copied the Dutch¬ man’s bow. “My homage also. Miss Pennell. I suggest we follow Ten Hagen's suggestion." He glanced at the Dutchman's broad beam. “He has the perfect equipment for sitting on a thief, hasn't he?” Sheila put her hands over her face. Bill said grimly, “l et’s forget the collection tor now, if you don’t mind. This man is not only a would-be thief. He murdered Mr. Barrington this after¬ noon. And he might have murdered all of us tonight — if it hadn’t been for Sheila." "

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Coitier’s COLOR CAMERA ■ FLASHY Basketball sleight of hand i THE true basketball star can’t afford to be a specialist. He must be able to pass and dribble the ball and guard against enemy baskets, as well as rack up points himself. When COUSY >*■ Bob Cousy, a slim, dark-haired scoring sensa- tion in high school, enrolled at Holy Cross Col¬ lege in 1946, he knew that it would take more than accurate shooting to win a place on the Cross’s great varsity. So he spent long hours per¬ fecting the ball-handling phases of the game that don’t show up in a box score. The intensive practice paid dividends. At Holy Cross, Cousy became famous as one of the trickiest players in basketball history. Crowds were so fascinated by his sleight-of- hand playmaking they often failed to realize that he was still a tremendous scorer from any¬ place on the floor. f A ! I In a miiltifloftli *e<iiirnce whirl* ron»nnied le*« (luin two *OCOIld*f Hob ( oiwy (lril)M(*n tlic bull with hi* right hand, then p It behind hi* hark to left hand, and Mwitrhe* again to (hr right a* hr leap* In air pliootiiig for l»a«krt

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he specially of the great slar of ihe lloslon Celtics After his graduation, however, there was some question as to how the six-foot two-inch native New Yorker would fare in the professional Na¬ tional Basketball Association, “The fancy stuff won't go in a league where everybody’s an All- American,” the skeptics said. Cousy quickly proved them wrong. Last season, his second with the Boston Celtics, he scored a remarkable 1,433 points in 66 games to rank third in the league, Cousy started the present season with even higher scoring totals, and his ball handling has been trickier than ever. Within 25 seconds in a game against Fort Wayne, for example, he ( 1 ) made a right-handed set shot from 20 feet out; (2) scooted past the entire Fort Wayne team to drop in a left-handed lay-up; and (3) took an opposition rebound off the backboard and set up a basket with a lightning-fast pass to teammate Bob Donham who Hipped the ball in. Red Auerbach, the Celtics’ coach, says that Cousy’s long arms, flexible wrists, quick reflexes and great visual perception “enable him to do things in a game I never thought possible.” In order to capture the “impossible” pietori- ally. Collier’s asked photographer George Woodruff to work with Dr, Harold E. Edgerton, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology pro¬ fessor who has pioneered in electronic lighting for high-speed photos. The results are the two multiple-exposure pictures on these pages. Each taken on a single piece of four-by-five film, they carry Boston’s Bob Cousy progressively through two plays, and graphically show why he’s known as the flashiest basketball player in the world. Jlk.Jtk.Jlk. By speeding up flashes, photo; interesting pattern when Cousy

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By JAMES A. MAXWELL George was a fighter, the natural kind. 1 didn't think anything eould get him down. I didift know there are memories a man can’t live with SEVERAL years will often go by without my thinking of George Schumacher, and then one day. for no apparent reason, something I see — a youngster skipping rope, a man with fear etched into his face like an ugly mutilation, any of a hun¬ dred unrelated encounters — will bring him vividly, painfully to mind. Since 1 have neither seen George nor heard about him lor over thirty years. I've often wondered why 1 remember him so clearly. He was, it's true, the first prize fighter 1 had ever known, and I w'as of an age to be impressed with the experience. Also, it was through him that I had my first, if in¬ direct, brush with tragedy. Probably, however, my memory of George Schu¬ macher is sharp because of the tortured uncertainty of my feelings about him during the time I knew him, and long afterward. I first saw George one Saturday afternoon in June of 1921, when he and his parents moved into a two- room fiat on the third floor of our tenement building in the West End of Cincinnati. They brought their red plush overstuffed chairs, brass bed, heavy oak table and other furniture on a borrowed truck, and George, who did most of the work, handled every¬ thing as though it were made of papier-mache. He was about eighteen and an inch or so below average height, but the symmetry of his body made him seem taller. He had close-cropped blond hair, an open, Teutonic face, a thick neck, powerful, slightly slop¬ ing shoulders, impressively muscular arms and legs, and negligible hips and w'aist. He wore an old pair of blue trousers which, however, w'ere sharply creased, and a gray work shirt, apparently fresh from the laundry. His mother remained upstairs to arrange the fur¬ niture while his father, a huge, fat man with a heavy, untrimmed black mustache, spent most of his time on the truck, fussing ineffectually with the household possessions and shouting meaningless directions at George in a German accent. There was never any indication on George’s face that he heard his father. Our building, which occupied a corner lot, w'as L-shaped, and within the angle was a fairly large, concrete yard. It was there that I saw George the next morning. When I came out of the back door of our first-floor flat, 1 was startled to find him dressed in trunks, undershirt and gym shoes, busily skipping rope. Since I had always looked on this as a pastime exclusively for girls, 1 would have probably laughed had it not been for his skill. The rope circled about him so rapidly that it was almost a blur, and it created an odd rhythm of hisses and slaps as it alternately swished through the air and struck the ground. His feet, scarcely seeming to leave the pavement, provided a counterbeat. George looked at me, neither annoyed nor pleased at my presence. After a few minutes he stopped, con¬ sulted his w'atch, quickly but carefully folded his rope, and laid it down next to a bathrobe which was lying a few feet away. Then he unfurled the robe, spread it flat on the cement, lay dowm on it, propped up his hips There were only a few cheers as George left the ring. I tried to capture the exultation that I had always had when George won, hut I couldn’t rid myself of a sense of shame ILLUSTRATED BY LOUIS S. GLANZMAN

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65 WHAT TEEN-AGERS WANT TO KNOW ABOUT SEX AND MARRIAGE At last, the vicious taboo of silence about sex is being broken in our schools. And our teen-agers are being taught healthy truths about love, the art of mating, and the secrets of a successful marriage. Why do boys want to neck all the time? How old should you be before you go steady? Do parents interfere too much? What is the case for chastity? What should you look for in a mate? When do you love enough to marry — and what do you need to know before¬ hand? How should you explain sex to your own children? Learn all the answers to the 15 most common questions that perplex young people preparing for marriage, from a nationally famous teacher and writer on courtship and marriage problems, Mrs. Elizabeth Force. Learn, too, what our teen-agers themselves think of late parties, necking, and chaperones. Learn the sure signs of a happy marriage. And why so many of Mrs. Force’s pupils graduate to a happy married life — in spite of today's alarming divorce rate! This is must reading for young people, parents, and educators. And in the: INTERESTING PEOPLE Photo-Section 2 COMPLETE NOVELS ► THE BLONDE IN THE CLOSET A shot heard by telephone summoned Sam Doncv to v.e scene of murder and every clue pointed to the girl ie dared to love’ An Oscar Schisgall mystery And FROST IN HEAVEN by Allene Corliss Could you resist the thing tomplete in The Americon! 3 ^ See 12 Exciting Pages of Unusual Personalities in Text and Pictures Meet a fireside fisherman, who catches trout from a stream that runs through his living room! A soft-hearted restaurateur, who spends $2,000 a year feeding homeless dogs! A 100-year-old carpenter who easily totes 100-pound rolls of roofing paper up a ladder! The American Magazine Co-ed of the Month —and other interesting people from Main Street to Broadway, all in the oldest regular feature in any popular magazine, and still tops in reader interest! On Sale January 2nd ►►► •Sanu/Ti T/y 7ir mer/ean t//\| Wtel Teen-Agers /o Know atoui Sei and Marriage FKOST in HEAVEN ™£ BLONDE IN * THE CLOSET Mil there AUVATS At A ROOSEVELT ’

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66 and legs with his arms, and be¬ gan "bicycle riding.” “What are you doing that for?” I asked. "'Io make my legs strong.” he said, as he continued to thrash them in the air. He spoke in the impersonal manner of a man giv¬ ing directions to a stranger on the street. His tone would prob¬ ably have discouraged me trom further questioning if I hadn’t been so curious about his antics. “Why do you want to make your legs strong?” I asked. HF DIDN'T answer me for several moments, and I thought he had decided to ignore me. “A tighter needs strong legs,” he said at last. I couldn’t talk tor a while. I he thought of living in the same house with a pn/e tighter was only slightly less exciting than being neigh¬ bors with a player on the Cincin¬ nati Reds. He glanced at his watch sev¬ eral times as he continued to work his legs. Finally he com¬ pleted his allotted time, lowered the up¬ ended part of his body to the ground, and permitted himself a minute or two of relaxation. Sweat poured from his body and turned the gray robe black around him. He was frowning slightly, because the bright sun struck his face. “Who do you fight?” I asked. “Anybody,” he said, “so long as they're middleweights.” “Do you win?” 1 said. “Do you knock guys out?” “Sometimes I win, sometimes 1 lose,” he said, and he started to get up. “Will you teach me how to fight?” I asked, suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of countless injustices that could be avenged il I became proficient with my fists. “Why should I?” he asked. He didn’t speak unpleasantly; he asked the ques¬ tion as though he expected a reasonable answer. He was on his feet now, and he made a tidy bundle of his robe and placed it next to the rope. Again he looked at his watch, and then he began to shadowbo.x, moving easily, with a curious kind of stolid grace. I stared miserably at him, simultane¬ ously hating him for presenting me with a problem I didn’t fully understand, wishing that I had something to offer so that he would teach me how to box as he did, and desperately trying to think of something to say that would break through his detachment. He stopped after a while and looked at me. “W ant to help me train?” he asked. “Sure,” 1 said, with an enthusiasm that was difficult to express because of the tightness of my throat. He asked my name in a businesslike manner, and, when I'd answered, he told me his. “I don't do nothin’ for other people free,” he said, “and I don't expect them to do things free for me. You could maybe rub oil in my fighting shoes and show me places around here to run and watch the time when I'm exercising; and I have to build a frame for my punching bag. If you want to do stuff like that, I’ll give you some lessons and maybe some tickets to my fights. We’ll keep track of time. You help me work out for an hour, I’ll give you, say ten minutes of lessons. Okay ?” “Sure,” i said, thrilled as much by being treated as an adult as I was by the opportunity he gave me. He went to his bathrobe and pulled a slip of paper out of a pocket. “Here's the training schedule my manager gave me,” he said. “When I get good enough so's I can give up my regular job and fight full time, he’ll take over. Now, I only see him when 1 go to the gym on Saturday and just before fights.” 1 looked at the handwritten list of exercises and the time opposite each. “You did the first two,” I said, feeling more important than I ever had before in my life. “I don’t think you did the last one ten minutes.” “I ain’t finished yet,” he said. He took his watch of! and handed it to me. “Don't drop it. I did four minutes. Tell me when it’s six minutes more.” I held the heavy timepiece in my cupped palm, the two pieces of damp leather strap curling clammily around my hand, and stared hard at the dial. He resumed his shadowboxing. George, 1 soon found, followed his schedule as literally as a religious rite. He had been doing calisthenics for about a half hour when his father’s voice boomed, “Hey, box-fighter, stop that dumb kid business and come up¬ stairs. Mama’s got breakfast ready.” I looked up and saw Mr. Schumacher on the small porch that adjoined the flat. George was on his bathrobe again, alternately lying flat and rising to a sit¬ ting position to touch his toes. As he had done the day before, George completely ignored his father. The older man looked down at us contemptuously. “Dumm- kopj he shouted. “Cut out that monkeyshines and come right away upstairs. You think we wait all day for you?” But the rhythm of George’s movements didn’t change. I looked back and forth from fa¬ ther to son in embarrassment. “Your father ...” I finally said. “I can hear,” George muttered between deep breaths. “How much time?” I looked at the watch and then up at the glowering face of Mr. Schumacher. “Four more minutes,” I said unhappily. The belligerent man on the porch frightened me, and 1 felt that I was partially responsible for his growing anger. “You going to make like jumping jack all day,” he bel¬ lowed. “Kid stuff, all the time, kid stuff.” Faces began to ap¬ pear at various windows to see the cause of the commotion. “You think wc wait all day till Mister Box-fighter is ready to eat? Come up right away or 1 throw your eggs in the garbage.” He spat over the porch rail and stomped indoors. George didn't halt his exercise until I had told him that the proper time had elapsed. Then he methodically dried the sweat from his face and arms with a ragged, but clean towel that he had carried in his robe pocket, put on the bathrobe, and picked up his rope. “What time do you eat supper during the week?” he asked. “About six thirty,” I said. “Good,” he said. “J get home from work a little after five. That gives us an hour to work out. Sep you tomorrow.” I handed him his watch, and he turned and started briskly for the steps. ANEW and tremendously exciting period of my life began. The fact that George and I did exactly the same thing every evening did nothing to lessen my enthusiasm, since I felt cer¬ tain that he would become a world champion, and each session seemed an¬ other step toward that goal. Our routine called for a half hour of exercise in the back yard, and then we’d go to Lincoln Park, which was two blocks away, for the road work. Afterward we’d return to the yard, and George would give me my ten minutes — never more nor less — of instruction. It must have been dull, frustrating work for him to teach the basic ele¬ ments of boxing to a nine-year-old boy who had only average co-ordination and no real desire to endure the discipline of learning. Yet he never attempted to avoid what he considered his obligation, and I was too afraid of upsetting our tenuous relationship to suggest omitting lessons, even though I often grew en¬ raged at his constant demand for per¬ fection. Both of us, I’m certain, were grateful for the brevity of the period. HIS teaching was put to almost im¬ mediate use. Soon almost every boy in the neighborhood heard about George and wanted to join his circle. J had to fight to maintain my preroga¬ tives. On most evenings, he had an audience of anywhere from eight to twenty boys in the yard, and I can still recLill the ecstatic sensation I had when I’d yell, “Time’s up! Punching bag next!” and the other boys would look at the watch in my hand with all the envy of gem merchants staring at the Kohinoor diamond. In retrospect, it’s difficult to see why we were so faithful to him. Certainly he did nothing to encourage hero wor¬ ship. He tolerated the boys, 1 believe, not because of any sympathy with them but rather because his icy concentration made him almost totally unaware of their presence. He never spoke to any of us except to warn someone not to come too close to the area of activity or to ask me about the time. I suppose that all of us were impressed with a man so obviously dedicated to his craft. I would probably have learned al¬ most nothing about George if it hadn't been for the evenings I spent in the Schumacher flat. He always accepted my excuses when 1 said that his fighting shoes needed treatment with saddle soap or that the punching bag required inflation from my bicycle pump, so I frequently saw him in what was, for him, a relaxed atmosphere. Even then he was not especially talkative, but he did tell me a little about himself. He worked, I found, crating parts in a nearby machine shop, but he looked upon his job as only a stopgap until he could devote his full time to fighting. His plans, however, didn’t stop with the ring. He hoped to make enough money with his fists to go into business when he was too old to fight, and, with this end in view, he was taking a high-school correspondence course. On most evenings Mr. Schumacher left the flat almost immediately after supper and played pinochle until bed¬ time with some cronies in a nearby pool hall. Sometimes, however, he’d spend the night at home, and on those occa¬ sions I usually shortened my visit with George. The older man talked almost constantly in a loud, complaining voice. He found fault with his wife, a pale, drab woman who always worked at a feverish, disorganized pace, but he directed most of his vituperation at his son. Boxing, according to Mr. Schu¬ macher, bred only bums, crooks and thugs, and the constant blows on the head made a man crazy. He pretended to find evidence of mental regression already apparent in his son’s behavior. The fact that Mr. Schumacher ex¬ pressed the same thoughts in almost exactly the same words each time he Collier’s for January 10, 1953

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67 \ nchcd an attack never diminished vehemence. Apparently Cieorge had :n exposed to this incessant gabble ; so long that he had developed the d of selective deal ness that protects lan who works in a foundry. In any e, Cieorge never bothered to refute / of his lather's statements, regard- 5 of how outrageous they became. But even Mr. Schumacher couldn't irgc George with engaging in the I lal teen-age frivolities. Whatever in- est George had in girls, for example, s completely subjugated to the pur- t of his career. I don’t think that he cl a single date during the period that new him. Only once did he display y enthusiasm for seeing a movie and it was when the pictures of the Dcmp- /-Carpcnticr fight were shown at our ighborhood theater one Sunday in rly July. “Dempsey’s a fighter and irpentier’s a boxer," he said. “I want sec everything they do." George and I went to the first shovv- g at about two in the afternoon. Dur- .g the fight scenes, he sat on the edge his scat and riveted his attention on e screen with the concentration of a edical student observing a rare oper- ion. During the feature film and the rial which followed, however, George laxed and c losed his eyes. At first I ought he had gone to sleep, but then loticed a rhythmical clenching and re¬ ding of his hands. When I looked more i osely, i saw that he had a sponge- bber ball in each palm and was using e interlude between fight sequences I strengthen his wrists, I sat through yo complete shows with him, and then 1 had to go home to dinner. George, ho had come provided with several ndwiehes and some candy, stayed un- 1 nine that night and saw Dempsey lock out the Frenchman five times, N LATE August, I saw my first prize fight. The event took place in the Jtdoor arena at Fort Thomas, Ken- icky, just across the Ohio River from incinnati, and George was on the card i one of the preliminary bouts. He had ven me two tickets as part of my pay, id I’d persuaded my father to take me. I fought every moment of that bout ith George. I felt pain when he was it and fierce exultation when he landed blow. I was, I'm certain, much more emotionally involved in the contest than George was. He went about his v\ork coolly, and when his opponent landed a solid blow, Cieorge showed only puz¬ zled concern, as il he had made an error in adding up a column of figures. I con¬ tinued to scream encouragement to Cieorge throughout the bout, and, at the end of the scheduled live rounds, when the referee raised George’s hand in a symbol of victory, 1 became almost hysterical. After a fight, George did no training for three days, so 1 didn’t see him the next afternoon. As soon as I had bolted my dinner that evening, however, I hur¬ ried upstairs to the Schumacher Hat to olfcr my congratulations. I carried with me a clipping Irom the sports page of the evening paper. THE Schumaehcrs were still eating when I burst into the kitchen, which also served as dining room, living room and George’s bedroom. “You really beat up that guy, George," I called hap¬ pily as I came through the door. “You got your name in the paper and every¬ thing. Just listen. George Schumacher show ed promising form in taking a five- round decision from Babe Lehman I handed the clipping to George. “You can have it if you want it." He looked at the words soberly. “That’s good, that ‘promising,’ ’’ he said. “That’s good." Mr. Sehumachcr flung his fork down hard on the thick, white plate. “Next you hold up a bank and get your name on the first page," he bellowed, with a mixture of anger and mockery. “Dumb kid stuff. So now you're big, important man just like the mayor, with your name in the paper. Already your head is soft like a melon. Mister Box-fighter, After fists conies guns. Then we come sec you in jail." His round, fat face became flushed as his anger mounted, and his mustache quivered as though it were mounted on a spring. Mrs. Schumacher looked anxiously at her husband and son. “He's a good boy, Papa," she said, looking at her plate, “ Diinwikopf!” Mr, Schumacher bel¬ lowed. “ Dummkop]!'* George finally looked up from the paper. “Shut up. Papa," he said in a low, earefull controlled voice. fc"Eal your carrots so you can grow up to lx* Fig and strong and work your collier's fool head off like your Daddy doesM j. s. king Mr Schumacher half rov trom hi, chair “Who you telling slut up' he >elled. Cieorge stared at his father, and a curious overtone of plcadn . crept into his voice. “Don't make me nn.d. P ]>«,“ he said. 1 v>r the first time, I saw unceit i itv in the older man’s lace. Slowly he re¬ sumed his seat “Why we don't h ivc collee. woman. >" he demanded loudlv ol his wile. Cieorge won all three of the fights he had during the next two months. One victors was by a knockout. I he sports writers began to devote more space to him, and gradually he became as much a celebrity with the adults in dur neigh¬ borhood as lie was with the boys ot my age. A number of men began to visit our training area in the hack yard, and even a lew giggling girls ot George's age joined the group. I basked in the atten¬ tion I received as George's associate. In mid-November, George vvon an¬ other fight by a knockout. I he next night I was so anxious to see him that I w'aited on the front steps lor him to come home from work. Again I had a clipping with me, and this time there was an entire paragraph about him. George was more buoyant than I’d ever seen him before. He gave a quick glance at the story I handed to him and then thanked me gravely for my exuber¬ ant compliments on his performance in the ring. “That was an important fight for me last night," he said as he returned the clipping to me. “My man¬ ager said that now we re getting more money, he wants me to train at the gym every night." For a moment the significance of his statement didn't strike me. When it did, I found it difficult to speak, “Then what about . . ," “They got guys over there to time you and take eare of equipment and stuff.’’ he said. “I won’t need you any more.” He spoke as though he were telling a newsboy to discontinue the evening paper. FOR a moment the steps seemed to be dissolving under me. My face actu¬ ally stung, as if he had slapped me, I couldn’t look at his eyes, and when I glanced down I saw the big silver w;atch on his wrist. Suddenly I knew I was going to cry, and a strange mixture of blind fury, despair and unbearable shame flowed through me in a sicken¬ ing flood. He put his hand on my arm, and for the first and only time that 1 knew him, his voiee was intimate and almost gen¬ tle. “We had a business arrangement," he said. “Everybody has business ar¬ rangements," lie said. “Even body has business arrangements," Then he went up the stairs, two at a time, easily, lightly, as he always did, and the sound of his steps became gradually fainter and fainter until finally it was inaudible. For some time alter that I tried to pretend to myself that I was no longer interested in George’s fortunes. Since I was a daily reader of the sports page, this self-deception wasn't easy. 1 tried to look at only the stories about foot¬ ball and basketball, and at the usual winter predictions about the Reds’ chances in the next baseball season, hut 1 always ended by reading all the light news, too. George's name didn’t appear ot ten , hut whenever it did; my breath would become short. He continued to do well. He didn’t fight in December, but he vvon two bouts in January and knocked out his man in March. A small picture of George was in one of the evening pa- NEW RELIEF for M C0O6&&L rfiflCOUGH OROf>\ \l AtS>V* QUICK DOUBLE ACTION COUGH RELIEF In beaut lu n-ntal bom (/■ tor I hone Huffcring with rn king h1«n-j) rol>l> ng ugh* due to simple cold* Hegm t o• with thus n«-w. pleu-cirtl . handy trcntUM-ii# M**di «',U»*d i und\ •dii-llM lillod with rn.il liquid n»-dii me nrn bluing | hf makers of lodent Tooth Paste KIT rutsi If employed, part • A. fit un pin* on h.U ! I semce man i .ran re,n»- in p need* i1 1‘sniiV', nan nail) aihvrtW- 1 K. p« ar (U'iornrt> Ka'V to Irani yin k > r'*ah t-hrd Kas\ Ti-rui* H>-nd t lav tt i t:r i .k1. • v » * ,» * Model Railroading is Fun! Read about it in picture- packed Modi'! Railroader magazine Special Oder! Send $1 (51.75 value for special 3-rnonth subscrip¬ tion plus new f>-J-pai?e “In¬ troduction to Scale Model Railroading/* Limited. Act today ! M'hM Radroartpr. Oept 447 t, Milwaukee 3. W «. Itch . . . Itch .1 Was Nearly Crazy Very first use of soothing, cooling liquid 1) t).l>. Pre- . scrlptlon i>osi lively relieves raw red iteh -caused by ! eczema, rashes, scalp irritation, chn I mg -othtr ikh trou¬ bles Greaseless, stainless Uc trial bonh must satisfy or money hack Ask druggist for 0, D 0, PRESCRIPTION. FACTORY FRESH Mild. Flavorful. Fine Smoking. I *. rur I'. . : 1 w ' ‘i-»tpafi| t'h k nr . ui*r«»i*cv <»»*t ’r.-t/i • i; ir» ur ij .»v«? V . . ESQUIRE CtCAR FACTORY. 5S: 4 M Easton. St LouK 12 Mo CIGARS Now by telephone and mail ! START A PAYING BUSINESS Collier’s offers both men and women an opportunity to make a substantial, spare- time income by telephone, mail or per¬ sonal calls. Take care of new and renewal subscriptions for COLLIIR S, THf. A M HU ( A N M AC i AZ I N L, W O Nl A N S HOME COMPANION and all popular magazines. For details, until a post card to — Independenl Agency Division THE CROWELL -COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19. N Y. 6ASe COLD^Kf MISERY Take Tabc in AT ALL DRUG STORES * 45c and 75c SIZES ’ollier's for January 10, 1953

Page 144

68 pers after this last triumph, and the statement was made that he was being considered as one of the fighters in the “scmi-windup” — the second most im¬ portant match of a charit\ hoxing show at the ball park in late May. None of this changed the habits or attitudes in the Schumacher home. George continued to hold his job in the machine shop, and Mr. Schumacher, if an\ thing, increased the volume and acrimom of his attacks. Although I no longer visited the Schumacher flat, there was no ditliculty in hearing him in our apartment on the first floor. Whenever Mr. Schumacher was especially bad, I found myself, slrongh against my will, again an all> of George’s. TH F RE was considerable excitement throughout our immediate neighbor¬ hood in early May when the papers an¬ nounced that George had been signed lor the predicted position on the charity caid. His opponent. Kid f lannigan, ac¬ cording to the stories, had been an out¬ standing middleweight in and around ( incinnati three or four years before, and since that time had been fighting on the West Coast. 1 he sports writers made much of the fact that he was a thoroughl) experienced, competent fighter and concentrated heavily on the middle-aged-veteran vs. strong-young- novice aspect of the match. One evening, about a week heforc the fight, George came home from w'ork and called to me as I was tossing a hall with a friend. Reluctantly, I walked to the entrance of the tenement, where George was waiting for me. “Want to go to the fight?" he asked. ] swallowed hard. "I guess so,” I managed to say. I got two tickets," he said. He took two narrow' strips of green cardboard from his pocket and seemed to weigh them in his hand. “1 don't think my father will want to use them," he added dryly. It was the only approach to hu¬ mor I’d ever heard him make. " I hat’s 1 riday night, ain't it?" 1 asked, to cover my feeling of awkward¬ ness. I, of course, knew not only the date and place of the fight, hut also the respective weights, arm lengths, ages, and won-and-lost records of both the fighters. George nodded. "I’ll give you the tickets it you'll work on my shoes f hnrsday night. I want them nice and easv . This might be a tough one. No- houy's seen this guy fight for a long time, and he don’t get in from Califor¬ nia till Wednesday.” "Sure,” 1 said, and for the moment all previous humiliation was forgotten. "I'll do them.” Father agreed quickly when 1 asked him to take me to the tights. I he night we went to the hall park was clear and cool, and 1 wore a heavy sweater under¬ neath my coat. Rcdland Field looked strangely unfamiliar with the ring and temporary seats set up in right Held and the portable electric lights throwing a shadovvless glow over the area. We were in the fomth row, and since Fa¬ ther had the foresight to bring a cushion for me to sit on, f had an excellent view of the proceedings. I grew warm with excitement as the preliminary fights ended and George's match was ahout to hegin, so Father let me remove my jacket. Finally George came down the aisle and climbed through the ropes, and I swelled with pride as the large crowd applauded, there was a similar greeting when George’s opponent. Kid Flannigan, en¬ tered the ring, but there was an under¬ tone of murmurs, too, at the sight of his halding head and the gray around his temples. He was, I knew, only about thirty-six, but he looked older. The current of low talk turned into laughter and scattered hoots of derision when the men took off their rohes after the usual mid-ling conference with the referee. Flannigan was obviously fat and out of condition. A roll of flesh hung over the top of his trunks, and his skin, under the glare of the ring lights, looked snail-colored and lifeless. "Hey, Flannigan,” a man behind me shouted, “how long since you was a ‘Kid’?” and another in our row yelled, "Schu¬ macher, you oughtta be ashamed to hit your own grandfather!’' There were similar cries from other parts of the stands. 1 felt like hiding under the seats. BUT the first round surprised us all, probably George included. Flanni- gan's crouching style made him a diffi¬ cult target to hit, and he still possessed enough skill to block almost all of George’s punches. 1 could see puzzle¬ ment in George's eyes as he tried to fathom the other man's defense. Aside from a few light blows at George's stomach, Flannigan concentrated al¬ most entirely on protecting himself. There was nothing to thrill the specta¬ tors, hut I think everyone was relieved that the expected butchery did not take place. At the end of the round, Flan¬ nigan managed to smile at his handlers as he walked toward his corner, but he was gasping for breath as if he’d run a mile at full speed. The second and third rounds were duplicates of the first, and a number of men in the crowd began a slow, rhyth¬ mical clapping. As soon as the fourth round began, however, if was apparent that Flannigan’s body could no longer respond to the shrewd generalship that his mind was providing. He tried to block as he had before, hut his move¬ ments were a split second too slow, and George’s punches began to land on the older man’s face, starting a flow of blood from his nose and making a cut over his right eye. George went about the husiness efficiently, calmly, like a man firing a gun at an empty oil drum. A curious quiet came over the ball park. And yet I don’t think that anyone was completely prepared for the knock¬ out when it came. George aimed a right hook to the jaw, but Flannigan partially parried the blow, and the glove landed with no great force high on the side of his head. An expression of excruciating pain came over Flannigan's face, and then he collapsed to the floor. George stared down at him in bewilderment. and the referee had to push George out of the way to hegin counting over the prone body. Flannigan s handlers had to lift their inert, hlood-smearcd fighter through the ropes. There were only a few cheers as George left the ring. I tried to capture the exultation I had always had when George won other fights, but I couldn’t rid myself of a vague, persistent sense of shame. I hated myself for being disloyal to George, and I tried to take pride in the skill he had shown in heating the other man so badly. The queasiness re¬ mained, however. Father must have sensed my disquiet, because he asked if I wanted to leave before the main event. 1 nodded. BEFORE breakfast the next morning, while I was washing my hands and face at the kitchen sink, Bill Palmer, a triend of mine, flung open the screen door and rushed into the room. "Hey,” he cried, "did you know George killed that guy last night?” My knees suddenly felt weak, and I clung to the edge of the sink with my elbows. “You’re nuts,” I said. "Yeah?" he said triumphantly. “Well, it's right on the front page of the En¬ quirer. They took him up to the Gen¬ eral Hospital, and that’s where he died. How’d George do it, huh? How’d George do it?” 1 couldn’t think of anything to say, and the water continued to pour on my hands until my mother said, "Turn ofT the faucet. You’re splashing the floor.” Nothing followed its usual course that Saturday. Contrary to his custom, George hadn't gone to work that morn¬ ing, but I didn't know that until about ten o’clock when a policeman came for him. 1 was on the street in front of the house when the two men came out. The officer seemed to be talking to him in a friendly fashion, but I couldn't hear what was being said. My companions began to discuss George's going to the penitentiary. I made a hurried, incoher¬ ent excuse and went home. I was sitting on the front steps alone when George returned ahout noon. As he walked toward me, he passed a num¬ ber of people who knew him. Most of them obviously wanted to stop and speak to him hut could think of no ap- propiiate remarks. George seemed as phlegmatic as ever when he returned their brief greetings. My relict at seeing him temporarily blotted out any other sensations. “That cop," I said when he came up to me, "I thought you . . George shook his head. “I just had to make a statement. Whenever a man is — whenever something happens, the other guy has to make a statement.” His voice was even, hut he was flexing his hands, and, for an absurd moment, I thought he was exercising them with rubber balls as he had that day in the theater. "Is it all right, then?” I asked. "Let's go back to the yard," he said. "My old man’s about due home from work.” As he walked through the hall, he continued, "The promoter and Flannigan's manager will maybe catch hell for letting him fight. But that’s about all.” We sat down on a cellar door in the yard. Neither of us said anything for several minutes, and I found myself looking with a kind of superstitious awe at George’s right hand. '“It ain’t like I did it on purpose,” George said at last. "1 mean, I didn’t hit him with an illegal punch or any¬ thing. I didn’t even hit him hard. It just caught him wrong, high up on the Collier’s for January 10, 1953

Page 145

69 / >ead like that, and started a hemorrhage i his bruin." "Sure,’' 1 said, and for the first time nee the fight there seemed to be a les- :ning of the pressure on my chest, you didn't hit him hard.'’ “It's just one of the chances a guy ikes when he fights,” George said, “like nything else. Bricklayers fall otT build- lgs and cabdrivers get in wrecks, don’t icy? It could happen to anybody .“ He i ad, 1 think, forgotten that 1 was there. 1c sounded like a lawyer presenting a j jgical, unemotional argument betore ! court. But there was a slightly tenta- ivc quality to his voice, too, as if he ex¬ acted someone to attempt to relate his I vidcnec. “Look at ballplayers,” 1 said eagerly, lor even guys who just go to the games. Sometimes even they get hit with a lord ip or a wild throw.” 1 wanted George o go on; I wanted every thing to be as t had been before the fight. “It's like that with any thing you do,” George said, and his tone was stronger low, more certain. “It could of been nc instead of the other guy. 1 was just doing what I was get t in’ paid for. I was n there taking a chance, too. He just wasn’t lucky.” 1 began to feel good again. As George :ontinued to talk, the memory of the [previous night became dimmer, and Flannigan’s death became more and more a remote, unavoidable mishap, 'like a newspaper account of a man tripping on the stairs. I don’t know how long Mr. Schu- miacher had been standing in the door¬ way between the hall and the yard. I happened to look up and see him there, and a queer hollowness seized my stom¬ ach. He seemed strangely shrunken in the shadows, and he looked at his son with a kind of fear I had never seen. George didn’t see his father until the older man started to walk slowly, labori¬ ously, toward us. George's body be¬ came taut, and a dark red Hush started below his collar and spread over his face. His hands began to tremble un¬ controllably; he made lists of them and held his arms rigid by his side. After he had glanced up to see who was coming, he shifted his gaze to his feet stretched out before him and stared at them. I Mr Schumacher didn’t stop until lus knees were almost touching lus son's arm. He looked down at George lor at least a minute without saying am thing. When he did speak, lus voice was gravelly. It was accident. Georgie,” he said. “It was accident.” I hen he turned and walked back the way he had come. Lor several moments alter Mr. Schu¬ macher had gone, George remained in his Irozen position. And then he gave a short brutal laugh. “ ‘It was accident. Georgie,'” he said mockingly. I hat's all I need, that big dumb ox feeling sorry lor me.” He began vvoiking his hands again, and a note ot desperation came into his voice. “Instead of yelling his brains out. he's gonna sit across the table every damned night looking at me and making me I eel like I got diunk and run over a kid with an automobile.” Suddenly he began to pound on his leg 1 with his right fist, harder and harder, as it he were driving a nail into the tlesh. “The dirty — !” he said; then his voice broke into a sob. “The dirts son ot a- -!” His lace contorted, and I knew he was going to cry like a child. In panic, I ran across the yard and into the house. AWEFK went by after that, and I didn't see George although 1 looked for him through our front window ev¬ ery day about the time he usually' came home from work. 1 hen one morning. I gathered my courage and stopped Mr Schumacher as he came down the steps. “Where’s George?” 1 asked. Mr. Schumacher at lirst looked at me in bewilderment as if he didn't rec¬ ognize me. “He went,” he said slowly. “I don't know where, fie just went,” I '1 hen he walked past me. For a long time alter that, 1 used to ■ look at the sports page every night, hut 1 never saw George's name again except for a single story which reported that he had left town. If he continued to tight, he did so under another name. Somehow, 1 don't think he did. About a month alter George had gone, Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher also left our building. But this time, pro¬ fessional movers handled their I'urni- Collier's for January 10, 1953 S TA TUS Ol MI XO 15% WALIiat DWI.NhllM' Although the light was led and Hat¬ tie on Wilshire Boulcva d. I os An¬ geles, had stopped, one dnver tour ranks to the rear toot loot-touted his horn. “Pardon me, sir. said the cop. approaching the hoi n tootcr. But did you get anything else tor ( hristmas?” ★ ★ ★ And no. Perplexed ot Salem. Ore¬ gon, we don't believe your wile is nec¬ essarily getting tired ol you merely because she wrapped your lunch in a road map two days in succession. ★ ★ ★ Nothing new in these 48 about moon dancing. But a friend ol ours recently returned from Scotland says it's sud¬ denly all the rage there. In moon danc¬ ing the couple doesn't shullle around. Merely stand cheek to cheek and sway. Very saving on the shoes. ★ ★ ★ Joe Beamish of the Syracuse Herald- lournal informs us that about the close of the Adirondaeks hunting season one deer hunter rushed up to another yell¬ ing: “Hey, you almost hit my wife.” Said the other: “Sorry, old man. Have a shot at mine over there.” ★ ★ ★ Bet you never thought of it hut it's possible your shoulders aren't in the right place. If so, here’s a hit ol advice just received. It says here that your shoulders should be in line with your ear lohes. If they aren’t you merely shrug your shoulders “high enough to touch your ears.” I hen pull them down. Don't forget that part. Very important. Do this often enough and you’re all set. Let us know how you get along with that shoulder -to-ear busi¬ ness. Our problem is that the light shoulder won't come down. * ★ ★ In our new Congress the state of Washington has a delegation of seven members in the House — six ol them Republicans, one Democrat. 1 his hit¬ ter statesman is Don Magnuson, a news¬ paper reporter who decided to run I or congressman at large. Oddly enough for a guy of his trade, he had no money . There foie he spent none. But he talked last, and the name Magnuson is valua¬ ble in t he Northwest. However. Mr. Magnuson won't have to worry about re-election in 1954, because redistrict¬ ing will wipe out that at-large job. But he'll have nice clean work at lit teen grand a year, and a couple i f years in ( ongress might help h m be an even better newspaper reporter ★ ★ * “Challenge me Arouse me Force me to think Heat my blood Stir m. intellect Slop feeding me these » • L > _ i cal mutterings ol medioci ity .“ I l*u> we are machine-gunned by a reader ,4 (his column who tails to sign , name or give an address, leaving us helpless to arouse, challenge, lorcc. stir, heat or stop feeding him or her. Rest ot cus¬ tomers seem pretty docile for the nonce. ★ ★ ★ If you don't produce something unusual in California, nature becomes impatient and does it tor you. For ex¬ ample, prapplcs have come to Susan- villc, Lassen County, and almost any time now your radio and TV will be warning you of the dire consequences of not eating them. Prapplcs just hap¬ pened without human urging. Hall pear and half apple. An apple tree mar¬ ried a pear tree. Taste just like prapplcs. ★ ★ ★ There’s a shortage of diparadiamido- dipheny laniine. It you should have more than you need, you might notify Mr. Everett 1 . C ole. ot Hamilton. Mon¬ tana. He’s a biological engineer tor the United Stales Public Healih Seivice and say s his supply is very low. It is. as you know, used in the treatment ol tim¬ ber wolves that suller from streptopneu- cardiopneumococcus. ★ ★ ★ At dinner this guy got t o talking to the lady on his right. Subject: C an woman keep a secret? Oneinal. voti ve got to admit. 1 ady insisted she con d 1 or example, she said, she'd kept her age a seeiet tor tweniv nine veais ever since she was twentv-one in I act. ★ ★ ★ On the theory that as long as a bar¬ ber insists on talking he should have something to talk about, the Caterpillar I ractor Company ol Pcona. Illinois, decided to do something about it. So recently it invited the towns 202 bar¬ bers to lunch and afterward showed them through the plant. No figures vet on how main citizens got the veil to buv a tractor while reclining in a bar¬ bel's chair, but customers agree tli.it at least Peoria baihers now know moie about ti actors than polities. JL.JL.jk*.

Page 146

Collier's Editorials HARRY DEVLIN Would That It Were So WELL, THANKS to Leo Durochcr, we had to throw away a clipping that we’d hung on to tor weeks in the hope that it would make a piece for this page. The clipping was a column by Bill Corum, sports writer and impresario of the Kentucky Derby, and it concerned a conversa¬ tion that he had had with Horace Stoncham, the president of the New York Giants. Seems that Mr. C. had spoken to Mr. S. about the then-current rumor that Leo would quit man¬ aging the Giants after the 1953 season and con¬ tribute his talents and rhubarbs to the movie industry. Mr. S. is reported to have dismissed the rumor with this airy answer, “Oh, that’s all right. I ll hire Tallulah.” Since then, of course, Mr. Durochcr has let it be known that his heart and hand belong to the Giants as long as they want him. So that spoiled our piece about Mr. Stoneham's new manager. And while we’ve nothing against Leo, we can't shake olf that feeling of disappointment in the fact that Miss Bankhead didn't get a chance at the job. I’allu, we feel, deserved to manage the Giants for reasons of sentiment, drama and dollars and cents. In the first place, her love for the Polo Grounders will probably go down in history along with the story of Darby and Joan as a classic of pure and unshakable devotion. We wouldn't say that her devotion has been as placid as Darby's and Joan's, for Miss Bankhead is not 70 exactly a placid person. But she’s always stuck by the Giants, even in their worst days — and those worst days for several seasons were mighty bad. Perhaps sentiment has no place in as hard- headed a business as baseball is today. But Mr. Stoncham must realize that he lost himself a gold mine when Mr. Durochcr decided to for¬ sake the cameras and return to the coach’s box. For 1 allulah would have been the first manager in baseball history with both sex and box-office appeal. She’d have been a bigger thing than night games and television, and she would have outdrawn Musial, Mantle, Satchel Paige and Bill Yecck's midgets, combined. 1 allu in a Giant uniform — what a picture that would have been. We can almost sec and hear her, stalking the third-base coaching line, shouting maledictions at the opposing pitcher, exhorting the Giant batters or sulking in her best Shakespearean green-and-yellow melan¬ choly when her boys came up in the ninth, needing six runs to win. We can imagine the dramatic moment when, with a Giant pitcher in trouble, she would stride regally out to the mound and then summon the reliever by waving at the bull pen and yelling, “Yoo-hoo, da-a-ah-ling!" No, there 'd never be a dull moment in the neighborhood of Coogan's BlufI with Tallulah running things. Only thing, she might have cre¬ ated a little trouble for Mr. Warren Giles in re¬ cruiting a National League umpiring staff. The present crop of umpires may think they have run into some temperament and heard some choice invective in their time. But we are confident that the first time one of them called a close one against the Giants, Manager Bankhead’s critique would have made any of Manager Durocher’s earlier comments seem like the cooing of a dove. This would have created a considerable problem for the umpires, who, under the circumstances, would have to behave as gallant gentlemen as well as aggrieved human beings. We aren’t sure their blood pressures could have stood the strain. Don’t Smoke — Unless Yon Like It ACCORDING TO recent estimates and our own slightly fallible arithmetic, between 70 and 75 million Americans smoke. Most of them smoke cigarettes. Most of them also read maga¬ zines. And we figure that a good many of those readers may have seen and been unduly wor¬ ried by a couple of articles in publications other than this one. Actually, the two articles were really one. The original was called Smokers Are Getting Scared! A condensed and reprinted version was titled Cancer by the Carton. The theme was that cigarette smoking causes cancer of the lung. We don't pretend to be any more medically learned than the layman-author of the original piece or the editor who condensed it. But we do think we know a little something about report¬ ing. And we can’t say we regard these scare pieces as models of the journalistic trade. Our quarrel with the man who confidently as¬ serts that smoking causes cancer is that he didn’t get the whole story. We’ve compared his recent article with a piece that Albert Q. Maiscl wrote for Collier's more than two years ago, and we find that Mr. Maisel had practically all of the “new” and sensational evidence that was ad¬ duced in the later story. The only difference is that Mr. Maisel presented both sides of the question. And he found that there is no una¬ nimity of medical opinion on the subject. On the other hand, the more recent tobacco and cancer researcher virtually ignores all who disagree with his apparently preconceived con¬ clusion. He throws on the scale only those statistics which support his premise, and disre¬ gards the possibility that other factors besides cigarettes might possibly cause the disease of which he writes. He points out that deaths from bronchogenic carcinoma increased over 10 times between 1920 and 1948. But he neglects to mention, as Mr. Maisel did not, that cigarette smoking in¬ creased 11,775 per cent between 1900 and 1950; that, in spite of the horrors of tobacco, the life expectancy of Americans is steadily rising; that insurance actuaries do not penalize smok¬ ers — even chain smokers; that the figures on the rise of smoking and the decline of tubcrculo4’ refute the equally confident theory of some ye ago that smoking caused T.B. As a member of the 65- or 70-million group of smokers, we would recommend a trip to the nearest library for any other smokers who have broken out in a cold sweat after reading the re¬ cent treatises on the danger of cigarettes. Get out the bound volume of Collier's containing the issue of November 4, 1950, and read the article called Don't Smoke — Unless You Like It. We believe youTl feel better about the whole thing. Collier's for January 10, 1933

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-Join the FC/N ...and SA'» :'5f It's / ! NOW! Own Kit for 1 Lft. Do Luxe* Runabout Barrel of fun is i his S-ft. Pram Kit only $45 Ka*\ to assemble* Also Niil Kit. ojjtior.nl extra. Mail coupon For FRKK catalog today! High speed 10 ft l ' 1 1 1 i t > Raring Pram— a dandv for fishing and hunting. too. A monev-.sa ving value at $91 tor kit. Buy now! Lightweight 12-ft. Runabout foi immi tt ca top carrying. Kit, $112. Also, IMI !) bo, t Kit, $89. Send for complete data' New 17-ft. Speedboat. Kit only $449. Kit assembled and painted. $749. a AfBtflf CHRIS-CRAFT for er Httfe er price. Assemble a new Chris-Craft Boat Kit and save 1 •> or morr! ILs easy! E; ch kit includes accurately preen l Philippine Mahogany parts and Fir marine-plywood panels; brass fastenings: seam compound; deeals; and easv-to-follow, illustrated assembly instructions. You can’t go wrong! Huy a new Chris-Craft Boat Trailer for your kit boat! Four new models, priced from $99 (tax extra). Load capacities are 900, 050, 1000 and 2200 lbs. Many outstanding features! Sec your dealer or mail coupon today for FREE catalog. Huy NOW! ( Pri buy at only $139 — new 14-ft. Sportsman Kit Also, brand-new 12-ft. Rowboat Kit, $75, and sturdy 14-ft Fishing Sk ifi* Kit. $121. -Jm' \ — — - Popular lt-ft. I)e Luxe Runabout with G2-in. beam. Kit. $178. A ciueli to put together! A No available in standard model, only $167. This l(»-ft Ae Luxe Runabout is big and rugged for r-mgh. t»| cn water. A real family boat! Kit on 1 > $261. Mail • oupon today! Stunning 18-ft. Outboard Express Cruiser. Kit, $595. Kit also available assembled and painted. $895. Send for FREE data! Beautiful 21 -ft. Express Cruiser. Kit. $809. Kit also available assembled and painted, $1449. Also. 21 -ft. Sportsman Kit, $660. Roomy 26-ft. Cruiser. Kit. $1764. Designed for outside or inside controls (or both). Beautiful 81 -ft. Express Cruiser, too— $2310. Smooth-riding Chris-Craft Boat Trailer $125, tax extra) has welded-steel cha^L. i h vicinal wheel suspension, Timken hear ng^. ( a; ac it v : 050 lbs. Stake Body Conversion Kn i$36, tax extra) is optional extra, quickly convert* boat trailer into utility trailer. Platform is 50" \ 20" CHRIS-CRAFT OUTBOARD MOTORS for dependable, all-around performance! BOAT KIT DIVISION CHRIS-CRAFT CORPORATION, ALGONAC, MICH. WORLD S LARGEST BUILDERS OF MOTOR BOATS CHRIS-CRAFT CORPORATION ' Algonac, Mich. | Send FREE Chris-Craft Boat Kit Catalog to: I Name - FREE! Address- City _ -State-

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u t3 The Champ’s Trainer Tells HOW MARCIANO CAN BE BEATEN A Complete PERRY MASON MYSTERY By Erie Stanley Gardner Now It Can Be Told JAPAN’S BALLOON INVASION OF AMERICA £6T / f / f M liflp Km mi I ^ > H - aJjl t * kv 1 7 I *

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3 WHERE WILL HM [HIM LIVE II 13? What kind of homes will your children have twenty years from now? The nation’s electric light and power companies are thinking about them — and getting ready for them. Part of the answer can be found in the new electric appliances still in the early stages of development. There will be new ways of heating and cooling homes with the help of electricity. Glareless lighting will come on automatically as darkness falls. There will be electric equipment to kill germs in the air. Most people will have electric kitchen equipment in units which can be arranged in dilferent ways. They will be able to talk electronically to any room in their homes. They will have color television — several sets They will need many times as much electricity as you use today. To supply this extra electricity, the electric companies are making tremendous strides. They've doubled the postwar supply of electric power. By 1960, they'll triple it— with more to come. This is one more reason why there is no real need for new federal government electric power projects. COLOR TELEVISION. The re will be almost as many sets in 1973 as there are radios today. That means most homes will have several units. HOME CONTROL. Central electric “heart of the home" will control heating, cooling, lighting, communications — maybe even doors and windows. indoors and out. ceiling panels that glow. THE HOMES OF TOMORROW, LIKE THE HOMES OF TODAY, WILL BE SERVED WELL BY AMERICAS ELECTRIC LIGHT AND POWER COMPANIES* "MEET CORLISS ARCHER"-* ABC - Friday* - 9:30 P. M., Eastern Time. * Names on request from this magazine

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4 Relieve the PRESSURE of Rheumatic Rain! • When the tense, pressing agony of rheumatic pain strikes, you want relief m a hurry. And here’s a way for you to get it — quickly, easily, effectively. Doctors generally will tell you that rheumatic pain may be largely caused by pressure. Sen¬ sitive nerves are irritated. Local areas become tender and swol¬ len. If you suffer that torture, get blessed relief— -fast — by rub¬ bing Absorbine Jr. on the sore, swollen areas. Absorbine Jr. ac’uallv helps to counteract the pressure which may be causing your misery. It quickly warms and soothes t hose throbbing pain spots. Used by thousands Thousands rely on Absorbine Jr. for quick comforting relief from rheumatic or neuralgic pain and from sore, aching muscles. He ready for the next attack. Get Absorbine Jr. today. Only SI. 25 a long-lasting bottle at all drug counters. W. F. Young, Inc., Springfield, Matt. I W. F. Young Inc. 301 Lyman Street. Springfield 3, Mass Please send me a free sample bottle of Absorbine Jr. — postpaid. Name _ . Add*esa - - City- State ALBERT E. WINGER CLARENCE E. STOUCII Chairman of the Board President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CHAPLIN, Assistant Publisher CORDON MANNING, Managing Editor DAVID MANKSS, Assistant Managing Editor MACLENXAN FARRELL, Fiction Editor WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director ALLEN CLEATON, Senior Associate Editor GURNEY WILLIAMS, Cartoon Editor JAMES TIIRASIIER, Editorial, JAMES A. QUICNEY, Photo Editor Associate Editor, * JEROME BEATTY, JR. t WARREN BROWN « JEAN B. CAMPBELL SEY CIIASSLER • HOWARD COILN • WALTER DAVENPORT • BILL DAVIDSON HELEN WORDEN ERSKINE • EVELYN IIAR\ EY • DIANA HIRSH • HOMER JENKS CHARLOTTE KNIGHT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED M. LANSING • JOHN LEAR FRANKLIN C. LOUANCER • TOM MEANY • JOHN C. PELLEW • ROGER PIPPETT ELEANOR PORTER • CORNEL It'S RYAN • JANET SIIEPS • FRANCIS WALLACE WILLIAM WEAVER • MARTHA WEINMAN • ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research • ROSANNE McV AY, Chief • MADELIN ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS • ALAN M. LEVENSOIIN • JANICE MOSES • JOILN NEWHOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON t JAMES C. DERIEUX, Chief; TODD WRICHT WEST COAST (Los Angeles): THEODORE STRAUSS, Chief; ROBERT CAILN, JOHN FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR FREID1N. WILLIAM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): PETER KALISCHER January 17, 1953 ARTICLES Japan's Balloon Invasion of America . DR. LINCOLN LaPAZ WITH ALBERT ROSENFELD 9 W hat We Doctors Must Do to Stay Free. .dr. pall b. Magnus on WITH JAMES C. DERIEUX 14 Hoic Marciano Can Be Beaten . ciiarley Goldman WITH TOM MEANY 20 A Serenade to the Donkey . JOHN o’reilly 34 On the Road ivith Julie Harris . collier's COLOR CAMERA 42 Super Soups . HARRY BOTSFORD 46 Col. Bernt Balclien's Arctic Art . 54 Should Congress Be Televised ? . ROBERT BENDINER 62 Ruark Shoots a Waterbuck . Robert c. ruark 66 ( Concluding AFRICAN SAFARI ) FICTION The Case of the Irate Witness . erle STANLEY cardner 12 The Lord's Dollar . B. M. ATKINSON, JR. 18 (THE SHOUT SHORT STORY) Susannah and the Elders . HARRIET frank. JR. 26 The Bridge . alan wvkf.s 50 Long Trail . N. b. stone, jr. 56 48 States of Mind . Walter davenport 7 Barometer Falling! . PARKE CUMMINGS 29 Editorials . ‘0 Cover . JAMES DWYER The characters in all stories and Scrlnls in this magazine are purely imaginary. .Vo reference or allusion to any living person Is intended. Subscription Department, 204 W. High Street, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Executive Offices, *40 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIER’S Tub National- Weeki.t. Vo!. 131. No. 3. PUBLISHED WEEKLY by The Crow i-ll-Collier Pub¬ lishing Conipao.v. Spnngtiehl, Ohio, l .S.A . Publisher* of Colliur's. Woinao's Home Companion, The Arneriono Mag¬ azine. Executive and Editorial Offic»-«. 040 Fifth Ave.. New York lib N.Y. Albert E. Winger. Chair-nan of the Board; Clarence F.. Stoue.h. President; E. A. Scbiriner. Executive \ ie&-Pr*ai d**nt : T. L. Braatly. Peter J. Dcnnerlein. E'iwnrd Anthony, Robert T. Messier, E. P- Seymour, Ralph G. Smith, John W. McPhcrrin, Win. A. Sittig. Vice-Prwu dents; Dcms O'Sullivan. Secretary; C. F. Norsworthy, Treasurer. SUBSCRIPTION PRICES: United States and Posses- fcions. Canada and Philippine Islaods. 1 year $5.00; 2 year* $>v00; 21 years (130 isumeei $0.00; 3 years $10.00; 4 year* $12.00. Pao* American countries in the Postal Unioo. 1 year $0.00. All other countries. 1 year *9.00. Payineots from foreign countries, except Canada. oiu*t be in United States funds, and 3ddrc.««ed to The Cro well-Collier Publishing Company. Springfield. (Ohio. ENTERED as second-class matter at the Post Office. Spntigfield. Ohio, under Act of March 3. 1S79. Authorized as second-class mail. Post Office Department, Ottawa. Canada. MANUSCRIPTS or art submitted to Collier’*, The National Weekly, should be accompanied by addressed envelopes and return postage. The Publisher assumes oo responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts or art. k CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reach us five weeks in odvonce * ► of the next Issue date. Give both the old and new oddresses. 1 COPYRIGHT, 1933, BY THE CRO WELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY (All rights reserved) Publishers of Callier’s, The American Magazine, Woman's Home Companion The Cover Grass is said to be greener in other fields, which is undoubtedly why the traveling salesmen for Mae and Bill prefer the outdoorsy, loeked-in-good- ness of Tony’s hot dogs. Artist Jim Dwyer is interested in people like Tony; so when he saw this frankfurter wagon, patronized by meandering and hungry sandwieh-board men in down¬ town New York, the idea of painting this cover occurred to him faster than you could say, “Mustard or relish?” Week’s Mail Epic Road Show Editor: It was indeed a thrill to read your article, John Brown’s Body Hits the Road ( Dec. 6th) , for I had the privi¬ lege of seeing this great production. I can honestly say — and I know I speak for hundreds more — that I have never been so deeply moved by any dra¬ matic enterprise before. Miss Judith Anderson, Messrs. Ray¬ mond Massey and Tyrone Power, to¬ gether with the chorus, held a huge audience spellbound for two hours. And we could gladly have heard it over again! We must have more of this type of production. The people are ready for it, want it, need it. A dramatic inter¬ pretation of this type demands thought and imagination of its audience, and we are proud of the compliment paid us by Charles Laughton and the others. They assume that the American people don’t want premastieated bilge tossed at them, that they are capable of thought. And it’s true. We don’t — and we are! Mrs. K. J. Henseler, Brandon, S.D. Curtailed Campaigning Editor: I have read your editorial en¬ titled Now You Know What We Meant (Dee. 6th), and let me say that I knew what you meant back in April when you said it the first time. I do believe, as you, that if a shorter campaign were possible, the two candidates of this past Presidential campaign would have had none of the “mudslinging” that did finally occur. As you said, they were both intelligent and well-brought-up men and I'm sure, if given a chance, they would have campaigned in a fash¬ ion of which the United States could have been proud. Constance Ann Madeira, New Bedford, Mass. ... I should like to disagree with your editorial. A candidate must be given enough time to show himself to the peo¬ ple. As it is now the candidates do not have enough time to make a thorough tour of the country. A candidate cannot expect to win if he only makes speeches in the big cities; he must go out and sell himself to the rest of the American people. Certainly a month is not enough to accomplish this large task. J. G. Hinkle, Southborough, Mass. Annual Second-Guessing Game Editor: I have seen many All-America football players during the past 25 years, including the almost immortal Dutch Clark, and never have I seen a

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What about vour heart? Perhaps no other part of the body has been studied as intensively as the heart. Today new techniques are being developed to reveal more and more facts about how the human heart works. A great deal has been learned about the sources of energy which enable the heart to perform its Herculean task. The heart must drive five to ten tons of blood through the arteries and veins every day— 365 days a year— for the 68 years of the average indi¬ vidual’s lifetime. In this period, the amount of blood pumped may reach the impressive total of 250,000 tons. Moreover, the heart must function continuously— resting only a fraction of a second between beats. Studies in the diagnosis and treatment of heart disease have also led to improvements in the interpretation of heart murmurs, elec¬ trocardiograms, and X-ray photographs of the heart and blood vessels. In addition, these studies have brought about a better under¬ standing of the action of heart drugs so that they may now be used with greater benefit to patients. Many other advances have also helped make it possible for doctors to diag¬ nose and treat heart trouble more effectively now than ever before. Encouraging as this progress has been, the fact remains that heart disease is still the leading cause of death. It is wise for every¬ one to take certain simple precautions to protect the heart so that it may continue to do its job as one grows older. Here are some of them: 1. Do not wait for the appearance of symptoms that may indicate heart trouble — shortness of breath, rapid or irregular heart beat, pain in the chest — before seeing a doctor. It is wiser to arrange now — while you are feeling well — to have a thor¬ ough health check-up. Such check-ups often reveal heart disorders in their earliest stages when the chances for control — and possibly cure — are best. It is wise to have a complete health examination every' year — or as often as the doctor recommends. 2. Keep your weight down. Excess pounds tax both the heart and the blood vessels. Doctors are now stressing the importance of diet in the treat¬ ment of various heart and blood vessel disorders. For example, restricted diets have benefited many patients. 3. Learn to take things in your stride. Avoid hurry, pressure and emotional upsets that may be brought about by overwork, too much and too sudden phys¬ ical exertion, and other excesses. These can cause your heart to beat faster and put an extra burden on your circulation. Even if heart disease should occur, re¬ member that most people who have it can live just about as other people do— but at a slower pace. In fact, when patients follow the doctor’s advice about adequate rest, weight control, and the avoidance of nervous ten¬ sion and strenuous physical exertion, the outlook is reassuring. Doctors can now say to many heart patients: “If you live within your heart’s limitations, your chances for a happy and comfortable life are good.’’ The Life Insurance Medical Research Fund — financed by 140 Life Insurance companies — is devoting its full resources to the study of heart disease. Since its organization in 1945, the Fund has made available about $4,700,000 for 185 dif¬ ferent research projects. As a result of the work which the Fund and other agencies have sup¬ ported, the chances of winning the fight against heart disease have improved materially. Metropolitan Life Insurance Company 1 Madison Avenue, New York 10, N. Y. Please send me the free booklet, 25.K Your Heart.” -State

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! Biggest vote getter, too. Find out why. Ease through the thickly poured pure milk chocolate. Savor the creamy nougat. Crunch the golden almonds. You’ve experienced a new high in pleasant adventure. Make a date right now with the leading candy-date ... a Mars Bar. Get an extra one for later. 6 Week’s Mail CONTINUED better ball carrier than Oklahoma’s Billy Vessels. 1 am not from Oklahoma and I am damn’ tired of Oklahoma winning the Big Seven title, but no fair man who had seen Vessels in aetion eould leave him off the All-Ameriea team. L. F. Cushenbery, Oberlin, Kans. Vessels wasn't entirely left out. The board of coaches picked him as an offensive back among the All-America Specialists. . . . 1 imagine you must be slightly em¬ barrassed in finding out that Billy Ves¬ sels was awarded the Heisman Trophy. Previous Heisman winners such as Doak Walker, Leon Hart and Dick Kazmaier were All-Amerieans, but poor Billy eouldn’t make it. Irving M. Rachlis, Washington, D.C. . . . In my opinion you sure missed the boat in not plaeing Paul Giel of Min¬ nesota on your All-Ameriea team. I realize that it is a tough job filter¬ ing top talent from all over the nation, and that you cannot possibly satisfy everyone. However, Giel was without a doubt the finest baek in the Big Ten and he had a chorus of Midwestern sports writers singing his praises. Richard W. Conklin, Minneapolis, Minn. . . . I notiee that Buddy Leake and Thurlow Weed are named as the Extra Point Specialists for 1952. With all due respects to these men, Tennessee Tech has a truly All-Ameriea Specialist in Bobby Holloway. In the game with Memphis State he booted five for five to surpass the former leader, Oklahoma’s Buddy Leake, who booted 28 before missing. Bobby wound up the regular season with a record of 32 eonseeutive conver¬ sions. E. Witt Compton, Jr., Cookeville, Tenn. Paraplegics , Inc. Editor: Norman Calhoun’s Paraplegics, lne. (Dec. 6th), is one of those inspira¬ tional articles that appear only onee in a lifetime. And the initiators as well as the staff and working erew of Para¬ plegics Manufacturing Company, lne., in Franklin Park, Ill., deserve and should reeeive all the credit in the world for their eourage in facing difficulties known to but few of us. If anybody represents the spirit of America, they do. Tip Bliss, Coral Gables, Fla. . . . Congratulations for publishing the interesting and inspiring artiele, Para¬ plegics, lne. I am pleased to know that one eompany will employ paraplegies. There should be one in each large city. Of the 35,000 different kinds of jobs in this country (Collier’s Feb. 9, 1946) handicapped persons ean fill 2,000 of them. But they never get many oppor¬ tunities. 1 am a paraplegie too. When I was seven, I was hit by a ear which broke my baek and paralyzed the lower half of my body. I’ve never walked since, but get around everywhere in my wheel chair — which I propel myself. I’ve never had a job but hope to get one someday. My oeeupations are printing and journalism. I have a 6x10 printing press and I personalize station¬ ery, Christmas cards, and do small jobs. Next May 25th will be the 25th anni¬ versary of my disabling accident. Le Roy Burnette, Lima, Ohio Moi •e About Plastics The plasties industry’ has developed so far, so fast and in so many directions that even the artiele in our Decem¬ ber 6th issue, as encompass¬ ing as it was, failed to cover the subject completely. For example, we did not re¬ port that the Firestone Plas¬ tics Company, a division of the Firestone Tire k Rubber Company, controls its prod¬ ucts from the earliest stage of resin production through the printing or embossing of its finished Velon materials. These materials are a boon to housewives — especially to those with ehoeolate-eclair- loving children. In the past, ladies often bought dark, drab draperies and sofa upholstery that wouldn't show dirt. The modern housewife uses light, attractive plastic house fur¬ nishings which she ean clean instantly with a damp doth. Incidentally, Firestone re¬ cently completed a $5,000,000 addition to its resin plant in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, mak¬ ing it one of the largest and most modern in the country. Bright plastic materials also are made into house furnishings and into yard goods for women who sew their own H on m $k 1 ta\ I sole} ft u If Bn.f| cm ser k \ei To I ha¬ il y DO a m, afc ot dt si Sa 01 Pi h< it h 1 01 I C k. , S( 1c a , Cl : & I ^ 0 F e n Collier's for January 17, 1933

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7 STATUS Ol MIA It Ity WALTER IIAVIM’OKT From here and there in these United States come demands for our opinion on what would happen to an income- tax official if he agreed with a profes¬ sional model who claims a depreciation tax allowance because of age and ob¬ solescence. We don’t know and it would serve him right. ★ ★ ★ Incidentally, the Internal Revenue Bureau must be more weary than we thought of errors in our income-tax returns. It is plugging a plan to teach children to help their parents. ★ ★ ★ Colorado’s highway department has served notice on snow and ice accumu¬ lations in Loveland Pass, west of Den¬ ver, to stay where they are or be shot. To prove it isn’t fooling, the department has borrowed a 75-millimeter howitzer and a 105-millimeter howitzer from the National Guard and warns avalanches not to make any funny moves. ★ ★ ★ Freshly sprung by a large university, a newly drafted young man was being interrogated by a sergeant in Los An¬ geles. “Can you read and write?” de¬ manded the sergeant. “I,” began the about-to-be rookie, “am a bachelor of — ” The sergeant looked bored. “I don’t care if you never get married,” sighed he. “Can you read and write?” ★ ★ ★ Fellow in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, says his doctor told him the ear is man’s only physical accessory that acts inde¬ pendently of the brain. We wouldn’t have mentioned this except it sounds funny to hear of a doctor who never heard of the tongue. ★ ★ ★ Just as we were about to ask some¬ one what had become of the Townsend Clubs, news trickles in from Milwau¬ kee. In that city the Townsendites are feuding with the Golden Agers, Town¬ sendites say the Golden Agers are frivo¬ lous, thinking only of having fun — like a good game of checkers. . . . Just oc¬ curs to us that some child of thirty is going to ask us who the Townsendites are. Well, kiddies, they are the old folks organized away back in 1934 by Dr. Francis E. Townsend to urge the gov¬ ernment to grant pensions of $200 a month to all American citizens sixty years old or more. Money to be raised Collier’s for January 17, 1953 by such two per cent levies as a national sales tax. 1 ownsend Clubs used to have several million members. Sort of pe¬ tered out. Golden Agers are just old folks who want to have as much fun as they can while they last. ★ ★ ★ Industrious Oklahoma house rifler, having confessed to 19 burglaries, was asked about a twentieth. He thought hard for a moment, then said indig¬ nantly: “No, sir, not me. That was on a Sunday. I was in church.” ★ ★ ★ Nebraska lady’s car inflicted minor fender damage to a parked car as she parked her own. On the accident re¬ port she came to the most controversial question: “What could the operator of the other car have done to avoid the accident?” But it didn't stump her. She wrote: “Well, he could have parked somewhere else.” ★ ★ ★ Fred Jones of the Pittsburgh (Penn¬ sylvania) Press has made a survey that may indicate something. A cat (tom) of the younger generation hits the bar¬ ber’s chair and demands a “New Yorker with a backs weep.” This, Mr. Jones finds, means the lad wants his hair cut about an inch long on top with the sides left long enough to sweep to the nape of the neck, where the hair is split verti¬ cally. Or he may call for a Hollywood Box. Tony Curtis, movie actor, is said to have originated this one. Much like the New Yorker, except that the hair is cut straight across the back of the neck. There are of course slight variations. If you’d like a tail to your Hollywood Box, the barber will permit a short V of hair to fall below the horizontal clip, If, says Mr. Jones, the barber doesn’t know what the hepcat is talking about, he’s “stunned” or “stunted” which is to say “not hep to the sharp haircut.” The girl friend doesn't seem to mind. Mr. Jones concludes: “In some cases she will adopt the same hair style as that worn by the current boy friend. How¬ ever, it is still easy to tell them apart. The girl wears lipstick.” ★ ★ ★ Some talk of equipping the police of Kansas City, Missouri, with ladders. Otherwise, the police protest, it is go- IRWIN CAPLAN ing to be difficult to enforce that new municipal ordinance making it a mis¬ demeanor to smoke in bed. AA Cook on Your Refrigerator 3-ia-l refrigerator, stove, sink conbiRation sir SAVE SPACE AND DOLLARS Shown above: General L-K Model R--720. In only 27 width and less than square feet of space, combines 4 cu-ft. refrigerator with horizontal freezer holding 9 ice-cube trays, big inner door shelf and storage drawer, 12 "x 16" sink, 3 gas burners, and timer. Unit is standard 36" height. Also available with electric burners for 220 v. or 1 10 v. Top left: General’s L-K Model S-’>50 makes complete Kitchen-With-Oven in 48" by combining with any 20" apart¬ ment range! 4 cu-ft, capacity, storage drawer, inner door shelf, horizontal freezer, and topped by 1-piece porce¬ lain sink, drainboard and back-splash. Middle: General Chef combines 4 cu-ft. refrigerator with 3 electric burners, 220 volt, m only 4.1 sq. ft. of space. Also available with 3 gas burners or 2 electric burners for 110 v. plug-in use. Range heats do not affect refrigerator temperatures. Below General’s Executive Refrigerator has acid-resistant formica table top and choice of finishes: flame-grain ma hogany, blonde, walnut, knotty pine oi gleaming white. Size, space-saving fea tures, same as units above, including ice-cube tray capacity. Ideal for offices, home bars, apartments, hotels. YEAR GUARANTEE ON ALL UNITS CONTRACTORS. ARCHITECTS, ANO PROPRIETORS OP MOTELS. APARTMENTS, HOTELS, RESORTS ANO INSTITUTIONS Write today lor illustrated catalog and s p reification s h e e t s IfEXKRAI, Air Conditioning Corp . 4514 E. Dunham St * Los Angeles 23 Colif New York Dept C, Suite 543, 1 1 W 42nd St Chicago Office Dept C, 323 W Polk St NATIONWIDE SALES AND SERVICE

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NOW IT CAN BE TOLD Collier’s , January 17, 1053 Japan’s Balloon Invasion Of America By Dr. LINCOLN LaPAZ with ALBERT ROSENFELD The balloons had us scared, reveals a scientist who worked on the projeet — especially when word came the Japs were planning germ warfare. Here, for the first time, is the full story "W^ALLOONS aren’t just toys any more. They’re rv weapons, terrifying and effective. They could wreak havoc on the United States — as our military experts and scientists learned during World War II. Few people realize that the bal¬ loons cast adrift over North America by the Japa¬ nese gave our authorities a bad scare which lasted right up to the day the war ended. Scientists studying the balloons in this country (I was one of them) believed that the next step on the Japanese war plan, scheduled for the fall of 1945, was to be a balloon-borne bacteriological at¬ tack which almost certainly would have hurt us greatly. We were extremely vulnerable to balloon war¬ fare. To a great extent, we still are. It’s time the full story was told. It was on a crisp fall afternoon in 1944, while I was serving as a wartime consultant with the Sec¬ ond Air Force, that I interrogated a tall, red-haired Colorado ranchwoman who had something unu¬ sual to report. “The thing just suddenly appeared up there in the sky,” the woman told me. “It came out of no¬ where — just blazed out there in one place, stood for a momeht without moving, then vanished. I can’t describe it as anything but a big brilliant ball of fire, about the size of the moon. “I hope you won’t use my name. When I tell my friends about it, they think I’m having hal¬ lucinations.” Major General U. G. Ent and other officers of the Second Air Force were rather inclined to agree with the lady’s friends. But in the next few weeks, people all over Western North America seemed to be having exactly the same hallucination. More and more reports poured into Second Air Force Headquarters in Colorado Springs, and I investi¬ gated many of them personally. All the stories sounded just like the ranchwoman’s. I remained the scientific skeptic. Fire in the sky obviously meant meteors. But in order for a meteor to seem to be standing still, it would have Dr. Lincoln LaPaz is director of the University of New Mexico’s Institute of Meteoritics and also heads that school’s department of mathematics and astronomy. In World War II he served as technical director of the Second Air Force Operations Analysis Section, receiving letters of commendation from Secretary of War Patterson, Gen. Henry H. Arnold and others —including one approved by the commanding gen¬ eral, Second Air Force, which specifically praised his “contributions ... on Japanese balloon warfare”

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AOTAL CANADIAN AIR FORCE Jap balloons, 33 feel across, landed all over Northwest forest country, started many fires to be coming directly at the observer. This phe¬ nomenon happens rarely, and I simply couldn’t believe that so many brilliant, stationary fireballs could appear in such a concentrated area in so short a period. In all my years of looking at the skies and studying the literature of meteoritics, 1 had run across nothing to compare with it. While I was tracking down fireball reports, an apparently unrelated series of events was taking place in scattered parts of the world. Off Hawaii, a Coast Guard vessel found a de¬ flated paper balloon of impressive size floating on the surface. Shortly afterward, a similar envelope was discovered near Kalispcll, Montana. About a hundred miles off San Pedro, Califor¬ nia, a Navy destroyer recovered another giant balloon carrying a complex assemblage of what appeared to be weather instruments. (Mighty clever, these Japanese, thought the Navy men; they're launching weather balloons from subma¬ rines to get information about places they can’t otherwise reach.) Big bomb blasts were heard in several towns — among them Thermopolis, Wyoming, and Ven¬ tura, California — and there were reports of great, silvery, drifting balloons that suddenly blew them¬ selves to smithereens. Odd bits of rice-fabric pa¬ per were picked up in the streets of downtown Los Angeles, and people in scattered parts of the Northwest sighted giant spheres which seemed to be releasing objects from high in the air. At about the same time, Western forest fires sud¬ denly became so numerous and so bad that military personnel had to help fight them. Near an Oregon beach, a group of picnicking children under the care of a pastor’s wife investi¬ gated a strange-looking bundle. It exploded, and the lady and five of her young charges were killed. Officials quietly launched a word-of-mouth cam¬ paign advising people all over the West to keep children away from unfamiliar objects. During this period, B-29 crews coming back from raids over Tokyo started talking about a novel “antiaircraft” device consisting of huge, shining spheres which rose up to meet the Ameri¬ can planes. Puzzled, one of my Second Air Force associates went along on a bombing mission. He came back even more puzzled. He had 10 Could a future enemy endanger us again with balloons ?j‘r( seen the spheres, all right. But he couldn’t under¬ stand why the Japanese were releasing them so soon — much too early to damage the approaching Superforts, or why they were foolish enough to let the balloons rise to heights that even B-29s couldn’t reach, or why they permitted the sup¬ posed weapons to drift out over the ocean, where there was practically no hope of recovering them. Those were the bits and pieces we had to work with: flaming objects in the sky, mysterious explo¬ sions, an epidemic of forest fires, deflated bal¬ loons, some scraps of rice paper, shining spheres over Japan. The pattern was becoming clear. Huge bal¬ loons were being launched in large numbers over the Japanese mainland. Huge balloons were drift¬ ing in large numbers over the American mainland — by now, reports had come in from Mexico, Can¬ ada and Alaska; in the northern territory, up to 17 balloons were sighted in one day — and they were dropping incendiaries, explosives and booby traps. To the scientists working on the balloon project, who knew all about the west-to-east air circulation caused by the earth’s rotation, it seemed obvious that the balloons floating in over North America were the same ones as those seen rising over Japan. But the nonscientists in our group were not easily convinced. They stubbornly maintained that the balloons appearing in the American skies were in¬ flated and launched by submarines off our West Coast. The only way to settle the argument was to capture a balloon. All the recoveries to date had been fragmentary. We needed a whole bal¬ loon, complete with instruments. Catching one, we were soon to discover, was no simple task. The main difficulty was that the balloons were self-destroying. Each went up in a great burst of flame (the Colorado ranchwoman’s fireball) after performing its mission. Various schemes were concocted and rejected. We even considered tearing holes in the spheres with airborne grappling hooks, but then we de¬ cided that a pilot lucky or skillful enough to snag a balloon in this fashion might find it impossible to disengage the hook. We tried shooting down the balloons. They remained defiantly buoyant, even after the fabric had been peppered with holes. Military Pilots Dangerous Exploit Finally, one January afternoon in 1945, a mili¬ tary pilot found one of the balloons over Crater Lake, Oregon, at the unusually low altitude of 28,000 feet. Although the sphere was as big across as a city street, the pilot, flying with extraordinary skill and courage (he might have been burned to a crisp in a split instant), started maneuvering the balloon to earth. His scheme was simple, but difficult to execute. He flew over and around the balloon again and again, whipping so close that the flow of air from his wings and propeller forced the sphere down¬ ward. It took hours, but it worked. The balloon landed on a mountainside near Alturas, California. Ground crews hurried to the scene and captured the bloated mammoth. Everyone rejoiced. At last we had in our hands a complete specimen, intact to the last detail, for study. Then we almost lost it again! The balloon had been taken to Moffett Field, California, then our main West Coast antisubma¬ rine base, whose enormous dirigible hangars pro¬ vided the only space big enough for the captive giant. Military photographers wanted a picture, so several soldiers and I held the balloon’s ropes just outside the hangar. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind roared around the hangar, and we felt ourselves being lifted off the ground. By the time our feet touched earth again, the wind had become a howling fury. We pulled with all our strength, desperately fighting the gale that threatened to sweep our hard-won prize back into the upper atmosphere. We finally brought the balloon under control, but I still remember how angry I was at the men who kept snapping pictures of our struggles, instead of giving us a hand. The captive balloon answered many of our questions. A chemical analysis of its hydrogen proved that the envelope had been filled at a large, land-based factory — the submarine theory was definitely out. Furthermore, the sand in its sand¬ bags was of a type found on Japanese beaches. We were even able to determine which beaches, so bombers were able to strike the launching sites. In any case, there was no doubt that the balloons were coming from across the Pacific. We could not help admiring the ingenuity that had gone into the making of the balloon and its 1 intricate cargo. Most amazing of all, perhaps, was the cheapness of the materials, which obviously made it possible to produce the weapons in quan¬ tity with no strain on Japan’s national budget. The balloon envelope was made of five layers of long-fiber rice paper glued together with hydro- j \ cellulose — as inexpensive a combination as could be imagined. Yet those thin paper envelopes leaked less than one tenth as much as our own costly rub¬ berized-fabric balloons! : The sphere was 33 Vi feet in diameter. Around its webbed center was a strong, flexible band from which hung long shroud lines. A small rubber shock absorber, located where the ropes came to¬ gether, supported the assemblage of gadgets that did all the damage. , On its eastward voyage, the balloon floated somewhere between 25,000 and 50,000 feet above the Pacific. It would descend at night, as the cold air contracted it. When it got low enough, in¬ creased air pressure, measured by a barometer, would close a circuit setting off blowout plugs that would drop a sandbag. The loss of weight would send the balloon up again. All the way across, the balloon would move up and down in great leapfrog arcs. By the time it reached the North American continent, the sandbags, about 20 in all, would be gone, and it would start dropping its cargo — usu¬ ally 16 incendiary bombs, and, in some cases, high-explosive antipersonnel bombs. When the last missile had been released, a two- pound block of picric acid would explode, blast¬ ing all the instruments to bits. Then, when the weight-free hydrogen bag had soared up to great heights, a pouch of magnesium flash-bulb pow¬ der would flare, setting off the “fireball” that so many people had reported seeing. Japanese agents in this country, we later learned, were to use these sightings to give Tokyo some idea how many bal¬ loons were reaching the United States. As it happened, our project was kept so quiet that the Japanese only slowly came to realize how many of their devilish packages were reaching North America and how much damage they could do. Otherwise they might have started sooner on plans which I shall tell about in a moment. The Japanese scientists, with German assistance, tried to overlook nothing. Every sandbag and bomb was supported by two blowout plugs, with circuits wired in parallel. Unless both circuits failed simultaneously, everything worked. The pic¬ ric-acid block and the magnesium powder were meant to ensure that no one would recover any¬ thing of value. But the Japanese made one miscalculation. They used a wet-cell battery to power the balloon’s elec¬ trical circuits. Had they used dry cells, we might even yet be wondering what hit us. The below-zero temperatures at, high altitudes often froze the wet cells, rendering all circuits inoperative, and mak¬ ing it possible for us to capture enough balloons intact to give us a good idea of what we were up against. (Some of the catches were quite dramatic. One man was carried back and forth across a val¬ ley from one hillside to another several times, hanging stubbornly to the balloon’s shroud lines until help came.) Collier’s for January 17, 1953

Page 159

4 11 Ve working on tlefenses — but the Pacific winds still blow in one direction: <mrs As our collection of balloons grew, a newer and bigger worry began to keep us awake nights. The first balloons we recovered had been hand¬ made affairs. The balloons we began to find in the spring of 1945 were unmistakably machine-tooled. Apparently the first balloons had been sent across for test purposes; now the Japanese obviously were mass-producing the spheres in preparation for a large-scale offensive. But what kind of offensive? We knew that the balloons were designed to carry much heavier pay loads than any we had seen. But we feared there might be more than just bigger incendiaries and explosive bombs in the new cargoes. By the middle of 1945, no less than 900 of the Japanese balloons were estimated to have safely made the transpacific voyage, although we had sighted or recovered fewer than 300, in whole or in part. Most of the balloons had clustered in the Northwest, but some had drifted as far as Detroit. In June, 1945, the balloon offensive tapered off. But that did nothing to allay our suspicions. We knew the halt was only temporary, due partly to the damage our bombing crews had inflicted on the launching bases, but mostly to a normal sum¬ mertime wind change which would have carried the balloons off course. In that lull period before the expected storm, we anxiously tried to figure out what might be in store for us when the autumn winds began to blow steadily our way again. Our worst fears were confirmed at secret conferences of top officials. As technical director of the Second Air Force Operations Analysis Section, I received a number of reports based on these conferences. They con¬ tained factual evidence such as prisoner-of-war statements, digests of captured documents and in¬ telligence summaries — all apparently completely authentic — which could only mean that the Japa¬ nese were planning to use bacteriological warfare. Many types of diseases, according to these doc¬ uments, were being considered, infectious to ani¬ mals and human beings alike. The reports indicated that the biggest project was in Nanking — now in Red China — where a Japanese major general was said to be supervising the growth of certain germs (if I remember correctly, the verdict of our experts was that he was growing anthrax spores in potato cultures) to be launched in bal¬ loons. I’m sure the knees of many brave men were shaking at many a hush-hush meeting which I attended in those harried days during the summer of 1945. Conferences with veterinarians at Ohio State University, men who had had firsthand ex- perience} with anthrax epidemics, did nothing to put our minds at ease. We learned, for example, about the dread “wool- sorters’ disease,” a swift, deadly pulmonary infec¬ tion which often afflicts people who handle the wool or hides of anthrax-stricken animals. If anthrax had been dropped in quantity over Amer¬ ica (penicillin was in its infancy in those days, remember), it would have taxed our medical re¬ sources to the utmost. If the Japanese used the full arsenal of danger¬ ous animal diseases available to them, one alarmed veterinary expert said, perhaps with some exag¬ geration, within six months there might not be a hooved animal left between the Arctic Circle and the Panama Canal. And those were only the be¬ ginnings of the dread possibilities. Our anxiety was further heightened when an authoritative report was placed before us indicat¬ ing that the Japanese were planning to launch lit¬ erally thousands of balloons in the coming fall offensive, expecting at least one tenth of them to reach the target. It was a frightening prospect, but those of us who saw the report had to assume it was correct. Countermeasures? There seemed to be almost none — except to fight the bacteria when they came. The balloons Collier’s for January 17, 1953 contained almost no metal, so chances were slim that any might be picked up on the relatively crude radar of 1945. Besides, with thousands of them coming our way, even the most elaborate precautionary networks of aircraft and antiair¬ craft probably could not prevent some from get¬ ting through. And not many would have to get through to give us a very hard time. Then came the great reprieve. The first A-bomb exploded at Hiroshima, and the second was dropped at Nagasaki. (Some peo¬ ple talked about how inhuman we Americans were. If they had only known what we avoided! I don’t know how much influence the anticipated Japa¬ nese balloon offensive had on President Truman’s decision to use the bomb, but it seems reasonable to guess it was a factor in his consideration.) The Japanese quit the war. The balloon threat was ended, and there was peace in the world — we thought. We could all sit back and relax. Cold War Follows Illusory Peace As everyone now knows, the peace was illusory: we had merely gone from a hot war to a cold war that threatened at any moment to get hot again. I am not one of those people who believe a third world war is inevitable. But there seems to be no question that it is a definite possibility. The Russians most certainly know all about the Japanese balloons and their capabilities. So do the German and Japanese scientists who are captive workers — perhaps willingly, perhaps unwillingly — for the Soviet cause. The Russians, whatever else one may say about them, have some excellent bac¬ teriologists. And the wind over the northern Pa¬ cific is still blowing just as steadily from China, and still in one direction: ours. Those phony germ-warfare charges now being brought against us by the North Koreans and Rus¬ sians — are they efforts to convince the world that we started it before the Reds launch a bacteriolog- ROYAL CANADIAN AIR FORCE This device, slung to balloons by Japanese scientists, dropped incendiaries, explosives ical offensive of their own? We have no way of knowing. But we do know something about the dangers we might face in such warfare. And we also know that balloons can carry more than bacillus bombs They might carry atomic pay loads — and either photoelectric cells or heat-homing devices that would set them off over a big city. Our enemies could not, of course, cn J over 10,000 A-bombs a day. But they could send over that many balloons, some of which might carry fissionable materials. There would hardly be a time of day when a balloon was not visible some¬ where in the vicinity of our Western cities, and — not knowing which were the lethal ones — people might be forced to spend entire days in shelters. Can a more diabolical kind of psychological war¬ fare be imagined? But couldn’t we retaliate by sending balloons across Europe? We might, but it would not be easy. Over land masses like western Europe, all winds are ex¬ tremely variable. I have heard, for example, that during World War II the British sent up balloons which carried long, trailing copper wires. The idea was to hit and short-circuit German power lines and create a nuisance by temporarily halting pro¬ duction wherever they might roam. But they roamed erratically. They cut out as many power lines in France and Belgium as they did in Ger¬ many, and some are reported to have returned to harass the British themselves. The project was soon abandoned. Suppose we were at war with China and our balloons were to drop their missiles on Afghani¬ stan or India? We might do more damage to neu¬ tral and friendly nations than to our enemies. Western Germany offers a partial solution. It’s well inland, almost next door to Russia, and pamphlet-bearing balloons now being released there are undoubtedly getting over the Iron Cur¬ tain. But the vast plains of Russia and China pre¬ sent almost too large a target. Striking specific cities within that huge area would not be easy. A much better solution is being developed by our military scientists. I understand that we now have a balloon which can seek cut the most fa¬ vorable altitude for winds which will lead it to the target area. Nevertheless, though our potential enemies may be somewhat vulnerable, so are we. And we may be sure that Russia at war will never make the mistake of going only halfway. The defense picture isn't entirely a gloomy one. We now have jet planes which can fly much higher and faster than anything we had during World War II. Our new radar is sensitive enough to pick up even raindrops, and our scientists have developed an impressive array of new wonder drugs which thwart diseases previously capable of striking us down overnight. What specific steps can we take to meet the threat of balloon warfare? We can mobilize all our medical resources to fight any epidemic that might come our way. We can, by meteorological studies of air pat¬ terns in the upper atmosphere, be prepared to pre¬ dict the probable launching sites for a potential balloon offensive. We can maintain our present friendly relations with Western Germany — and with South Korea and Japan, which are potential launching sites in the hands of our enemies, and potential attack bases in the hands of our friends. We must keep our scientific research programs moving full steam ahead in order to hold our lead in the atomic race, and we must maintain an air force strong enough to convince our foes that we can retaliate against any kind of warfare. Finally, and most important, we must do all we can to prevent any weapons from ever being used again, by striving for a lasting and honorable peace — while there is still time. ^ A. A,

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12 i i ! I 1 I I The Case of Perry Mason refused to believe the proof against hiselient. The district attorney was too smug. The evidence was too good By ERLE STANLEY GARDNER THE early-morning shadows cast by the moun¬ tains still lay heavily on the town’s main street as the big siren on the roof of the Jebson Commercial Company began to scream shrilly. The danger of fire was always present, and at the sound, men at breakfast rose and pushed their chairs back from the table. Men who were shav¬ ing barely paused to wipe lather from their faces; men who had been sleeping grabbed the first avail¬ able garments. All of them ran to places where they could look for the first telltale wisps of smoke. There was no smoke. The big siren was still screaming urgently as the men formed into streaming lines, like ants whose hill has been attacked. The lines all moved toward the Jebson Commercial Company. There the men were told that the doors of the big vault had been found wide open. A jagged hole had been cut into one with an acetylene torch. The men looked at one another silently. This was the fifteenth of the month. The big, twice-a- month payroll, which had been brought up from the lvanhoe National Bank the day before, had been the prize. Frank Bernal, manager of the company’s mine, the man who ruled Jebson City with an iron hand, arrived and took charge. The responsibility was his, and what he found was alarming. Tom Munson, the night watchman, was lying on the floor in a back room, snoring in drunken slum¬ ber. The burglar alarm, which had been installed within the last six months, had been by-passed by means of an electrical device. This device was so ingenious that it was apparent that, if the work were that of a gang, at least one of the burglars was an expert electrician. Ralph Nesbitt, the company accountant, was significantly silent. When Frank Bernal had been appointed manager a year earlier, Nesbitt had pointed out that the big vault was obsolete. Bernal, determined to prove himself in his new job, had avoided the expense of tearing out the old vault and installing a new one by investing in an up-to-date burglar alarm and putting a special night watchman on duty. Now the safe had been looted of a hundred thou¬ sand dollars, and Frank Bernal had to make a report to the main office in Chicago, with the dis¬ quieting knowledge that Ralph Nesbitt’s memo stat¬ ing that the antiquated vault vvas a pushover was at this moment reposing in the company files. . . . Some distance out of Jebson City, Perry Ma¬ son, the famous trial lawyer, was driving fast along a mountain road. He had planned a week-end \ fishing trip for a long time, but a jury which had waited until midnight before reaching its verdict had delayed Mason’s departure and it was now eight thirty in the morning. His fishing clothes, rod, wading boots and creel were all in the trunk. He was wearing the suit in which he had stepped from the courtroom, and having driven all night he was eager for the cool, piny mountains. A blazing red light, shining directly at him as he rounded a turn in the canyon road, dazzled his road-weary eyes. A sign, STOP — POLICE, had been placed in the middle of the road. Two men, a grim-faced man with a .30-30 rifle in his hands and a silver badge on his shirt and a uniformed motorcycle officer, stood beside the sign. Mason stopped his car. The man with the badge, deputy sheriff, said, “We’d better take a look at your driving license. There’s been a big robbery at Jebson City.’’ “That so?” Mason said. “I went through Jebson City an hour ago and everything seemed quiet.” “Where you been since then?” “I stopped at a little service station and restau¬ rant for breakfast.” “Let’s take a look at your driving license.” Mason handed it to him. The man started to return it, then looked at it again. “Say,” he said, “you’re Perry Mason, the big criminal lawyer!” “Not a criminal lawyer,” Mason said patiently, “a trial lawyer. I sometimes defend men who are accused of crime.” “What are you doing up in this country?” “Going fishing.” The deputy looked at him suspiciously. “Why aren’t you wearing your fishing clothes?” “Because,” Mason said, and smiled, “I’m not fishing.” “You said you were going fishing.” “I also intend,” Mason said, “to go to bed to¬ night. According to you, I should be wearing my pajamas.” (Continued on page 39) Mason turned to Paul Drake and Della Street. “It Mould be suicidal to put Corbin on the stand/’ he said. “He has a record of prior criminal conviction, and he lied” THE IRATE WITNESS

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-* A

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What We Doctors Must Do fi Simply shouting against socialized medicine isn’t enough, warns tliis famous surgeon. FPS It takes expensive equipment and highly trained personnel to offer adequate medical service in a community. Too many doctors are hampered by a lack of facilities, but they needn't be THE American people want better health pro¬ tection. If the medical profession fails to provide it, the government is sure to try. Like most doctors, I’m against government medicine; I’m convinced it would lower the quality of med¬ ical practice. We doctors can forestall that — but not by merely yelling frantically about socialized medicine. Some people are getting the idea that doctors are against any change. We must be con¬ structive. We must do whatever we can to make you, the patient, satisfied at last with the medical service you are getting. I grew up in the days of the old-time doctor. I was graduated by the University of Pennsylvania in 1908, before common use of the automobile, paved roads, rural telephone service and scientific medicine. At the time of my graduation, the family physician was perhaps the best-loved character in America. Older people remember him as a friend and comforter, ministering to their physical, men¬ tal and spiritual ills; as the father confessor, adviser on family relations, psychiatrist and dispenser of medicines. Yet, no matter how warmly he fitted into the life of his times, he was not the kind of doctor we now need. The kind of man, yes; but not the kind of doctor. His training didn't compare with that re¬ quired today. Perhaps he spent two years in the study of medicine. The medical student today studies at least eight years; he is usually around thirty before he is ready to begin practicing med¬ icine — and it may be another five years before he begins to make a living. The old-time family physician could buy all the equipment he needed (including his horse and buggy) for three or four hundred dollars, but the doctor of today must have many thousands of dol¬ lars’ worth of equipment available for his use, if he is to give you the kind of diagnoses and treatments that will maintain your health. How many of you would swap a modern diag¬ nostic examination for the old method: a few thumps on the chest, a look down the throat and a little listening to the heart — often without a stetho¬ scope? Here’s what I’m trying to say: to the old-time doctor, the practice of medicine was an art, partly because not much was known about science. To¬ day, the science takes precedence over the art. Both ways are wrong. The time has come when we doctors must bring the art and the science of med¬ icine into sensible relationship. It can't be done by law. But it can be done. I happen to be an orthopedic surgeon, but there is no reason why I can’t recognize the ills of a whole patient while I am taking care of his bones and joints. His attitude,' environment, frustrations and worries may affect any part of his body. We older doctors used to say that we could tell whether the stock market was going up or down by the stomachs and the colons of our patients. Medical students and young doctors may find this talk of the art of medicine bewildering. How can a man possibly learn all a doctor must know and still take time to listen while a patient unloads his worries? I understand the bewilderment, and sympathize with it. Last autumn, I read a Collier’s article by Red Grange, the great college football player of a generation ago. He said he couldn’t make the varsity today. I feel the same way about medicine. I doubt if I could pass the sophomore examinations. Today’s young doctors have studied harder and longer than I did. They have vastly more knowl¬ edge than I had. I understand why, in the always widening field of medical science, so many of Collier’s for January 17, 1953

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15 o Stay Free \U I)H. r M L B. M \(;\( SON uilli JAMBS 0. DEBUT \ tncricans want boiler health services, and if medical men don*l ael, llie government mu\ them decide to become specialists. But it oflcn is a mistake, I think, for a young man to begin to spe¬ cialize while still in the early stages of training, before he has had experience in the broad field of medicine — or with patients. It is important to know not only what disease a patient has, but what pa¬ tient has the disease. People do not like to be passed from one specialist to another, like anonymous speci¬ mens — and 1 don’l blame them. When it is necessary to send a pa¬ tient to another doctor to get the right diagnosis or treatment, I have found it a good idea to tell him why, so he will not feel that he has lost his identity. When I was teaching at North¬ western University Medical School, 1 tried to make my students under¬ stand that medicine cannot be a precise science, because human be¬ ings arc not identical. One approach 1 used was to tell a class, the first time it met, that before proceeding we would have to choose a member who had a normal face. The stu¬ dents would look at me blankly. “Can't you do that?” I'd ask. “Has Ihe admissions committee let in a class without a single normal face? Are all of you deformed? Or” — and then 1 would come to Ihe point — “are you all normal? “If you don't learn anything else from me.” I'd continue, “1 want you to remember that every patient you meet is differ¬ ent from any individual you ever saw before. His skin is different, his disposition is different, his me¬ tabolism is different, his body chemistry is differ¬ ent, his fears and his family history are different. You will never find a ‘normal' stomach or ‘normal' spine, any more than we can find a normal face in this classroom. When you have learned that, you will know the basis on which you must practice medicine." Too much specialization may make a doctor for¬ get the individualism of the individual. 1 once had a patient with swollen knees. He had been to many doctors, but still his knees would sometimes swell until he could hardly get his pants on. 1 suspected an allergy and had him list every item of food he ate. Then we started cutting first one item then another off his diet. But still, every now and then, his knees would swell. Finally spinach was the only food left; so he stopped eating it. The man went away, and I did not sec him again for six months. I supposed he had got tired of me, and had moved on to another doctor. Then one day he came to my office. “Doctor," he said, “you hit the mark! I haven't had swollen knees since 1 cut out spinach." We talked about his trouble for a while, then I asked him, “How would you like to be a guinea pig? 1 want you to cat big helpings of spinach three times in the next few days. Let’s sec what happens." He tried it — and got swollen knees again. Some¬ thing happened in his chemical plant when he ate spinach, but don't ask me what, or why the swell¬ ing was always in his knees. 1 don't know the answer. That man’s problem was solved by the trial and error method, which at times is the only method Collier’s for January 17, 1953 CARROLL SEC HERS Dr. Paul B. Magnuson, one of America’* top orthopedic surgeon*, headed the Presidential commission which reported oil America’s health needs last month. He’s also known for his fight, ns VA medical director, to maintain high standards of veterans’ care to use. But treating patients as individuals isn't enough. Science must be the partner of art. Un¬ fortunately, the scientific facilities available to many of our doctors are far from satisfactory. The modern doctor must have hospitals, or med¬ ical centers, or diagnostic clinics where proper examinations of patients can be made. He cannot carry radioisotopes in his little black bag. His automobile isn't designed for an X-ray machine. Biochemical tests can’t be made in the patient’s kitchen. Diagnosis and maintenance of health will never be as good as they can be, unless the doc¬ tor has electrocardiographs to check the condi¬ tion of the heart, blood-pressure readings to learn the condition of the circulation — -and the ability to interpret the tests. The Flaw in the Old-Timers’ Logic If some old-timers rise to say they lived without all this, I’ll tell them yes, they did, but too many of their neighbors did not. The life expectancy of a man today is about 20 years longer than it was 50 years ago. when we had only the art of medical practice. Many of the infectious diseases of a gen¬ eration ago — typhoid fever, scarlet fever, diph¬ theria, measles, whooping cough — have all but disappeared, or have been reduced to minor ill¬ nesses. Tuberculosis is coming under control. In¬ fant mortality is only about one third of what it was in 1915. These advances have been accom¬ plished by the science of medicine. Even if there were enough doctors to make home calls on every family needing them today, this country would not have adequate health services unless scientific equipment and trained personnel are available to the doctors to aid in diagnosis. There is no reason why most communities should lack these facilities PracticalK every town in A men*. . today has good roads, schools and churches, and most of them have good li¬ braries. If a community wants the best of health maintenance, it can get that, too. It is up to us private practitioners, to medical schools, to state and local boards of health to tell the people how to get the fa¬ cilities, how to use them, and how¬ to get the trained personnel to staff them. Under the Hill-Burton Act, passed by the Congress in 1946, 1,900 hospital projects have been approved, of which 1,010 have been completed, with federal aid. in every state and territory. More than half the new hospitals have been built in towns of less than 5,000 population. The projects will add 90,000 hospital beds, 360 pub¬ lic health centers and 15 state health laboratories to the nation's total. Wc need 800.000 more beds. But we are moving to meet that great shortage, which developed in the depression and war years, when there was very little construction done for civilians — and when the practice of medicine was chang¬ ing rapidly from home-bedside to hospital treatment. The initiative in efforts to get a Hill-Burton facility is taken by the local community. After completion, the facility belongs to the com¬ munity. The federal government makes its con¬ tribution, then gets out. Under the act, a community can have a modern clinic which would provide free, part-pay or full- rate medical examinations and health advice to all citizens who want them. But the clinics should not provide free treatment. The family phvsician, nearby hospital or specialist would treat the pa¬ tients at the usual rates, graded to the patient's economic status. It is unreasonable for a community to demand that its doctors give service out of all proportion to the service demanded of hankers or grocers or plumbers. The doctor has spent more time, effort and money preparing himself than any of the others, and he has a right to receive fair pay. Of course, he will accept nonpaying responsibilities, but he has his own family to Iced, in most cases, and a limited number of years for earning. Doctors should face the question of fees hon¬ estly and realistically, and explain the problem to the public. 1 think we should encourage private insurance companies to move more and more into the field of complete family health insurance. Fees would tend to become standardized, because the insurance companies would have to operate on an actuarial basis, certain that the premiums are enough to pay the claims. I believe firmly that private insurance can do a better and less costlv job than would he possible under government in¬ surance — although the government might establish a reinsurance corporation to protect private com¬ panies against catastrophic losses. Most families can aff ord insurance coverage, and there would be only a small number of needy cases for doctors and hospitals to take care of. Widespread insurance coverage, assuring doc¬ tors of reasonable fees in nearly all cases, would

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16 I'edert (I eo ntrol i.v one matter, federal aid another , .v«i/.v </it* author. With yovcrnmei vd have another good result. It would help the med¬ ical profession cleanse itself of fee splitting be¬ tween practitioner and surgeon, which often results now from economic urgency. Supposing we provide adequate health facil¬ ities lor all Americans — are there enough doctors to take care of everybody? In the United States today there is one doctor to approximately 850 persons. No other country has that many. But our doctors are not distributed as we would like, and that’s why you hear talk of a “doctor shortage.” Yet we are making progress. There are now 72 full status medical colleges in the United States, with more than 26,000 students. Several of these colleges are expanding, and some new ones are coming into being. We won’t eliminate the “doctor shortage” in all localities for years to come, quality simply cannot be sacrificed for quantity in medical education. But the shortage can be made less acute almost everywhere, even without more doctors, by a better distribution of the doctors already in practice. For years, young doctors have been going to cities to practice, because that’s where the facil¬ ities, the people and the money are. (New' York State, largely urban, has 205 doctors for each 100,000 of population, while mainly rural Missis- 7 j<r * sippi has but 70 per 100,000.) As a result, there has been a serious breakdown of medical services in hundreds of rural communities, and neglected patients have begun to w'onder w'hether American free enterprise is working in the health field. Some steps are being taken to clear up the rural health situation. In Kansas, Dr. Franklin D. Mur¬ phy, chancellor of the University of Kansas Med¬ ical School, met with officers of the Stale Medical Society and Board of Flealth. They worked out the Kansas Rural Health Plan, a three-part program designed ( 1 ) to expand the faculty, hospital and laboratory of the medical school so the number of students could be increased by 25 per cent; (2) to help rural communities set up w'ell-equipped “med¬ ical workshops” to attract good doctors; and (3) to provide circuit lectures and university refresher courses for physicians all over the state, to keep them abreast of medical developments. The Kansas legislature, at the urging of doctors, farmers and others, appropriated almost $4,000,- 000 in 1949 to put Dr. Murphy’s plan into oper¬ ation. Since then, rural medical workshops have become common in Kansas. They aren’t equipped for surgery, but they don’t have to be. If there’s a hospital within 100 miles, it usually is possible to get a major surgical case there by passenger auto¬ mobile or ambulance. Another illustration of the kind of medical leadership we need is Dr. George F. Bond, who has practiced at Bat Cave, North Carolina, for some years. He was wearing himself out, and still he could not give his patients the kind of treatment he wanted them to have. Finally he called together the leaders of the community and said he could not go on for long at the kind of day-and-night saddlebag medicine he w'as compelled to practice. The Bat Cave people were aroused at the pros¬ pect of losing their doctor. In less than a year, the Dr. George F. Bond (1.), concerned at quality Cave, N.C., got townsfolk to build hospital community raised enough money for a 12-bed hospital, later expanded to 16 beds. Some surgery is done there; some is passed on to larger hospitals and specialists. Dr. Bond estimates that about 90 per cent of the community’s medical needs are now being met. He is doing the work of several doctors, because he can care for so many more patients. A third illustration of good spark-plugging by a doctor is that of Dr. H. C. McCoy, in Gordons- ville, Virginia. Dr. McCoy returned to Gordons- ville from military service in 1945, eager to stay — but only under satisfactory conditions. He took the lead in organizing the Gordonsville Medical Aid Fund, w'hich, without any state or federal help, ex¬ panded a small, inadequate hospital to a modern 40-bed establishment. Wealthy persons in the area contributed to the fund, on condition that there be beds for the needy; others loaned money to it. Doc¬ tor McCoy brought in a partner, Dr. J. G. Bruce, Jr.; later a dentist opened offices in the hospital. Improving facilities is only one answer to the rural health problem. Small towns also need more doctors. Most medical students today are from cities, and they generally return to the cities when they finish their studies. Somehow, w'e must get more country boys into our medical schools — and then lure them right back to the country by supply¬ ing them w'ith proper facilities. Dr. W. C. Davison, dean of the Duke University School of Medicine, tells of another reason why country boys have trouble becoming country doc¬ tors. “We practice a kind of discrimination against them,” he says. “They can’t qualify for medical school because their high-school and college back¬ ground is weak.” That’s a problem for the state educators. Meanwhile, Dr. Davison hopes tutoring courses may be provided for rural boys of first- rate ability but deficient education, so more of them can enter medical schools. He also says boys of medicine lie was forced to practice in Bat below. Result: better care for more patients EWART BALL - at

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17 clp . physicians can meet the nation's health ncctls — a ml uithout sacrificing f rcctltnn who may practice in the country should marry country girls, but I don’t know how he intends to work that out. City girls, he says, generally protest against their husbands’ going to the country. The steps 1 have been discussing in this article seem to me to otlcr a practical, middle-of-the-road solution to the shortage of medical facilities which has been plaguing many localities in recent years. My suggestions would avoid the two extreme view¬ points which have developed, one favoring a sort of do-little, or status quo policy, the other going all the way to national health insurance (and a long way toward socialization of health maintenance). The status quo advocates say this nation’s medi¬ cal facilities arc far better than those of any other industrialized people and that government action of any kind is sure to be contrary to individual initiative, harmful to 'patient-doctor relationships, expensive and bureaucratic. The group at the other extreme seems to think that illness can be handled by law; that Washington can serve the diversified needs of regions, states and localities better than these areas can serve themselves; that state and local governments and agencies are ineffective; that national health insur¬ ance will solve all our medical problems; that an¬ other agency in Washington need not weaken our American system of individual initiative. One of these extremes is as far olF base as the other. Members of the first group arc right when they say America has good health, but they over¬ look several facts. Unless we maintain continuing improvement, we will deteriorate. Action by the federal government is not necessarily incompatible with the private enterprise system; the federal gov¬ ernment can help without controlling. Co-opera¬ tion between government and private agencies is an effective way for government to serve the peo¬ ple, without becoming their master. The advocates of national health insurance ig¬ nore a few facts, too (or, at least, take a far more optimistic attitude than the lacts justify). In my opinion, a law designed to eliminate illness will be no more effective than a law designed to eliminate war. There is little doubt that bureaucratic con¬ trol is damaging to individual initiative; under a national health plan, the controls would tend to become more important than the patients. Further¬ more, the nation’s health problem is too complex to lend itself to any single solution; how about the shortage and maldistribution of doctors and the professional personnel needed to help them? Most important, everywhere a compulsory scheme of medical aid has been tried, the results have been disappointing. Last summer 1 visited England to study that nation’s socialized medicine setup. I found that the British family doctor devotes two thirds of his office time to 28 varieties of official forms (includ¬ ing 18 basic forms which must be filled out for ev¬ ery patient). These physicans can’t really practice medicine because they lack both facilities and time. I sat with one doctor while he saw 18 patients in 90 minutes; all he had time to do was ask a few questions, then reach for a form. This is not my idea of good health maintenance. It is contrary to American ideals and to the meth¬ ods which have given such fine results up to now. I don't think this country will go the socialist way in medicine — but I want to make certain it will not, by arousing doctors to take the lead in seeking solutions to our undeniable problems. If we arc to keep the medical profession, and America, free, we must combine medical science with the humanities of practice, educate the public to its own medical needs, encourage private health insurance programs, expand facilities for medical education, increase our ability to serve more people per doctor by stimulating communities to acquire health centers of one kind or another, and, in sum¬ mary, shatter all the arguments for government control of medicine by demonstrating that our free way is the better way for the patients. Jk Jk Jk Collier’s for January 17, 1953 R TH-dfS-<| At urging of I)r. H. C. McCoy, Gordonsville, Vn., expanded its small, inadequate hospital to modern establishment with free beds for needy. Hospital now has two doctors, one dentist COURTCr.V UN VERITY OF KANSAS University of Kansas professors and fieldwor kers start on circuit tour to inform country doctors of medical advances — part of state-financed program to improve rural health care

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ROBERT BUGG 4fcWlicn the Lord's Dollar went in,’' I said, “I went out. I didn't like the look in Harry's eyes'’ The Lords Dollar B\ It. M. ATKIN SOM, Jit. REVEREND MEEKER'S money-raising plan would have gone off without a bobble if Harry Tate just hadn’t been in the con¬ gregation that morning. The scheme was this: instead of putting money in the collection plate, the congregation was supposed to take money out . But not to keep, the reverend explained real fast; the church was in bad enough financial shape as it was. What he wanted was for everybody to take one of the crisp, new dollar bills he had put in the plate and invest it for the Lord. The pro¬ ceeds were to be returned to the plate the next Sunday morning. For example, some lady might invest her dollar in apples and sugar and convert them into apple pics for selling. He thought the returns on the Lord's Dollar would be pretty hand¬ some. Well, the whole thing was based on the parable of the Good and Faithful Servant, and everybody thought it was a whale of an idea. The ushers passed the plates, and we all took out a dollar. There were some mighty poor risks in the crowd, but nobody got excited until they saw Harry Tate, sitting on the back pew all by himself, dip his long, bony, white fingers into the till. Nobody had realized he was there, and you could hear women gasping all over the place. My wile. Edna, punched me. “Blasphemy, that’s what it is!’' she whispered loudly. Well, I wanted to punch her back but not with my elbow. It there was ever a Christian gentle¬ man, it was Harry l ate. Didn't drink, didn’t cuss, didn't chase women, and wherever he was, he went to church every Sunday. What put the Lucifer label on him was his gambling. He played poker for a living, a very high-tone living. He operated up East, but every fall he came back home to our town for a couple of weeks of bird hunting. That’s what made our wives rise up in their wrath. He had a room at the hotel, and every night we could, we'd slip down there and take him on. 18 That’s when he’d really prove he was a gentle¬ man. He knew we were all out to cut his throat — show him what sharks we were — but he’d never let on. Every trip, he'd drop a couple of hundred, and then say he was awful glad he was getting back to the Eastern amateurs: we pros had really cut him up. Joe Craig, Charlie Burkes, Tom Bag- shaw and the rest of them really went for that stuff, but 1 knew when 1 was being toyed with. WELL, after church, the morning we heard about the money-raising scheme, the ladies really got wrathful. Mamie Craig, Joe’s wife, said to the reverend: “It’s downright shameful. A fine Christian project like this being ruined by that heathen. Right on a poker table, that’s where Harry Tate’s dollar is going!” The reverend just smiled. “I sure hope not, Mamie. I hear Joe and the boys clean him every time he comes to town.” He had her. Joe was really a missionary’s night¬ mare — along with Charlie and the rest of them. They didn't even belong to a church. The rever¬ end — and their wives — had been trying for ten years to herd them into the fold, but every Sun¬ day morning they were off hunting or fishing or lying around their camp down on the river calling me a hypocrite. Mamie knew it was so, but she got all insulted. ,4I really think he wants that tainted money!” she said to my wife. “If he does . . .” That’s the way it went all week. When they weren’t investing the Lord’s Dollars in cakes and pics, they were grumbling about Harry’s unholy offering. The situation had its compensations, though. Every night my wife forced me down to Harry's room. She figured it was her Christian duty to keep abreast of all the local sinning. Every morning at breakfast I’d get the same sneering question. “Well! Did the Lord's Dollar get in the game last night?” 1 told her I’d let her know when it showed up. I did. It got in the game Saturday night. At five o’clock Sunday morning I was shaking her awake. “It showed up,” 1 said. “The Lord’s got seven¬ teen thousand, four hundred and twenty-four dol¬ lars and twenty-three cents coming!” She bolted up in bed, but it took her thirty sec¬ onds to get her mouth in gear. “Seventeen thou¬ sand dollars!” she shouted. “Not all in cash!” 1 said. “Mostly in IOUs, bad checks and mortgages on stores and farmsl” Her mouth wouldn’t work again. 1 put it back in gear. “I didn’t lose a ccntl” I said. “When the Dollar went in, 1 went out. I didn’t like the look in Har¬ ry’s eyes.” That took the hysterics out of her voice, when she spoke again, but she still had plenty of volume. “He cheated! Nobody could win like that and — ” “Nope,” I said, “he just quit pampering them. He played with them like he plays with the boys up East. He checked a few cinches into ’em, bluffed ’em a few times, and they started crowing and saying they could be just as big time as he could. They bet mad; Harry bet ’em when he had ’em. That was all it took. He — ” She wasn’t interested in the technical details. “Seventeen thousand dollars!” she said again. “They’ll be the rest of their lives trying to pay off the—” “Well,” I said, “he was offering to settle with them when 1 left. Drives a pretty hard bargain though.” “That heartless, godless creature!” she said. “He’d better not dare come near that church!” She waited till about eight o’clock, and then she headed for the telephone: the Ladies Aid Paul Revere. BY THE time church started, the reverend and everybody in the congregation had heard about it. And everybody but the reverend and 1 was try¬ ing to look shocked instead of fascinated. By the time the hymns and the responsive reading were over, though, they really were shocked. No Harry. My wife was like all the rest of them — so disap¬ pointed she could spit. “This church will never see that dollar again!” she said. “He’s not only a swindler, he’s a com¬ mon thief!” They had one hope. All the Investors for the Lord had to make their reports. Harry might come in while that was going on. At the end of an hour, though, every dollar but his had been accounted for. They were ready to form a posse and go after him. He had no business getting off with a dollar sin. They wanted seventeen thousand tainted dol¬ lars’ worth of sin. The reverend was determined to cheat them out of it. He made a short but impassioned report on the project, and then he got ready to wind things up. He raised his arms and issued his usual in¬ vitation. “If there be those present who would join the church of the Lord, will they please come forward!” Well, there was this stir in the vestibule and then this wholesale gasp. Harry Tate was coming down the aisle. That was sensation enough, but follow¬ ing in his wake was the primest bunch of sinners in all captivity: Joe, Charlie, Ed and Tom. Their faces looked like tomatoes. Harry's was right appropriate. He was wearing his poker face. He led them down to the railing around the altar, sort of bowed to the reverend, handed him a dollar, stalked back up the aisle, and was gone. No church had ever gotten such a bargain: four lost souls for a dollar. That’s the way he had set¬ tled with them. They could either pay up, he told them, or they could join the church — and stay joined. He'd be back checking on them. I was the only one who knew the details, but there wasn’t a soul in church who wasn't putting two and two together and coming up with the an¬ swer. My wife got real red and hung her head. Not the reverend. There wasn’t a happier shep¬ herd in all the fields of the Lord. He knew those stray sheep at the railing had been forced into the fold, but they were his for the taming. And the taming wasn’t going to be too hard. A A. A Collier's short short

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20 How Marciano Can Be Beaten c By CHARLEY GOLDMAN with TOM MEANY «■ The trainer of the great undefeated heavyweight admits his boy someday probably will be defeated, lint it will take a lot to make The Rock crumble — and he explains why 1 SKJNG me who is going to take the hcavy- f\ weight title from Rocky Marciano is like 1 V asking a Republican who’s going to sueeeed Eisenhower as President. After all, the guys have just moved in. The question before the house is: What kind of a fighter will beat Marciano? That’s a tough one to answer because you have to remember that nobody has licked Roeky — yet. It is logical to suppose that somebody will some¬ day, beeause virtually every fighter has been beaten somewhere along the line. One reason it is difficult to piek out a man who will defeat Mareiano is that I, as Rocky’s trainer, don’t believe he has reaehed his peak yet. He’s still coming up and, while 1 don’t look for him to add any new stuff, I’m eertain that he’ll im¬ prove the weapons he already has. Marciano has had only about half the experience of any other boxer who has been in the ring for the same length of time. That sounds screwy until you remember that most of Roeky’s fights ended in early-round knockouts. He averaged only four rounds a fight until he took the heavyweight title from Jersey Joe Walcott in Philadelphia last September. Everybody, fans and experts, raved about Mar¬ ciano’s knockout of Walcott, but take it from me, Rocky was not at his best. He was daydreaming against Jersey Joe, not concentrating on the busi¬ ness at hand as he did against Joe Louis or Kid Matthews. He wasn’t overconfident, eareless or anything like that, but he just couldn’t believe that he, a kid from Brockton, Massachusetts, was really fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world. If he hadn't been wearing boxing gloves he’d probably have pinehed himself to see if he was awake. I can appreciate how Rocky felt that night. The same thing happened to me when 1 had a great deal more experience under my belt than Marciano. Back in 1912, I boxed 10 rounds in New York against Johnny Coulon, who was then the bantam¬ weight champion of the world. 1 stayed the 10 rounds w ith Johnny, but I was fighting in a tranee. Any time a fighter meets his first champion it’s bound to have an effect on him. Lots of fellows, of eourse, win the championship first eraek out of the box, as Rocky did, but rarely is the fight one of their best. Rocky’s daydreaming is over now. The title is a reality and you’ll see Marciano a rnueh improved fighter. The fact that he is the heavyweight cham¬ pion is bound to make him a better fighter. And his confidence in himself certainly wasn’t jarred when the New York Boxing Writers Associations last month voted him the Fighter of the Year. When 1 say Marciano will improve I’m not shill¬ ing for him just because I’m his trainer. He went into the Walcott fight with only 176 rounds of box¬ ing experience. The record books had Jersey Joe with elose to 500 rounds of experience — and maybe many more rounds which weren’t in the books. It also was the first time in Rocky's life that he ever fought longer than 10 rounds. Out of 42 fights before he beat Walcott, Marciano had only five which went to a 10-round decision and one in whieh he scored a knockout in the tenth. But let's get back to the fighter who's going to take Marciano, it anybody ever does. First of all, it won't be a fighter who resembles anybody fighting currently. The guy will have to be versatile, for Roeky has beaten all kinds of fighters, which makes pieking the fighter who will eventually liek him a tough proposition. He stopped a smart, experienced fighter, a sharp hitter and a good ring general in Waleott. He beat boxers like Roland LaStarza and Kid Matthews, punehers like Joe Louis. Whatever type they threw against him. Rocky took eare of them. Ahead on Points When He Landed KO A thing everybody overlooks about Marciano is that he not only beat everybody he ever fought but of those he knoeked out — 38 out of 43 — he was ahead of every one of them on points when he hung up the kayo, with the exception of Waleott. Jersey Joe was leading on points when Roeky hung the equalizer on him but there was an excuse for it. 1 already mentioned that Mareiano was day¬ dreaming in the Waleott fight, but don’t forget, too, that he suffered a temporary blindness in the fight. Some ointment, or something, got into his eyes and he had to fight three rounds in darkness. It was an aecident, of eourse, but it didn’t help our guy any. The first asset you’ll have to look for in Marci¬ ano’s conqueror is durability. He’ll have to have a ehin of granite, like Jim Jeffries had in his prime. Big Jeff was about as rugged a man as I ever saw. He was past thirty-five and hadn’t fought in six years when Jack Johnson knoeked him out. And it took big Johnson 15 rounds to finish him off. It was, incidentally, the only time anybody ever knoeked Jim out. I don’t think there ever has been a fighter who ean dish it out like Mareiano, so the first thing the man who will beat him must have is the ability to absorb plenty of punishment. I don’t know if people even today realize what a murderous hitter Roeky is. Just before he knoeked out Matthews in New York, he belted out Bernie Reynolds in Providence, Rhode Island. Reynolds actually floated through the air in a horizontal position and his shoulder blades and the baek of his heels hit the deck simultaneously. Giving a man the chin and stamina of Jeffries is A bemused Roeky gazes at the composite portrait Goldman has dreamed up of the next heavyweight champion. He will he a tough guy to tangle with, all right, hut he will find Rocky a rough one too DRAWING BY WILLARD MULLIN

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gramh* JA» AND JEFFR'E5 l£FTHOOK OF ^.r-l KETCUEL FIREPOWER l \ LOWS OR /p DEMPSEY / * JOBBING WEAVING STYLE OF A DEMPSEY FOOTWORK, and SPEED OF AN O'BRIEN ^W»\ VJ.v\\\w i

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THE "TWO-TEN” SERIES Dramatic new styling and advanced new features in seven models: 2-Door Sedan, 4-Door Sedan (illustrated). Club Coupe, Sport Coupe, Convertible, and two Station Wagons — The Townsman and the "Two-Ten” Handyman. Now of- your Chevrolet Dealers in m/ CHEVROLET FOR 1953 In all fairness, we’d better give you this friendly warning: Allow yourself plenty of time when you stop in at your Chevrolet dealer’s to see what’s new and different about Chevrolet for ’53. For there are so many wonderful new things you’ll want to look over and learn about. The 16 beautiful models in 3 great new series, offering the widest selection in the low-price field. The superb new Chevrolet styling, outside and in. The great advances in power, performance and economy of operation. The new Powerglide,* the new Power Steering,* the new features everywhere. So go prepared for the most exciting and reward¬ ing visit you ever made to an automobile show¬ room. Go prepared to see a Chevrolet so far ahead of its field that you’d never guess it’s the lowest- priced line in its field! Chevrolet Division of General Motors, Detroit 2, Michigan. A/eu/Z U/o/ic/e/Au/Zf/ ZZZZZerent/

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24 to help keep America the cleanest nation on earth! Continuous production of finest soaps and detergents in unbeliev¬ able quantities has made the prod¬ ucts of Procter & Gamble household words! In the vast plants of this in¬ dustrial leader, to keep vital machin¬ ery in motion is of first importance. Here— as in the plants of all leaders of industry— you will find many ma- Findtng new ways to cut costs and speed production meons vitol beoring sur¬ faces must be lubricoted quickly, efficiently, economically. This latest Alemite Loader Pump ond Hand Gun keep lubricants refinery-clean from barrel-to-bearing — cut lubricant waste drasticolly — sove time and money. chines protected by Alemite Lubri¬ cation Systems. Alemite — Great Name in Lubrication — Serves the Great Names in Industry It was Alemite’s invention, in 1918, that marked the end of the crude, unsure grease-cup method of lubri¬ cation. Perfected the tiny Fittings that gave the world of industry its first high-pressure lubrication method and opened new horizons to lubrication science. Today— in industry— on farms— at sea — in the air — Alemite “Friction- Fighters” work unceasingly. Roller skates to motor cars. Bicycles to bombers. Wherever metal touches metal, wherever machinery is in motion, you find these vital Fittings —and the lubrication “know-how” of 35 years of Alemite progress from invention to perfection. I.IJ.I1 11*1 U ALEMITE EEQ 35 YEARS OF LUBRICATION PROGRESS Rocky’s conqueror won’t be a stand-i If* asking a lot, but that’s only the start of it. The man who would beat Marciano must be able to hit like Jack Dempsey or Joe Louis, or even Rocky himself, who I believe hits harder than Jack or Joe. Dempsey and Louis beat their opponents to the ground with a series of punches, but it takes only one with Rocky. Louis is one of the very few of the 38 guys Marciano stiffened who needed a second punch to finish him. In addition to having the fire power in his fists of a Dempsey or Louis, Marciano’s theoretical conqueror would have to be able to jab like Tommy Loughran or Gene Tunney. Both had accurate left jabs which they used effec¬ tively to keep their opponents off bal¬ ance. A really good jab would be necessary to prevent a puncher like Rocky getting his right hand across. KetchePs Deadly Left Hook great faith in Marciano is that I can see how far he has come since I first saw him back in 1948. That we ever met at all was due to a story written by Jack Cuddy, the boxing editor of the United Press, which appeared in a Brockton paper. Cuddy did a piece about me and my boss, A1 Weill. Weill (who was for¬ merly the matchmaker for the Interna¬ tional Boxing Club in Madison Square Garden) and I have known each other for nearly 40 years. A1 managed three world’s champions before Marciano, and I served as trainer for all three — Lou Ambers, the lightweight champion; Joey Archibald, featherweight; and Marty Servo, welterweight. MARCH OF DIMES Another weapon anybody who hopes to take Marciano would need would be a left hook like Stanley Ketchel’s. He had a really explosive hook. Any time Ketchel missed a right, he’d shift and come in with a left hook that was dyna¬ mite. Ketchel had Johnson on the mat when big Jack was at his peak and out¬ weighed Stanley by 25 pounds. That gives the man who succeeds Marciano exceptional physical ability to take punishment and to dish it out. And he’ll need more than that — he’ll have to be a whale of a defensive fighter, too. Any stand-up fighter is a dead pigeon against Rocky. To give him trouble, his opponent must fight out of a weav¬ ing crouch like Dempsey, which will make him hard to hit. Although Jack had the reputation of sacrificing defense for offense, his crouch made him a dif¬ ficult target. Rocky, who is five feet eleven inches, is no sitting duck, be¬ cause of his crouch. Not only will the man who beats Marciano have to present the barest of possible targets for Rocky to shoot at, but he’ll have to have elusiveness and clever footwork. Here he would have to resemble Philadelphia Jack O'Brien, who, to my mind, was the classiest boxer we ever had. A crouch like Dempsey’s and foot¬ work like O'Brien’s are essential for any¬ body meeting a puncher like Marciano. His opponent can’t afford to be nailed, because once he’s hit, he’s gone. I’ve been watching boxing for over 50 years — ever since as a kid I used to follow Terrible Terry McGovern around the streets of south Brooklyn — and I’ve never seen anybody stiffen guys as em¬ phatically as Rocky. Now let’s add up all the parts and see what it takes to make the man who’s going to take Marciano. He’ll need the iron chin, the endurance and stamina of Jeffries; the punching power of Demp¬ sey and Louis; the jab of Tunney and Loughran; the left hook of Ketchel; the bobbing, weaving style of Dempsey and the speed and footwork of O’Brien. That would make him a superman — and that’s just what he w’ould have to be. One thing I'll bet on right now — the man who takes the crown from Marci¬ ano isn't going to outgame him. Rocky has a great heart and that's something no trainer can give you. You have to be born with it. He'll never fold — you can lay odds on that. Perhaps the reason that I have such FIGHT INFANTILE PARALYSIS JANUARY 2-31 Cuddy wrote that Weill had a knack of bringing young, green fighters along, that he was a shrewd manager and that I could teach youngsters boxing, pro¬ vided they were willing to learn. The article was seen by a lifelong pal of Rocky’s, A1 Colombo, and he wrote and asked if we could spare the time to look over Marciano. A1 wrote back to Colombo and told him to bring the fighter to the Catholic Youth Or¬ ganization gym in downtown Manhat¬ tan. Anybody connected with boxing is always willing to inspect an unknown heavyweight — for one look, anyway. Green — But Could He Punch! A1 and I have often looked over green kids who thought they could be¬ come fighters but I’ll eat my derby hat if I ever saw anyone cruder than Rocky. There is no point in wasting time with a kid who can’t fight, no mat¬ ter how ambitious he is. The sensible thing for the manager and the trainer, and for the boy as well, is to tell him to go home and learn a trade and forget all about boxing. We would never have taken a chance with Marciano except that right off the reel he showed he could punch with authority. To start with, Marciano was pretty old to learn to be a fighter. He was twenty-four when we first saw him and the time to start out young fighters is Collier’s for January 17, 1953

Page 173

ijiter. Marciano murders that hind when they’re about eighteen. As a kid, Rocky had been a good rugged athlete at Brockton High, taking the work¬ horse jobs, catcher on the ball club, center on the football team. He had done no boxing at all until he got into the Army, and then he started fighting at Fort Lewis, Washington. Because he could punch, Rocky was able to win in the camp bouts, and when he got out of the Army he did some amateur fighting around Brockton, and his showing prompted Colombo to be¬ lieve that he could get somewhere with the proper handling and training. His Left Jab Was All Wrong It was the fact that Marciano was able to get leverage behind his right- hand punches that prompted A1 to take a chance on him. The body was behind every punch and that meant something, even though Rocky was so green that he used to try a left jab with the palm of his glove facing upward. The first thing we had to do with Marciano was to speed up his arms, to get him to punch faster. You couldn’t speed up his legs because they were too heavy and we didn’t try to change his style for fear it would detract from his punching power. There is no ac¬ counting for the boxing style of an in¬ dividual. Take Sammy Angott, for instance. No trainer would dare to teach Angott’s style to a boy, for Sammy did everything wrong, according to the book, yet he won a championship and was the first fighter to defeat Willie Pep, after Willie had won 62 straight fights. Weill is a smart manager and knows how to bring a young fighter along, by not throwing him with men who have too much experience for him or boxers who have styles that will upset him. One thing 1 want to get on the record here and now is that there were never any tank jobs for Marciano, as some people hinted. That’s no way to bring a boy up. Even the greenest fighter can sense when his opponent has been fixed to take a dive, and it destroys his self- confidence. Marciano improved with every fight, which is one reason for my belief that he hasn’t reached his peak yet. He just started to develop his left hand when he knocked out Louis. He was always magnificent with his right but now he carries an equalizer in cither hand. And he’s learned to shorten his punches, too, to shorten them without sacrificing any power. The right-hand wallop that put Walcott away traveled no more than 10 inches. One worry 1 had with some fighters that I’ve never had with Rocky is the bright lights. He’s wrapped up in his wife and their new baby and his family back in Brockton, Massachusetts. He watches his body carefully and is always taking some sort of exercise, even when he is not training for a fight. Slill an Underrated Fighter It is only natural that I should be prejudiced about Rocky because I have been so close to him, but 1 honestly be¬ lieve that he still is an underrated fighter, which makes picking the man who will eventually beat him such a difficult job. 1 don’t think anybody around today has the equipment to lick Rocky Mar¬ ciano, which is why I picked as the man who would eventually dethrone him a composite of seven different champions. The Rock has great physical assets packed into his 185 pounds and I have a hunch that he will keep those as¬ sets a long time. And, as long as he keeps those assets, he’ll keep the heavy¬ weight crown, too. “Is all this necessary? I just want collier’s them so I'll look more intelligent” kate osann _ _ _ _ J Collier’s for January 17, 1953 to give your car’s moving parts the same protection all industry demands Developed especially to meet the exacting demands of the “new” automobiles of 1918, Alemite high- pressure lubrication methods found rapid acceptance among car manu¬ facturers. Today, most cars are equipped with Alemite Lubrication Fittings. Thus, as a car owner, you can take full advantage of the most efficient lubrication system in the world. The same safe, sure method that protects billions of dollars worth of indus¬ trial, farm, marine and aviation equipment against friction. In your neighborhood there is a service dealer with an investment of thousands of dollars in genuine Ale¬ mite Lubrication Equipment espe¬ cially designed to best service your car. Look for the sign of “Author¬ ized Alemite Lubrication.” The dealer displaying this sign employs Alemite- trained experts familiar with the Alemite Fittings on your car. He assures your getting genuine Alemite Lubrication. What’s good enough for Procter & Gamble is too good for you to miss ! Alemite lubricotion Fittings ore foctory in- stolled equipment on most cars thot roll on America's highwoys Behind this man behind the a Billion Dollar Investtyient in Lubrication Progress 3 L. m m. ALEMITE ttc U S Pat Off 1 85C Diversey Porkway. Chicago 14, III. 35 YEARS OF LUB R/CATIO N PROGRESS

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26 Susannah and the Elders By HARRIET FRANK, JR. My father is a movie star, and ice have a big house with a swimming pool. The trouble is. the pool is mostly always empty , and / need a mother, and my father needs a wife THE trouble is that my father is a little bit too old to be a mo\ic star. This is my personal opinion, because 1 see how tired he gets riding the stationary bicycle we have in the playroom. Mr. .Mishner, who is his agent, tells everybody that he is in the pink, but Mr. Mishner spends all his time at the studios and his cilice, so 1 don’t sec how he knows how m> father feels. All Mr. Mish¬ ner says is that Bogart is giving out his right age to the press and Gable is letting his hair go white, so why is my tat her worrying? Mr. Mishner got very angry when my father told I.cs Carcw- he was tired ol pre¬ tending to be a kid and maybe I es ought to keep that in mind. Mr. Carcw- is a producer at the studio where my father has a contract, with an option coming up in December. For this reason, Mr. Mishner says Father ought to watch his step and just do whatever scripts the studio sends him: but that's kind of silly because the last one was a bosom-and-sand epic (that's a desert picture with a native girl in it), and they were going to do it in Balm Springs where my father always gets sun¬ stroke. Also, he’d put on a little weight, and he said he'd look damn' silly in a burnoose. Mr. Mishner came over to our house the minute he heard what my father had said, and he brought the writers on the picture over too. In tact, they're triends ot Father’s because their specialty is swashbuckle and that's what my tather does the most of. I’ve known them ever since 1 was a little girl. In tact 1 call them Lnclc Alan and Uncle led. They always write together as a team, Mollit and Morris, and one year they got an Academy Award for a picture called Sand. Uncle Alan is married to a lady who likes to spend all her time in France, and Uncle led is divorced, so they’re around the house quite a bit to keep Father company when he’s not shooting. W hen Father is feeling real good he shouts out, “Mishner, Mollit and Morris. Murder, Inc.," and they all laugh like it was the first time they’d ever heard it. 1 athcr doesn't do anything without talk¬ ing it over with them. In fact, when my mother died they came over and moved in with us lor a few weeks. I don't remember much about it except that my lather locked himscll in his room and wouldn't come out for about three days, until Uncle I ed went in and had a good talk with him. It was Uncle Alan wh o tound the girls' school I go to in Beverly Hills, and he takes me shopping all the time when I need school clothes and stulf, because he’s had quite a lot to do with girls and knows all the buyers all over town. Am wav . the day my father told Fes Carcw he was getting too damn’ old to go around saying. ' All right, men. this is it," Uncle Alan and Uncle Fed came over to the house with father and Mr. Mishner. First they went swimming in our pool — which is usu¬ ally empty and dirty because our gardener doesn't bother with much except sprinkling the lawn — and then they got themselves some beer and sat down for a heart-to-heart talk. The first thing Mr. Mishner said was, “Susie, why don't you go inside and look at television?” ’ Let her stay,” said Father. “If anybody in this godforsaken town gives a hoot in hell for me, it’s Susie.” “She’s a woman now,” said Uncle Ted. “Let her stay.” It was nice of him to say “woman” because I’m pretty young yet. Uncle Alan offered me a sip of his beer, but I didn't take any. I just sat down and listened. “Fellows,” said my father, “here it is. I went to my doctor the other day. I’ve got an ulcer and an incipient varicose vein. And I’ve got high blood pressure. In short, I’m more buckle than swash, and it’s high time I faced it,” Uncle Ted and Uncle Alan looked at each other. They weren’t smiling like they usually do. “Is this on the level?" Uncle Ted asked. “lie doesn’t like the script,” Mr, Mishner explained. “Who does?” Uncle Alan asked. “It’s a clinker. I ought to know; 1 wrote it.” “I'll tell you who likes the script,” Mr. Mishner said hotly. “Mr. Fes Carcw likes the script, that's who. He liked it well enough to let you two work on it for sixteen weeks.” “The money was fine; the script isn’t,” Uncle I ed said. “So you’re advising him to walk out?” “It sounds like it's walk or crawl,” said Uncle Alan. “1 vote for walk.” MR. MISHNER shrugged. “I’m not an undertaker.” he said. “I'm an agent. I just have this to say : Our friend, Mr. Joshua C ane, here is not exactly loaded. He’s got this house t o pay lor, and he’s got Susie to think about. He says he's no spring chicken. I'm not arguing. I'm only saying that he’d better make hay while he can. They could have had Flynn for this picture. Carcw handed it to you. Joshua. They’re getting Faslo Frenese to direct and budgeting for Techni¬ color. You’d better grab.” My father just sort of sat there. He looked around at the house and the garden, and sighed. You know,” he said quietly, “I’d like a little house on the beach beyond Malibu. Fd like to build Susie a boat and slop around in ducks and sneakers and get a paunch.” Uncle Fed, who has a penthouse apart¬ ment and a red M.G., shook his head. “You'd go crazy," he said. Uncle Alan, who has a white Jaguar and a bar in his house that lights up. said, l ook, son. that isn't for you. If you want to knock off tor a lew months and get into shape, fine. Great. But this back-to-the-land stuff is for the birds. What would you do for laughs, huh?” “Fd grow some tomatoes,” said Father, “and maybe buy a dog.” He sounded so seri¬ ous that all three of them began to look worried. “Before old rockin’ ehair gets you,” said Uncle Ted, “I’ve got an idea. Did you ever meet Mitzi Wallace?” “They call her Rocket,” said Uncle Alan reflectively. “Rocket Wallace.” Mr, Mishner looked at me and frowned. “Susie, dear,” he said, “I could use an aspirin.” I KNEW they wanted to get rid of me and I knew why. Every time my father talks about quitting and doing what he wants to, this happens. Uncle Fed or Uncle Alan tries to get him to go out with some girl. They keep telling him that what ho needs is a hobby, like collecting blondes. They just don’t understand my father. Oh, they put in the gossip columns that he goes out with Sandra Laurel or Phyllis Frost, if he is mak¬ ing a picture with them, but he really doesn't. He just lets them say so, because the studio wants everybody to think he’s a great lover. In fact, he doesn’t go out with girls at all. It's terribly sad, because he really is aw¬ fully lonesome, and when I’m at school he just sort of pots around the house. He has a little woodwork shop fixed up and he makes a few things down there when he gets blue. If that doesn’t work he comes over to the school and brings me home for a few days. The reason I don’t live at home is that my father says it isn't the kind of a home for a growing girl. For one thing, we’ve got this houseboy, Jerrieo, who doesn’t like to clean up, and the whole place gets in a terrible mess. Jerrieo orders a lot of expensive things from the grocery store, but when we want to cat at home there’s nothing in the house but anchovies or sauerkraut or stuff like that. If you ask me, the whole place is just like in that picture Sunset Boulevard. Our lawn is all patchy and sunburned, and the pool never gets cleaned out, and the rooms are all dusty and kind of stufTy and gloomy. Also there are the bills. They’re awful. I was home once when they eamc, and my father put on his glasses and took a good look. He almost fainted. Jerrieo charges at the grocery store, and there were all kinds of items we couldn't figure out. There was a great big bill from the drugstore and one from a tailor Ju*t then — just when my father and Miss Adams were beginning to he friendly — in eame Moffit and Morris. It made me. feel crumby to »ee them come in like tramps ILLUSTRATED BY FREDRIC VARADY

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a house with two kitchens and no hath, collier s the other for two baths and no kitchen” Alfred isler 28 and one from a garage, and a lot more we didn't look at because my father isn’t very good about money and look¬ ing at bills depresses him. Actually, what my father needs is a good wife. A person thinks because a person is a movie star he isn’t a human being. 1 mean, everybody gets so used to seeing my father swinging around by his hands and giving people orders and making love that they sort of get the idea that he’s some sort of a superman or something. Even the kids at school think so, and most of them are in the business. J mean their fathers are pro¬ ducers or directors or something like that. I think my lather's pretty good- looking, but he wears a little hair piece, which Max Factor made for him, and he needs glasses like anything, even if he only wears them to read with. ACTUALLY, glamor makes him sort . of sick to his stomach. Lots and lots of times he tells me about when he was a fisherman up in Astoria, Ore¬ gon, with his own boat. That’s what he was before he was a movie star. Then some big director, who died before I was born, came up there and saw him. That is, the leading-lady friend of the director saw him and said he would be a marvelous movie star. The director came down to the wharf where my fa¬ ther kept his boat and hired it to go fishing. When they got out beyond the breakwater, this director put away his line and told my father that he ought to be in pictures. My father said that sure handed him a laugh because he couldn’t act for sour grapes, but the director said that all he'd have to do was move around and wave his arms and look handsome. That was before sound, see, so. he wasn't going to have to talk at all. Well, that sounded pretty easy to my father because he worked hard being a fisherman and he wanted to get married to my mother and he couldn't because he was broke. They talked it over, my father and my mother, and they de¬ cided that if this director was dumb enough to pay my father as much money as he said he would for just mak¬ ing faces, my father should take the job. My mother and father got married right in Astoria and came down to Holly¬ wood together. My father said it was just plain damn' silly what happened after that. 1 mean, he made this picture called Deep Sea and right after that, he was a great big star. He said he never could figure out why just the sight of him running around without his shirt on made him a star, but that's the way it happened. He told me that this was some crazy town in those days. Everybody acted silly and lived in very fancy places and gave real wild parties, except my father. He bought our house, though, because the studio said he had to stop acting like a fisherman and get some glamor. He never should have done it, because he doesn’t have much sense about money, and there's a big mortgage on it which he has never paid ofT. The trouble is that after my mother died my father didn’t do so well taking care of himself, and all kinds of people tried to help him out. Actually, they found out that he was sort of dumb about money and before he turned around, he didn’t know where his money had gone. I can remember a lot of people who sort of hung around our house, eating all their meals with us and calling long distance on the telephone and ordering things up and letting my father pay lor it. I guess he would have gone on like that forever if Uncle Alan and Uncle Ted hadn't helped him. They saw all the moochers (that’s what they called them), and they saw that my fa¬ ther was a patsy (that’s what they called him), and they got Mr. Mishner to take him on as a client and see that he wasn't so stupid about himself. Mr. Mishner is kind of cranky be¬ cause he has stomach ulcers, but 1 guess down deep he really loves my father. He won’t admit it, though. In fact, he says my father is just another work horse to him. He tries to act like he means it, but I guess he doesn’t. The reason I know that he is a friend is that when 1 got diphtheria he was the one who had a real famous doctor flown in from Philadelphia to take care of me, and when 1 was getting well he moved me into his house in Bel-Air so his wife could see that 1 did everything 1 was supposed to. Mr. Mishner doesn’t have any children of his own, and he told my father that any time my father couldn’t pay him his ten per cent he’d take me instead. My father says if it weren’t for Mishner, Moffit and Morris, he wouldn’t have ever gotten over my mother’s dying. Just the same, they are men and not what my father needs. What he needs is to be happy and have some nice woman married to him who won’t care about the Max Factor hair piece or that he wants to live out beyond Malibu in a little house and have a dog. Oh, there are plenty of ladies in this town who would have mar¬ ried him. 1 guess I know more about them than anybody, because I’m the one they fuss over when they want to have my father pay attention to them. Only last year, there was this movie, actress who decided that she would like to marry my father. You’d know her name if 1 said it, but 1 think it’s better to keep it private. Anyway, this lady is a very big star who always plays nervous women in her pictures, but she docs it very good. She played a nervous woman in a picture with my father, in which she got my father to kill her husband, but then my father went straight and confessed everything, and she was left out in the cold. It was a pretty good picture. Anyway, they saw a lot of each other, and she started in asking him some per¬ sonal questions about himself. He right away told her about me, because he tells everybody about me, even the colum¬ nists. He says that I’m the best thing he ever did, and by Heaven he wants the world to know about it. He has Irish blood and is kind of sentimental. Well, she wanted to know where was I, and how old was I, and everything like that. He told her how I go to this very ex¬ pensive girls’ school in Beverly Hills and how I look like my mother. The very next day she came around to school in her car and took me out for the afternoon. She took me for a ride, and she bought me ice cream, and she asked me about a hundred questions about my father. She didn’t pay any attention to me except to listen to what I answered. She wanted to know what my mother was like, and what my father liked to eat, and did I ever hear Moffit or Morris talking about her. I knew what was worrying her. Everybody in this town knows that Moffit and Morris are my father's best friends, and they usually tell my father just what they think about everything and everybody. She’d had a fight with them when they wrote her last picture, because she said they gave all the big scenes to Rocket Wallace. I felt kind of sorry for her, because she was trying so hard to get my father, and 1 knew she was wasting her time because Uncle Alan and Uncle Ted had already told my father that she was an old broad and that he ought to run for his life. She gave up after about three weeks and didn’t come to see me any more. THAT’S mostly how it was with all of them, but that didn't change the fact that my father was lonesome and get¬ ting old pretty fast. He just had to get a nice wife because if he didn’t he wouldn't have anybody but me to take care of him, and when I get my braces off I expect to get married someday myself. Of course, he could live with me and my husband, but I don't think he would like that. It was a big problem. I thought about talking it over with Uncle Alan and Uncle Ted, but all the ladies they know are like Rocket Wallace, and Uncle Ted doesn’t think much of mar¬ riage anyway because his wife only comes home from Europe when she has to go to the dentist or to get new clothes. Even so, I decided I’d better see how they felt about it before I made any plans, because my father discusses ev¬ erything he does with them. Once he made a picture without them, and their feelings got so hurt they didn't come over to drink beer for a week. That made my father feel terrible. When they’re not at the studio, they hang around the West Side Tennis Club a lot watching other people exercise, so I went over there to see them. They bought me a chocolate soda, but I couldn’t drink it, I was so nervous. Fi¬ nally I just blurted it all out. They looked at each other when I was finished and started shaking their heads. “Don't you worry, baby,” Uncle Alan said. “Leave it to us, cooky,” Uncle Ted said. “We’ll fix him up.” “Yep,” said Uncle Alan, patting my hand, “we’ll get him a bird and all the trimmings. He won’t be lonesome any more.” That really scared me. I knew they’d come up with all sorts of crazy ideas Collier’s for January 17, 1953 COLLIER’S 4What inexpensive cuts have you that sherry will help?” BARNEY TOBEY

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Barom a ter lu alii ng ! Ii% I’ \KKI. ( I M Ml V Seasonal gales are designated by the code name Bill that wouldn’t be good for my father, but he was getting so lonesome he might just do what they said out of desper¬ ation. I heard my father say once that Uncle Ted had gotten married out of desperation, and his wife took all of the furniture and went to Las Vegas four months later. 1 certainly didn’t want anything like that to happen to my father. WELL, I have one friend, Midgie Carew, whose father is a producer at the studio where my father works, and I decided to talk it over with her. We room together at school, and I’ve known her ever since 1 was born. She's a pretty smart girl. She writes poetry. She says when she grows up she’s going to go to Paris and write poetry, There isn’t very much else for her to do be¬ cause both her father and her mother are going to an analyst and they don’t have much time for her. So I bought a couple of Hershey bars and some Cokes, and we settled down for a good heart-to-heart talk. “The trouble is,” I said, “finding the person for him to marry!” “If you make a mistake,” Midgie said, “he’d have to go through analysis, so you better be careful.” She was right, because that’s what happened to her mother and father. “Well,” I said, “I’m not hurrying. I’ve just begun to look around. Do you know anybody?” She thought about it while she ate her Hershey and drank her Coke. “Gee,” she said, “everybody 1 know, you know. They’re all in the business.” “That’s right,” I said, “and I kind of would like somebody who wasn’t in movies at all. Somebody plain.” “How about Ginny Thomas?” Ginny Thomas is a movie star who always acts the part of a nice girl in her pictures. “She only acts plain,” 1 said. “Uncle Alan says she’s as big a bag as he’s ever seen. He takes her out.” “Oh!” “AnybQdy else?” “I can’t think of anybody. We have people over to the house all the time but they’re mostly neurotic. They all go to Dr. Wexben.” “I know one person who would be keen,” I said, “but I don't think she’d want to mess around with marrying a movie star.” “Who?” “Miss Adams.” Midgie's eyes kind of bulged out. “You mean Miss Adams who teaches us English literature?” I nodded, “She's awfully nice and sweet and plain,” 1 said, “and she’s not married. Also, she’s very refined, and she smells very good too.” Midgie thought it over and nodded her head up and down. “She’d be keen, all right,” she said. “And as far as she’s concerned Hollywood is just a town in California. The trouble is, how could you work it?” “Well,” I said, “I’ve got an idea. It’s sort of corny, but if you Qsk me, adults don’t mind corny things.” Midgie nodded. “What’s your plan?” “Well, you told me all about being neurotic and everything so I’ve decided I’m going to be neurotic. Just tempo¬ rary neurotic.” Midgie looked surprised. “There are all kinds of neurotic,” she said. “Which kind are you going to be, and why?” “Maladjusted,” I said, “with crying and moping around.” “1 don’t see what that’s got to do with your father marrying Miss Adams.” “That’s where the corny part comes in. I’m going to start being neurotic Collier’s for January 17, 1953 in Miss Adams’ classes,” Whenever you act mopey or anything in this school 1 go to they right away ask your parents to come and talk to your teachers. Midgie got a real pleased look on her face when 1 told her my plan. “Go on,” she said, “tell me more.” 1 ate a little bit more of my chocolate bar, because eating chocolate bars helps me when I’ve got something to figure out. “I thought maybe I’d do a lot of sighing right where she could hear me. That's just to start off with. Then after a while when she sees I’m getting pretty goopey and blue she’ll ask me to stay after class. Then's when I’ll do the crying and moping part, see? ‘Well,’ she’ll say, ‘what are you crying and moping for, Susie?’ And I'll say, ‘It’s my home life. Miss Adams.' ” 1 had to catch my breath because 1 was talk¬ ing pretty fast. “Then what?” asked Midgie. She likes stuff like this. It appeals to her poetic nature. “I’ll tell her that I’m very unhappy because my mother died and my father, who is a very attractive man, is not pay¬ ing any attention to me because he is grieving like mad about my mother. I’ll say that I want to live at home but I can’t, because Jerrico is such a lousy housekeeper and runs up the bills. I'll say that my father drinks too much beer with Moffit and Morris and it isn’t good for his health, and unless some kind, good woman marries him and helps me out. I’ll just have a nervous breakdown. How does that sound?” “Marvelous,” said Midgie, “1 think so,” I said, feeling pretty good. “But do you think she’ll do anything about it?” “Sure,” 1 said, “because I’ll ask her to come over to the house and see what a mess everything is in. My father can do the rest.” “What if Moffit and Morris don’t like her?” Midgie knows all about Mof¬ fit and Morris, and how my father lis¬ tens to every word they say. 1 THOUGHT about Miss Adams and her pretty blue eyes and soft neat hair and nice figure. “They just got to,” 1 said. “If they throw a monkey wrench into this I’ll just die.” “I’d better show you a few things be¬ fore you start in,” said Midgie. She knows a lot about being neurotic, so she got down off her bed and began to sigh and twist her hands and make faces. “That’s the way my mother does it,” she said, “when my father asks her why the house has to cost a small for¬ tune every month, or when she charges a new fur coat.” I watched her and then 1 tried it out. I think 1 was pretty good, because Midgie just went bug-eyed. “You’ve got a lot of talent,” she said. “Thanks.” “You going to start today?” “Yes. Right after she reads to us out of Ivanhce.” Midgie thought 1 ought to fix up a little bit so I’d look like 1 was nervous. I have this old green dress which is sort of a terrible color on me, and I put that on. Then I washed my face a lot till it looked sort of scratchy, and Midgie said I should take a hanky along to kind of twist every once in a while. Then we went to class. There was Miss Adams, looking just as nice and plain as she always does, only she was wearing a little bunch of violets on her blouse and it made her extra pretty. I sat down right in front of her, and Midgie sat down across the way. Miss Adams asked how we all EATHERMEN have devel¬ oped an interesting custom. When they discover a severe storm brewing in some far-off locale, they immediately give it a name, such as Albert or Mary. The reason is ob¬ vious. When watching how it devel¬ ops, and discussing it, it’s much simpler to describe it as Albert than “the storm that started brewing 600 miles off Cuba.” In fact it struck me as such a good idea that I’ve taken a cue from the meteorologists and used the same sys¬ tem to designate arguments or hassels that periodically break out in this family — usually between the adult members thereof. One I’ll never forget is Baker, a real mean one that struck about two years ago. It blew up rather suddenly on a Saturday night, and was appar¬ ently caused by my dancing too many times with one of our host’s week¬ end guests — a stunning brunette in a green strapless creation. Words reached a velocity of over a hundred a minute, and for a while it looked doubtful whether I’d be able to sur¬ vive. However, the storm was luck¬ ily of short duration, due to our host’s tactful suggestion that we stop danc¬ ing and start a quiz game instead. 1 still tremble when I think of Delia, although it taught me a much- needed lesson. This was a real down¬ pour, occasioned by my forgetting our wedding anniversary. It was fea¬ tured by a tremendous precipitation of tears (three handkerchiefs were drenched) and was accompanied by brisk-to-violent “You don’t love me any more’s.” A mighty costly one too. By the time the atmosphere had cleared 1 had committed myself to a wrist watch, a dinner at El Gougo and two theater tickets. Frankie was one 1 had carefully charted in advance and for which I fully braced myself. Just after emerg¬ ing from my office building on the way home to dinner, I happened to encounter an old college pal. Well, one thing led to another, and it was 2:30 in the morning before I got home, trembling at the thought of the mighty storm that would inevita¬ bly break over my unprotected head. I explained the situation, and my spouse murmured sweetly: “It’s good for you to get out with the boys once in a while,” turned over and went back to sleep. It just goes to show. Sometimes you get all set for a hurri¬ cane, then it veers away. It was different with Harriet, though. My better half was reading an article, gave a shocked gasp and said: ’‘Listen, in some primitive lands they sell wives for five dollars!” “Well,” 1 retorted (too quickly), “a good wife’s worth it.” The air immediately became deathly still and the temperature dropped 50 degrees in less than a mo¬ ment and remained that way for 24 hours. Perhaps a sudden cold wave doesn’t technically qualify as a storm, but I won’t forget Harriet. My wife has been reading this over my shoulder, and now requests the privilege of making a few comments. Mrs. C. taking over: To hear this alleged authority rant, one would as¬ sume that all storms around here arise from only one quarter and that he is the sole victim of them. Non¬ sense! He has completely neglected to mention seasonal gales which I have designated with the code name Bill, and further classified into Jan¬ uary Bill, February Bill. March Bill, etc., for identification. These are at the height of their fury on the first of every month. They consist of ex¬ tremely violent blasts against ex¬ penditures. Great masses of air are churned up, the whole house trem¬ bles, and the windows sometimes bend outward from the fun. Not only I, but the children quail before these storms. Sometimes the pressure on our eardrums is such that we fear they will burst. April Bill was one of the worst we ever faced, breaking on the first of the month, but continuing through the second and third with the arrival of each new mail. Before May Bill bursts upon us I’m going to in¬ stall a storm cellar. ILLUSTRATED BY PETER WYMA

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When better automobiles are built BUICK will build them Bi ick Division of General Motors Here you see pictured the Golden Anniversary RoadniasTer engineered. *t)lcd. powered and bodied to be fully worthy of its paragon role in thb fi 1 1 i t Buiek building. A quick listing of simple facts will reveal just cause for celebration. It lias the world's newest V8 engine. lertical valves; 12-volt electrical system: lf!0 pounds lighter; entire engine is so compact, a uew, more maneuverable chassis has been built around it. ★ It has 188 Fireball horsepower. A new Buick record; engine horsepower per pound increased 10 ' . ★ It has a compression ratio of 8.5 to 1. Highest compression on the American scene today: bettered fuel economy. ★ It has a dynamic-flow muffler. For the first time in automotive history , a muffler with zero power loss. It has a new Twin -Turbine Dynaflow Drive. Now adds far sivifter , quieter , more efficient getaway to infinite smoothness at all speed ranges . ★ It lias new braking power. Most powerful brakiug action of any Buick in fifty years : plus the new ease of Power Brakes , optional at extra cost. ★ It has a still finer ride. The softest , steadiest , most buoyantly level ride that Buick' s advanced engineering has vet produced. It has, also, wondrous handling ease, with Power Steering as standard equipment. It has superb comfort. It has sumptuous fabrics and tailoring. And its acoustics are so thoroughly mastered that it may well be one of the world's most quiet cars. But no listing of facts can do true justice to this phenomenal automobile, or to its brilliant brothers, the 1953 Supers and Specials. And no words can really tell yon the beauty you see, the comfort you feel, the excitement you experience— when you look at and drive any one of these big. beautiful, bounteous Bunks for 1953. Will you visit your Buick dealer and see for yourself that these are, in simple truth, Buick s greatest cars in five brilliant decades? Equipment, accessories, trim and models ore subject to change u itliout notice. Television treat -the BUICK CIRCUS HQUR-^very i c^*h T,*

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32 were and everybody said fine, but me. I just sighed and looked at my shoes. Miss Adams didn’t see that, so I de¬ cided I’d have to ham it up a little. Well, she read Ivanhoe and all the kids listened and 1 sighed about a hundred times. Just before she stopped I gave a little snuffle and blew my nose very loud. That did it. She looked at me and her eyes got all soft and troubled. THE bell rang. I got up very slowly, like I was sick, and started to shuffle out, but Miss Adams called after me. “Susie,” she said, “stay a minute, will you, dear?” I could tell she was hooked. I shuffled back and sank into my chair. She came down and sat beside me. I could smell the violets and I could feel her nice soft hand as she patted mine. She’s really a doll. “What is it, dear?” she asked. “You don’t seem very happy today.” “It isn’t only today,” 1 said, making my voice squeaky. “Oh? Do you feel you could tell me about it?” I guess I should have waited a min¬ ute like I was thinking it over, but 1 just nodded and started in. I told her the whole thing, with a lot of sniffling in between the sentences, and a little crying just before I finished up. Miss Adams is the type who is very soft¬ hearted and since this was a pretty sad story she began to look very sympa¬ thetic and upset. “It’s a big problem for a little girl,” she said slowly. “Perhaps I could have a little talk with your father one of these days.” “That would be keen. When?” “Do you think he could come over to school and visit with us?” I thought very fast. If she talked to my father at school it would be pretty businesslike, and I didn’t think it would lead to anything. If she came to our house it would work a lot better. “He doesn’t go out much,” I told her. “He mostly pots around making things in his woodshop.” I said that because I didn’t want her to think my father was any glamorous lover or anything like that, because I knew she wouldn’t care for that type. “You ask him if he’ll be kind enough to see me tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “You and I can drive over and have a little visit.” “Oh, thank you,” I said. “Don’t brood about it, will you?” “Well,” I said, “I’ll try not to, but what I need is someone to mother me like you’ve been doing.” She gave me a real nice hug and told me to go and take a little nap — she’d see what could be done. I knew right then and there that I’d been right to be so crazy about her. She was kind of new at the school but I’d loved her from the first day she came. She always has time to be nice to the kids and the gardener and the cook and everybody around the place. I looked into her background, too, and it was real nice and plain. She was born and brought up in Springfield, Ohio, and she taught school there. She was en¬ gaged to a boy who was killed in the war and she wasn’t very interested in love, but I could tell she was lonely. The reason I know' that is that she sort of acted like my father. 1 mean she pots around the school doing knitting and painting little post cards and stuff, and she never goes out. Like I told Midgie, she was practically perfect for my father if I could get them together, and if Moffit and Morris said okay. I guess I acted neurotic so hard that by the time Midgie and I got ready for bed that night I felt a little bit neurotic. “I hope I didn’t overdo it,” I told Midgie. “It’s sort of sticking to me.” “Don’t worry,” said Midgie, “you’ll get over it.” “It would be wonderful if Miss Ad¬ ams fell in love with my father,” I said. “She’s good at mathematics and she’d straighten out all the bills.” I was get¬ ting sleepy. “What she’ll have to straighten out is Moffit and Morris,” said Midgie. “They don’t believe in marriage some¬ thing fierce.” “If they spoil this one,” I said, “I’ll do something desperate. I might have to go all the way and have a breakdown. Could you show me how?” Midgie didn’t answer. She was al¬ ready asleep. . . . The next day I called up home and told Jerrico I wanted to talk to my father. Father was there because he was on suspension for turning down the desert picture. I told him I was coming home and bringing one of my teachers who wanted to talk to him. My father right away asked if I was sick or anything because he’s very nerv¬ ous about my health, but I said, “No. It’s something mental.” That really got him excited. He said, “Susie, what’s happened?” And I said, in a kind of fainty voice, “It’s about my adjustment.” He said he’d be home and to hurry up. Midgie was in the phone booth with me and she said that all I had to do was leave them alone together but if I was smart, I’d listen in on the conversa¬ tion. I said, “Leave it to me.” MISS ADAMS and I had an awfully nice ride to our house. She knows an awful lot about girls and their prob¬ lems and 1 really told her a lot of things that had been worrying me. I mean about boys, and if I really looked like a sack with my braces, and things like that. She said she’d worn braces and she told me a lot about boys that I hadn’t known, and it was very helpful and educational. When we got to the house my father came out on the driveway to meet us. My father doesn’t go around in Ha¬ waiian shirts and scarves like most movie stars. He usually wears a shirt and a tie like he was a businessman, be¬ cause it embarrasses him to look like he’s in the movies. Anyway, he looked very nice and sweet like he always does, and when I saw him my heart just melted, and I knew the best thing I could do for him was to get him a nice wife like Miss Adams. He gave me a great big bear hug and then said, “How do you do,” to Miss Adams and asked her if she wouldn’t come inside and have some tea. He’d tried to get Jerrico to clean up the den but it was pathetic how lousy it looked. I mean, it’s a nice den but it needs to be neat and clean. Anyway, he gave Miss Adams a chair and then asked me would I please go ask Jerrico to make us a tea party. I said sure because I wanted them to get started. I rushed out to the kitchen like mad and told Jerrico about the tea. Then I went out the back way and came around so I could listen under the window in the garden and take a peek once in a while. They were talking loud enough for me to hear and it was pretty interesting. My father was talking and Miss Adams was listening with a nice sympathetic look on her face. “That poor baby,” my father was saying. “To think she was eating her heart out all this time and didn’t say anything to me. It hasn't been much of a life for her since her mother died. Things in this business are pretty hectic. I’ve tried to live clean and decent, you understand,” he said. “Of course,” said Miss Adams. “I mean it’s just a kind of crazy acci¬ dent, my being in the movies. I’ve wanted to get out of it for a long time. Settle down. Live a simple life and do right by Susie.” He gave a great big sigh. “The trouble is,” he w'ent on, “I’m not too well off financially. I mean I’ve made a lot of money but I don’t hang on to it. Mishner’s got me on an allowance now, and he socks it away, but I’m getting past my prime.” “You look wonderful,” said Miss Ad¬ ams in her nicest voice, “and I think you are wonderful for being so unaf¬ fected. Frankly, I thought I’d find someone quite different.” My father got red in the face, but he was smiling. “Have you known Susie long?” “I’ve only been at the school six months. She’s a darling girl. Very' ma¬ ture. And she loves you very much. In fact, that’s the whole trouble. She feels responsible for you.” “Gee,” said my father. “Yes, she does. She worries about your being — ” Miss Adams stopped. “May I speak frankly?” “Sure.” “Well, she thinks you’re lonely. I hope you don’t think I’m being tact¬ less or pushing.” My father shook his head. “She’s right,” he said. “I am.” Miss Adams’ blue eyes got real soft and tender. “I know how you feel,” she said. She paused, and I could tell she was thinking of her own fiance and how he was killed. Then she said, “I think that sometimes we don’t do the right thing when we’re grieving for someone. We shut ourselves away and brood.” “That’s right,” said my father. “I’ve done a lot of brooding.” “I guess,” said Miss Adams, “that we ought to try to live in the world. To find new interests.” My father looked at her like he was just really beginning to see how nice and plain she was. “It would help a lot,” he said, “to have someone around who understood.” It was Miss Adams’ turn to get red in the face, but it made her look like a nice red apple. “Yes,” she said, “it would.” JUST then, right when they were be¬ ginning to be friendly, in came Mof¬ fit and Morris. I thought I’d die. They were wearing kind of duck-hunting caps and they had a big paper sack full of beer cans. Honestly, it made me feel just crumby to see them coming in looking like a couple of tramps in their old sneakers with their beer cans and everything. Uncle Ted looked around and said, “If it isn’t a tea party!” That remark could only mean one thing. They were going to be cute, and when those two were cute, they were horrible. That meant they’d gum up the works for sure, with Miss Adams starting to like my father fine, and him liking her plenty, too. Uncle Alan was bending over and peering at Miss Adams, saying, “And who is this colleen?” That’s when I started for the door in a hurry. My father was introducing Uncle Alan and Uncle Ted as his two best friends when I came in. They both turned toward me. “It’s the darling of our heart,” said Uncle Ted, giving me a kiss on the fore¬ head. “A real little mother to all of us.” “All the woman any little house needs,” said Uncle Alan, and he looked sideways at my father. “Susie’s a fine girl,” said Miss Ad¬ ams. She stopped a minute and then went on. “Susie,” she said, “we’ve had a talk about your problem, and I don’t think it’s quite as bad as you do.” “Just look at this house,” I said loudly. “Look how patchy it is!” “Well, yes, it could stand a woman’s hand, but you see — ” Uncle Ted spoke up. “I know where I can get a great Hungarian cook for you. Great!” “She loves kids,” said Uncle Alan. “And company,” echoed Uncle Ted. “All hours of the day or night.” They were so obvious. They were afraid that if my father got married they couldn’t come over any time they wanted to and drink beer and drop ashes on the rug and play poker. What did they know about the holes in my father’s socks, or how he needs some¬ body around to rub him with liniment when he gets neuralgia? A person just Collier’s for January 17, 1953 . . GREGOR \ , RICHARD, THELMA. . . . The little scamps are sure having fun. . . . GREGORY, RICHARD . . ” mart.n g.uffre

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33 can't go all his life drinking beer and talking about the movies. A person has to have someone around who knows it you’re allergic and who feels sorrv for you when the stock market isn't good. I watched my lather to see if he was listening to them, and he had a sort of undecided look on his lace. I irst he took a good long glance at Miss Adams, and then at Uncle Alan and Uncle led, and then at me. “I suppose a housekeeper would he a good idea,” he said, in a low voice. Miss Adams got up and put on her gloves. Uncle Alan and Uncle led got up. Miss Adams shook hands with them and said, “I know' you all love Susie and want what’s best for her.” t hen my lather began to look like a puppy in a dog kennel. “I'll walk you to the car,” he said. The minute they left the room. Un¬ cle Alan anil Uncle i ed began to talk to me. “You’ll love this housekeeper,” Un¬ cle Alan said. “Makes the greatest strudel in the world. I he greatest.” “It’ll be a ball, honey,” said Uncle Ted. ‘ You’ll live at home instead of at school and have the run ol the place.” “And we’ll be around all the time. We won’t let you down. Your old man will think he's triplets. Never a dull moment.” I could feel tears beginning to sting in my eyes. Uncle Alan and Uncle Ted are fine. I really love them, but they aren’t the same as having a nice wife for my lather. I knew my lather would listen to them the way he always did, and have a very lonely old age. They didn’t even give him a chance to talk about Miss Adams. The minute he came back into the room Uncle Alan said he’d gotten tickets to a fight at the Legion Stadium, and didn't my father think that Casey would take that bum Goralik? 1 didn’t want to sit around and listen to any opinions on boxing when my heart was breaking, so 1 just ran out of the room. Pretty soon I heard the front door slam and then everything was quiet. I supposed that my father was beginning to pot around the way he always does when he feels miserable, but all of a sudden i heard some whistling and sing¬ ing. I know that my father enjoys the boxing matches, but not enough to go around whistling and singing about them It got closer and closci . nul thei he came into the 100m whcie I was p \ using up the last piece ol Kleenex and he had a big smile on his I.kc lie kind ol jumped act oss the lloor .nul scooped me up in a hear hug. She's going to have dinnei with me. Susie.” he said I st. ired at him. “but what about l nclc Alan and Uncle led and the Hungarian housekeeper?' I asked. “She can keep house lor them, ' he said, and he smiled a kind ol loohsh smile. Right then and there I knew ms womes were over, because there are some things a grown up man can do for himsell. and one ol them is to ask somebody to marry him. 1 SUPPOS1 I could have let them take I it from there by themselves, hut I thought I'd better keep an eye on them until they went out on their first date. I hung around while my lather got all slicked up. He started about two hours belore he was supposed to get Miss Adams. I’ll on he called in .lerrico and told him to slick up the house because if he didn't, he'd he turned out to pas¬ ture. He said it like he meant it, too. I hen he kissed me about four times and said to watch out the window be¬ cause he’d be back in a Hash. I was pretty nervous until they came back, but the minute I saw Miss Adams I knew I’d done it. A girl just doesn't get all fixed up like that for nothing. She looked like she’d been rloing a little whistling and singing herself. My la¬ ther made her a Martini and gave me a Coke, and we all sat around for a little bit. I hen my lather said very bash¬ fully, where would she like to eat, and she said she didn’t care. Anyplace he liked, she would like. They got up and both of them kissed me good night like I was a little baby. In fact, my fa¬ ther said, “Bless you, Susie,” but that’s the Irish and sentimental in him. 1 must have a little Irish and sentimental in me too. though, because when they walked out of the house together J had a funny lumpy feeling like 1 get when I read Cyrano de Bergerac. It was lovely. I waited till they drove oil and then I ran like mad to the phone and called up Midgie. All I had to do was tell her it came out like one of my father's mov¬ ies. She understood, because she’s in the business and she knows they all have to have happy endings. AAA DISCRIMINATING PEOPLE PREFER ERBERTIAREYTON ! I MRS. 7 MARKOE ROBERTSON , , distinguished society leader of i\ew } ork, Southampton and Palm Beach. ( Discriminating in Iter choice of ! cigarettes , Mrs. Robertson says: i “ Herbert Tnreyton is always the fyf favorite with rnv guests because they enjoy the cork tij> and mild tobacco C j <0 It Discriminating people prefer Herbert Tareyton. They' appreeiat the kind of smoking that only fine tobacco and a genuine cork tip ca give. The cork tip doesn't stick to the lips . . . it's clean and firm. An discriminating people prefer Herbert 'Tareyton because their modern not only means a longer, cooler smoke, but that extra measure of fin tobacco makes Herbert Tareyton today's most unusual cigarette valiu THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THEM YOU’LL LIK

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A SERENADE TO THE 34 lt"> no critter for work. It makes awful noises and eats llie most unlikely tilings. But it’s great for laughs, and that’s why the donkey is fast becoming a popular household pet By JOHN O’REILLY Bea Lillie awoke in Helen Hayes's home to see a donkey staring at her over the foot of t lie bed. Naturally, she said, “Good morning” ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY DEVLIN

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DONKEY DON'T get the idea that donkeys have fallen into disrepute in this country, just because of what happened in last November's elec¬ tion. These somber comedians with the dead pans and long ears are becoming a national, instead of merely a political, institution. They're all over the place. The donkey, once identified as the faithful pack animal of Western prospectors, is moving East in rapidly growing numbers, and taking up residence in the back yards and back lots of suburban and country homes. He is also moving west; numbers of donkeys are being shipped to this country from Sicily, Sardinia and other donkey centers around the Mediterranean. The critters are impractical for purposes of seri¬ ous transportation. You can’t rely on them to get you anywhere, physically or socially. They would create a scandal at a horse show. Their voices sound like French fire engines, and they are too smart to work hard. Then why the growing donkey fad? I have undertaken considerable research into this question. I interviewed donkey owners and lovers, I quizzed donkey dealers and finally I took the obvious step. I got a donkey. Now I know the answer. Donkeys are wonderful. First, they are always good for laughs; the very sight of one of these placid clowns amidst our frantic modern atmos¬ phere makes people chuckle. They also fill the combined role of family pet and riding animal for the children (children are pleased to ride a donkey because they usually don’t care whether they get anyplace or not). And they fit into modern living because they cost no more to feed than a couple of cats and are less trouble than a goldfish. Some folks have more than one donkey. The reason is that there is nothing cuter than a baby donkey. When people acquire a donkey, they be¬ gin thinking how nice it would be to have a young one. If their pet is a jenny, or female (the males are called jacks), they get her bred, and a year later the whole neighborhood is smiling. One retired broker in New Jersey imported eight YLLA Author O'Reilly's donkey, Cookie, is a very affectionate animal and a fine bird watcher Collier’s for January 17, 1953 Donkey Mary was given to Penny Dell ami “Pie" Meyer by their engineer dad. But the time he himself spends with it is amazing. “If you feel run down," says Meyer, *’get a donkey" donkeys from Sardinia, intending to keep them as a hobby. Time went by, nature took its course, and ho found himself with a herd of 56. He hadn't intended to go into the donkey business, but there he was. He put one advertisement in a magazine and promptly sold 35 of them at $150 each. There are even larger herds around the country, but most persons have room for only one. In that case, the animal generally becomes a member of the family. Donkeys, you see. are comparable to electric trains. Father buys one for the children, and soon the old man is playing with it as often as the kids. Joseph A. Meyer, an engineer whose home is in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, has three donkeys and is expecting another. Mr. Meyer also has three small daughters. He insists that the donkeys are for the children, but the amount of time he spends around the barn with the donkeys is astonishing. Engineer Meyer has named his place the Bon¬ nie Brays Donkey Farm, and he likes nothing better than to sit around swapping donkey anec¬ dotes with other lucky donkey owners. A Short Course in Managing Burros “Now, when 1 got my donkeys," he will start out, “we had a rough time. I borrowed a truck from a farmer and went after them, hut the don¬ keys were averse to that type of transportation. I guess they had grim memories of the long trip up from Texas, and they wanted no more of it. Any¬ way, they wouldn’t go up the ramp into the truck. It was a hot day, and wc hauled and pulled and pushed. But once we got ’em in, they were as quiet as lambs. You sec, they weren’t afraid. They were just being sensible. “When I took the truck back to the farmer, he said the way to load a donkey is to hack him up to the truck and then try to put a peach basket over his head. Donkeys don’t like to have their heads in peach baskets, and they'll hack away, right into the truck. They're wonderful animals. But 1 wish that farmer had told me about the peach basket before, instead of after." Mr. Meyers isn't the only donkey owner who loves to talk about his undersized livestock. We all do. “Would you like to see a picture of my donkey ‘v* one businessman asked me. reaching into his pocket. He had just overheard me discussing the subject with a friend at a bar. You never know when you're standing next to a donkey owner these days. Helen Hayes, the actress, enjoys telling about Suzic, an accomplished donkey she owned. Suzie was delivered to her home at Nyack. New York, on a Christmas Day and soon became a privileged member of the household. Miss Hayes claims Suzie was one of the few housebroken donkeys on record. Although Suzie’s ofiicial quarters were in a tool shed at the bottom of the garden, the animal had the run of the playroom and even made trips upstairs. “I would sit in the garden reading." Miss Hayes told me, “with my two French poodles on one side of my chair and Suzie stretched out on the other side. It made quite a scene " One evening. Miss Hayes said, Beatrice Lillie, the dead-pan comedienne, came to visit the family for the week end. 1 he next morning. Miss Hayes and her husband. Charles Mac Arthur, decided to see if they could get the normally imperturbable Miss Lillie to register surprise, just once. She was still asleep, and she hadn't seen Su/ie. So they took the donkey upstairs and placed it in a strategic position, peering over the foot of Miss Lillie's bed. Then Miss Hayes went over and shook her guest gently by the shoulder. Miss Lillie opened her eyes to find herself con¬ fronted by a gray, solemn face and a pair of tower¬ ing ears. Without batting an eye, she nodded toward the donkey and said matter-of-factly , “Good morning." And turning to Miss Haves she said. “Now as l was saying last night, dear It must be recorded that the donkey didn't show any surprise, cither. Suzie would get out periodically and wander around town, so everybody got to know her. One day she got hold of some moldy hay . developed colic and died. “The whole county was sad." Miss Hayes said. Where do all these people get their donkeys? Well. Miss Hayes bought hers at Macy's depart¬ ment store in New York City. Macy's took a fiing 35

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Page 185

le one V-8 in its field is the Ford V-S. You get top “( k>" ?r gallon because its Automatic Power Pilot squeezes gh -compression powc*r from regular gas. "Non 11 find this ature, too. in Ford s 101-li p Mileage Maker Six. Power Pivot Pedals an vris jieruh d lrom a!)o\e to work easier and eliminate dialty Hour hole's ... to give you increased loot room. Oulv Ford, m its iickl, has them. Center-Fill Fueling liPiish f \ -'ii « i . als t ill tk' S fi’lii a u; ! l l ord. You’ll agree that h( re is the New Standard of the American Hoail!

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38 at donkey merchandising in 1944. Their method was the same used for other large items. They had a floor sample near the toy department, a live donkey that was petted by thousands. If you decided you liked the floor sample, they would take your order and ship you one from the warehouse — or farm, in this case. At night, they exer¬ cised the floor sample by letting it run up and down the aisles of the store. On Sun¬ days they would take it up on the roof to get some sunshine. Two types of donkey are now in vogue in Eastern states: the Southwestern or Mexi¬ can version, usually called a burro, and the Sicilian type, which is sometimes only 30 inches high. The greater New York Council of the Boy Scouts ol America get theirs from the South¬ west, usually Texas. Donkeys are compara¬ tively cheap in the Southwest, but the cost of shipping them East often is more than the original price ol the animal. Charles P. Em- meluth, official donkey buyer for the Boy Scouts in New York, solved the freight prob¬ lem in 1951 by shipping up a whole carload from Texas. The donkeys were parceled out among various scout camps in New York and New Jersey. The boys learn to throw the diamond hitch, and them thar Eastern hills echo to the shouts of the youthful donkey drivers. Mr. Emmeluth, like many another man, has developed a weakness for the beasts. “It breaks their hearts to be alone,” he told me. “And how the boys love them! It’s a big thing for a city boy to be able to make friends with a burro.” For the guidance of their novice burro skinners, the Boy Scouts have a leaflet called Tips on Burros. Besides information on the care and feeding of donkeys, the leaflet con¬ tains such advice as, “If overloaded or abused it is quite possible that they will just sit down or act up.” Another paragraph says, “They will eat darn’ near anything, including ice¬ cream cartons, candy wrappers, et cetera. A few of these items are okay, but try to keep this kind of food to a minimum.” The eastward movement of donkeys for scouting purposes is a comparatively new thing, although at Philmont, Arizona, their 127,000-acre national camp, the Boy Scouts have several hundred donkeys. Back in the effete East, three Sicilian donkeys appeared this fall at (but not in) the National Horse Show in Madison Square Garden. The ani¬ mals, which were kept in the basement, were a jack named Bud, a jenny named Queenie and her three- < nd-a-half-month-old foal, Mickey. They wrere the mascots of the eight massive Clydesdale horses which pulled the big Budweiser wagon around the arena at each performance. Their caretaker, Har¬ old Naab, a lanky Texan, maintained an air of tol¬ erant amusement toward the hoofed small fry. Walter Brady, driver of the big team, brought out the baby donkey and one of the Clydesdales to pose lor a picture. He said the Clydesdale weighed 2,070 pounds. Then he looked at the donkey. In answer to the unasked question, the six-foot Texan bent over, scooped the donkey up in his arms and Asked what his donkey weighed, the big Texan hefted it. “’Runs about 55 pounds,” he said hefted it. “Runs about fifty-five pounds,” he said. The donkey family, like the big team, belongs to August A. Busch, Jr., president of Anheuser-Busch. On his farm near St. Louis, he maintains a herd of 70 or 80 of the little donkeys. In Busch’s herd there is an elderly sire known as the General, who was brought to this country in 1924. Barring accidents, donkeys seem to live for¬ ever. 1 know one man who has a female more than thirty years old. One reason donkeys live long is that their wants are few. They eat grass and hay and relish certain types of weed. Like middle-aged men, donkeys de¬ velop a paunch when fed too much; and once they do, it is almost impossible to get rid of it. Should you acquire one of these animals, there is one annoyance that will plague you. Practical- minded people are always asking donkey own¬ ers why they keep donkeys, which is like asking an art collector, “Why do you have oil paintings?” One donkey aficionado, tired of giving a reasonable answer, now has an un¬ reasonable one. “I keep donkeys,” he says, quietly, “because you don’t have to milk them.” Well, donkeys actually aren’t often con¬ fused with cows. But they’re sometimes mis¬ taken for other animals. On December 10, 1949, a man brought a donkey into the Key West Naval Station at night in a sedan and tethered it on President Truman’s bathing beach. When word was rushed to the President that a donkey v/as tied to his shower stall, he was not perturbed. “Let him stay there, I don’t give a darn,” he told an aide. Investigation disclosed that the guard at the gate who had permitted the car to pass thought there was a dog sitting in the back seat. A dog, indeed! Donkeys are often transported in automo¬ biles. Robert Emmet Kennedy, a New York businessman, likes to tell how he brought his pet home in a station wagon. When other motorists started to pass him, they would notice a vision from Midsummer Night’s Dream standing behind the front seat and would fall back discreetly. “That grizzled pan was too much for them,” Kennedy says. I started out to tell why donkey lovers love donkeys. Do you see why now? As Mr. Meyer, the donkey-owning engineer, says: “If you feel run down and worried and don’t know where your next atomic bomb is com¬ ing from — get a donkey. You won’t make any money out of it, but I’ll guarantee you’ll start laughing.” I think Mr. Meyer is right. My donkey, Cookie, likes to dash around the dam of my pond in Bucks County. I clocked her at twenty-six miles an hour one day. Cookie has strange tastes. She got into the living room one day and ate a Japanese print. She’s also fond of pheasants. Last summer, a cock pheasant would show up in the lower field every day. Cookie would stand with her ears at the alert and watch him for many minutes at a time. She’s absolutely the only donkey bird watcher I ever heard of. A couple of months ago, I built a cart so that the children could drive the donkey around the place. First I got one of those big wooden spools that electric companies wind heavy cables on. Then I took some parts off an old threshing ma¬ chine in the bam to use as an axle and braces. When 1 got it finished it was a beautiful thing. The wooden wheels made it look like something out of Peru. The first time I tried to ride in it, we had a crowd of visitors and they all cheered as I set off gaily. Then everything happened at once. One wheel came off, the harness broke in three places and there were ghastly cracking sounds. Luckily I hit rolling. The donkey turned around and looked at me as though I were a pheasant. Now a funny thing about this donkey is that — But don’t get me started on donkey lore. Well be here all night. Jk ^ O’Reilly built a cart for Cookie and staged a trial run. The harness broke. A wheel came off. Luckily , he hit the ground rolling Collier’s for January 17, 1953

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39 The Case of the irate XK it ness COMIM'H) Y HO M PACK 12 The deputy frowned. The traffic offi¬ cer laughed and waved Mason on. The deputy nodded at the departing car. “Looks like a live clue to me,” he said, “but I can't find it in that con¬ versation.” “There isn’t any,” the traffic officer said. The deputy remained dubious, and later on, when a news-hungry reporter from the local paper asked the deputy if he knew of anything that would make a good story, the deputy said that he did. And that was why Della Street, Perry Mason’s confidential secretary, was sur¬ prised to read stories in the metropoli¬ tan papers stating that Perry Mason, the noted trial lawyer, was rumored to have been retained to represent the person or persons who had looted the vault of the Jebson Commercial Com¬ pany. All this had been arranged, it would seem, before Mason's “client” had even been apprehended. WHEN Perry Mason called his of¬ fice by long-distance the next aft¬ ernoon, Della said, “I thought you were going to the mountains for a vacation,” “That’s right. Why?” “The papers claim you’re represent¬ ing whoever robbed the Jebson Com¬ mercial Company.” “First I’ve heard of it,” Mason said. “I went through Jebson City before they discovered the robbery, stopped for breakfast a little farther on, and then got caught in a roadblock. In the eyes of some officious deputy, that seems to have made me an accessory after the fact,” “Well,” Della Street said, “they’ve caught a man by the name of Harvey L. Corbin, and apparently have quite a ease against him. They’re hinting at mysterious evidence which won’t be disclosed until the time of trial.” “Was he the one who committed the crime?” Mason asked. “The police think so. He had a crim¬ inal record. When his employers at Jebson City found out about it, they told him to leave town. That was the evening before the robbery.” “Just like that, eh?” Mason asked. “Well, you see, Jebson City is a one- industry town, and the company owns all the houses. They're leased to the employees. I understand Corbin’s wife and daughter were told they could stay on until Corbin got located in a new plaee, but Corbin was told to leave town at once. You aren’t interested, are you?” “Not in the least,” Mason said, “ex¬ cept that when I drive back I'll be going through Jebson City, and I’ll probably stop to pick up the local gossip.” “Don’t do it,” she warned. “This man Corbin has all the earmarks of be¬ ing an underdog, and you know how you feel about underdogs.” A quality in her voice made Perry suspicious, “You haven't been ap¬ proached, have you, Della?” “Well,” she said, “in a way. Mrs. Corbin read in the papers that you were going to represent her husband, and she was overjoyed. It seems that she thinks her husband's implication in this is a raw deal. She hadn’t known anything about his criminal record, but she loves him and is going to stand by him.” “You’ve talked with her?” Mason asked. “Several times. I tried to break it to her gently. I told her it was probably nothing but a newspaper story. You Collier’s for January 17, 1953 see. Chief, they have Corbin dead to rights. They took some money Irom his wife as evidence. It was part of the loot.” “And she has nothing?” “Nothing. ( orbin left her forty dol¬ lars, and they took it all as evidence.” “I'll drive all night,” he said. “1 ell her I'll be back tomorrow.” “1 was afraid of that,” Della Street said. “Why did you have to call up7 Why couldn't you have stayed up there fishing? Why did you have to stop and get your name in the papers?” Mason laughed and hung up. PAUL DRAKE, of the Drake Detec¬ tive Agency, came in and sat in the big chair in Mason’s office and said, “You have a bcai by the tail. Perry.” “What’s the matter, Paul? Didn't your detective work in Jebson City pan out?” “It panned out all right, but the stufT in the pan isn't what you want. Perry,” Drake explained. “How come?” “Your client’s guilty.” “Go on,” Mason said. “The money he gave his wife was some of what was stolen from the vault,” “How do they know it was the stolen money?” Mason asked. Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Here’s the whole picture. The plant manager runs Jebson City. There isn't any private property. The Jebson company controls everything.” _ “Not a single small business?” Drake shook his head. “Not unless you want to consider garbage collecting as small business. An old coot by the name of George Addey lives five miles down the canyon; he has a hog ranch and collects the garbage. He's supposed to have the first nickel he ever earned. Buries his money in cans. There's no bank nearer than Ivanhoe City.” “What about the burglary? The men who did it must have moved in acetylene tanks and — ” “They took them right out of the company store,” Drake said. And then he went on: “Munson, the watchman, likes to take a pull out of a flask of whisky along about midnight. He says it keeps him awake. Of course, he’s not supposed to do it, and no one was sup¬ posed to know about the whisky, but someone did know about it. They doped the whisky with a barbiturate. The watchman took his usual swig, went to sleep, and stayed asleep.” “What’s the evidence against Cor¬ bin?” Mason asked, “Corbin had a previous burglary rec¬ ord. It’s a policy of the company not to hire anyone with a criminal record. Corbin lied about his past and got a job. Frank Bernal, the manager, found out about it, sent for Corbin about eight o’clock the night the burglary took place, and ordered him out of town. Bernal agreed to let Corbin's wife and child stay on in the house until Corbin could get located in another city. “Corbin pulled out in the morning, and gave his wife this money. It was part of the money from the burglary.” “How do they know?” Mason asked. “Now there's something 1 don't know,” Drake said. “This fellow Ber¬ nal is pretty smart, and the story is that he can prove Corbin's money was from the vault. “The nearest bank is at Ivanhoe C ity, and the mine pays off in c; sh twice a month. Ralph Nesbitt, the cash>er wanted to install a new vault Bernal ret used to okay the expense So the company has ordered both Bernal and Nesbitt back to its main office at C hi- cago to report. 1 he rumor is that they may lire Bernal as manager and give Nesbitt the job. A couple of the direc¬ tors don't like Bernal, and this thing has given them their chance. They dug out a report Nesbitt had made showing the vault was a pushover. Bernal didn't act on that report.” He sighed and then asked, “When’s the trial Perry?” “The preliminary hearing is set for Friday morning. I'll see then what they've got against Corbin.” “They're laying for you up there,” Paul Drake warned. “Better watch out. Letter Perfect The scientists who make the bombs Have only gone, as yet. From A to II — lliev si ill have left Much of the alphabet. And as th ey go from II to Z And starl each testing fuse, We tremble just a hit and hope They mind their P’s and Q's. — RICHARD ARMOUR Perry. That district attorney has some¬ thing up his sleeve, some sort of surprise that's going to knock you for a loop.” IN SPITE of his long experience as a prosecutor, Vernon Flasher, the dis¬ trict attorney of Ivanhoe County, showed a certain nervousness at being called upon to oppose Perry Mason. There was, however, a secretive assur¬ ance underneath that nervousness. Judge Haswell, realizing that the eyes of the community were upon him, adhered to legal technicalities to the point of being pompous both in rulings and mannerisms. But what irritated Perry Mason was in the attitude of the spectators. He sensed that they did not regard him as an attorney trying to safeguard the in¬ terests of a client, but as a legal ma¬ gician with a cloven hoof. The looting of the vault had shocked the commu¬ nity, and there was a tight-lipped de¬ termination that no legal tricks were going to do Mason any good this time. Vernon Flasher didn't try to save his surprise evidence for a whirlwind fin¬ ish. He used it right at the start of the case, Frank Bernal, called as a witness, de¬ scribed the location of the vault, iden¬ tified photographs, and then leaned back as the district attorney said abruptly, “You had reason to believe this vault was obsolete?” “Yes, sir.” “It had been pointed out to you by one of your fellow employees, Mr. Ralph Nesbitt?” “Yes, sir" “And what did you do about it?” “Are you" Mason asked in some sur¬ prise, “trying to cross-examine your own witness?” “Just let him answer the question, and you’ll see 1 asher re* led er m'v *’ C j c right c .d and answer \L. Said to the wnnes . Bernal assumed a more con * rt m im¬ position ' 1 did three things, c vj j * to sateguard the p iv rolls ±nd t« is* 1 the expense ol te-> nr-g out tne ntj v iuM and installing a new v,*tj[t in ts p ’’Vv hat were- th sc three th n^1 “I employed ” “Yes. sir. Not all of the bids, you understand. That would hav e taken too much time, but 1 have the numbers ol all the twenty- dollar hills.” “And who recorded those numbers?" the prosecutor asked “ The bank" “And do you have that list of numbers with you°” “I do. Yes. sir" Bernal pro¬ duced a list. “1 felt.” he said, glancing coldly at Nesbitt, “that these precautions would be cheaper than a new vault.” _ “1 move the list be introduced in evidence,” Flasher said. “Just a moment" Mason objected. “1 have a couple of questions. You say this list is not in vour handwriting, Mr. Bernal?” “Yes, sir.” “Whose handwriting is it, do you know7" Mason asked. “The assistant cashier of the Ivanhoe National Bank.” “Oh. all right,” Rasher said. “We'll do it the hard way, if we have to. Stand down. Mr. Bernal, and I'll call the as¬ sistant cashier.” Harry Reedy, assistant cashier of the Ivanhoe Bank, had the mechanical as¬ surance of an adding machine. He iden¬ tified the list of numbers as being in his handwriting. He stated that he had listed the numbers of the twenty -dollar bills and put that list in an envelope which had been sealed and sent up with the money for the payroll. “Cross-examine,” Flasher said. JVTASON studied the list. “These It I numbers are all in your handwrit¬ ing0” he asked Reedy. “Yes. sir.” “Did you yourself compare the num¬ bers you wrote down with the numbers on the twenty-dollar bills?” “No, sir. 1 didn't personally do that Two assistants did that. One checked the numbers as they were read oil, one as I wrote them down.” “The payrolls are for approximately a hundred thousand dollars, twice each month?" “That's right. And ever since Mr. Bernal took charge, we have taken this means to identify payrolls. No attempt is made to list the bills in numerical order. The serial numbers are" simply read off and written down. Unless a robbery occurs, there is no need to do anything further. In the event of a rob-

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40 the nuiphors and . 1 Ol lie f 1 i in voin hand- ^ , th m that, v ou vv ill . fill . It A »ttom ol cav. h page I 1 1 Mi ' \ i • • • 1 1 a Is I • i ■ • ■' i nn said I > . I , ! HI. . moil to Hit! Oil ULC ■ i s ii. .4. l ^ I ! she l s.il J i .m\ I mDc 1 1 isu o 1 1 ruled. M \ ■ -i '*ii r ess s ( h.u les I . ()s- II i » 1 ’T- li i il1 * ti e el ist i let attoi ne> . . r|MII IiomiT. i long, k nkv man with I v net m-ii.net. took the stand. N i u ’ e ..mu i; ted with Haivev I.. ( .' the d'-.enJuni in this case?’4 tit 'li^i' |i t ittoi ne\ asked. I i \ ; v .on acquainted with his wife?" 'l C > stl \ow. on the morning of the fif- k • th ot this month the morning ot t ohhuv at the Jehson ( ommereial ( aiiijOin did \ o*i ha\e any conversn- : ion with M s. C orbin?” I lid. ^ es sir ” l)«d \ou ask her about her hus- . i re’>" lust a moment.” Mason said. “I ob- iewt i" this on the giound that an> eon- < Mimn the sheiill had with Mrs. i oihm is in t admissible against the de- tei-d 'lit. (ohm. tuithermoie. th.it in this a ite a wite cannot testily against lei husband. I herelore, ;m\ statement she nu'.’ht make would he an indirect * ioI ition ot that rule, Fin thermore. I 1 'a ct on the giound that the question e.il s I o i heal sa\ .” lodge Maswell looked ponderously '• <a i i 1 1 ul then said. "It seems to me Mi Mason is correct.” I II put it this way. Mr. ShcrilT.'* die district attomes said. "Did soil, i :: the morning ot the fifteenth, take .urn money hom Mis. ( orbin?” Objected to as incompetent, irrele¬ vant and immaterial.” Mason said. A ouj Honor.” I lasher said irritably, i iat s the vciv gist oi our case. We p.opose to show th t two ot the stolen tw^nt dollai hills weie m the posses- s Oil ot M S ( Ol hill." Mason s - ul. ”1 nless the prosecution can pi os i the hi IK w ei e given Mrs. ( or- hi i In hei husband, the evidence is m- »d*nissih|e t 1 s nisi the point.” Masher said. I h"M‘ hdls win given to her bv the ■ - A ikhiiit.” Ilo V do vou know/” Mason asked. S e toll I he stiei ill so.” II fs hiMisav. Mason snapped. Iii 'ell sued lidgeted on the bench. It nans to me we te getting into a pe- • 11 'i s in non lie i e N on can’t ca I the s • w.t'iLss ,md I don’t think her si c 1 1 'o the shei ill is admissible.” A A I .-she. s. ul desperutelv , in 1 's" . .. K' lionet, we h.ive ;i com- n"1 'o v n -aw Mrs. ( oibrn had 1 '**• • i ev s i\l s#k is the wite ot the K cr J oi. u u is u'i i nunitv property . I Mic o c ns p o 1 1 -if v Ills property.” A e I 'o \ lie Judge Hnsvvell said. I M i .v with v on 'Vou introduce M v 1 n-Po far hills. I’ll ov crude tM ^ »u i|ifidc by the de¬ fense.” "Produce a ■ w urn -dollar bills, Sheritl,” I las| *, v : i uimpli mtlv. I he hills vvck o a, and received in evidence. "Cross-examine I Mil • said eurtlv. "No questions o ’ s \-incsS " Ma¬ son said, "hut I hew . u questions to ask Mr. Bernal on . ss ex.mu iat on. ^ on took him of! the - . u ,.v the Uumdation tor introduce j ,i sank list. and I didn’t have an opportunity to cross examine him.” I beg your pardon,” Flasher said. Resume the stand. Mr. Bernal.” His tone, now that he had the twentv- dollar bills safelv introduced in evi¬ dence. had a gloating note to it. Mason said, " I his list which has been introduced in evidence is on the sta¬ tionery of the Ivanhoc National Bank?” ” I hat’s right Yes. sir.” "It consists of several pages, and at the end there is the signature of the assistii nt cashier?” "Yes, sir.” “And each page is initialed by the assistant cashier?” 'A es. sir.” "Ibis was the scheme which you thought ot in order to safeguard the company against a payroll robbery?” "Not to safeguard the company against a payroll robbery, Mr. Mason, hut to o ss ist us in recovering the money in the event there was a holdup.” "Ibis was your plan to answer Mr, Nesbitt’s objections that the vault was an outmoded model?” "A part of mv plan, yes. I may say' that Mr Nesbitt’s objections had never been voiced until I took ollice. 1 felt he was trying to embarrass me by mak¬ ing my administration show less net returns than expected.” Bernal tight¬ ened Ins lips and added. "Mr. Nesbitt had, I believe, been expecting to be ap¬ pointed manager. He was disappointed. I believe he still expects to he manager.” In the spectators’ section ot the court¬ room. Ralph Nesbitt glared at Bernal. "You had a conversation with the defendant on the night ot the four¬ teenth?” Mason asked Bernal. "I did. Yes, sir.” A on told him that for reasons which you deemed sufficient you were dis¬ charging him immediately and wanted him to leave the premises at once?” ’ A es. sii . I did.” "And vou paid him his wages in cash?” "Mr. Nesbitt paid him in my pres¬ ence. with money he took from the pettv-eash drawer of the vault.” "Now. as pan ol the wages due him, wasn’t Corbin given these two tvventy- dollur hills which have been introduced in evidence?” Bernal shook his head. "I had thought ot that.” he said, "hut it would have been impossible, those bills weren’t available to us at that time. The pay¬ roll is received from the hank in a sealed package. Those two twenty- dollar hills were in that package.” “And the list of the numbers of the twenty-dollar bills?” ” I hat's in a sealed envelope. The money is placed in the vault. I lock the list of numbers in my desk.” “Are you prepared to swear that neither you nor Mr. Nesbitt had access to these two twenty-dollar bills on the night of the fourteenth?” “That is correct.” “That’s all,” Mason said. “No fur¬ ther cross-examination.” “I now call Ralph Nesbitt to the stand,” District Attorney Flasher said. “I want to fix the time of these events definitely. Your Honor.” “Very well,” Judge Hnsvvell said. “Mr. Nesbitt, come forward. 44 Ralph Nesbitt, after answering the usual preliminary questions, sat down in the witness chair. ’’Were you present at a conversation which took place between the defend¬ ant, Harvey L. Corbin, and Frank Ber¬ nal on the fourteenth of this month?” the district attorney asked. ”1 was. Yes, sir.’’ "What time did that conversation take place?” “About eight o'clock in the evening.” "And, without going into the details of that conversation, I will ask you if the general effect of it was that the de¬ fendant was discharged and ordered to leave the company's property?” ‘A cs. sir.” "And he was paid the money that was due him?” "In cash. Yes. sir. I took the cash from the safe myself.” “Where was the payroll then?” "In the sealed package in a compart¬ ment in the safe. As cashier, I had the only key to that compartment. Hailicr in the afternoon I had gone to lvanhoe City and received the sealed package of money and the envelope containing the list of numbers. J personally locked the package of money in the vault,” "And the list of numbers?” "Mr. Bernal locked that in his desk.” "Cross-examine,” Flasher said. “No questions,” Mason said. “ I hat’s our ease. Your Honor,” Flasher observed. "May we have a few minutes indul¬ gence?” Mason asked Judge Haswell. “Very w^ell. Make it brief,” the judge agreed. Mason turned to Paul Drake and Della Street. “Well, there you are,” Drake said, “You’re confronted with the proof, Perry.” “Are you going to put the defendant on the stand?” Della Street asked. Mason shook his head. “It would be suicidal. He has a record of a prior criminal conviction. Also, it's a rule of law that if one asks about any part of a conversation on direct examination, the other side can bring out all the conver¬ sation. That conversation, w'hen C orbin was discharged, was to the effect that he had lied about his past record. And I guess there’s no question that he did.” “And he's lying now,” Drake said. “'I his is one case where you’re licked. I think you'd better cop a plea, and sec vvhal kind of a deal you can make with Flasher,” “Probably not any,” Mason said. “Flasher wants to have the reputation of having given me a licking — wait a minute, Paul, 1 have an idea.” Mason turned abruptly, walked away to where he could stand by himself, his back to the crowded courtroom. “Are you ready?” the judge asked. Mason turned, “I am quite ready, Your Honor. I have one witness whom I wish to put on the stand. I wish a subpoena duces tecum issued for that witness. I want him to bring eertair documents which are in his possession.’ “Who is the witness, and what art the documents?” the judge asked. Mason walked quickly over to Pau Drake. “What's the name of that char¬ acter who has the garbage-collecting business,” he said softly, “the one who has the first nickel he'd ever made?” "George Addey,” The lawyer turned to the judge. “The witness that I want is George Addey, and the documents that I want him to bring to court with him are all of the twenty-dollar bills that he has received during the past sixty days.” "Your Honor,” Flasher protested, “this is an outrage. This is making a travesty out of justice. It is exposing the court to ridicule.” Mason said, "I give Your Honor my assurance that I think this witness is material, and that the documents are material. 1 wall make an affidavit to that effect if necessary. As attorney for the defendant, may 1 point out that if the court refuses to grant this subpoena, it will be denying the defendant due process of law.” “I'm going to issue the subpoena,” Judge Haswell said, testily, “and for your own good, Mr. Mason, the testi¬ mony had better be relevant,” EORGE ADDEY. unshaven and bristling with indignation, held up his right hand to be sworn. He glared at Perry Mason. "Mr. Addey,” Mason said, “you have the contract to collect garbage from Jehson City?” "1 do.” "How long have you been collecting garbage there?” "For over five years, and I want to tell you — ” "Judge Haswell banged his gavel. “The witness will answer questions and not interpolate any comments.” “I'll interpolate anything I dang please,” Addey said. "That’ll do,” the judge said. “Do you wish to be jailed for contempt of court. Mr. Addey?*’ "I don’t want to go to jail, but I — ” “Then you'll remember the respect that is due the court,” the judge said. Collier’* for January 17, 1953 ki()f course they're legal! Downtown’s full of them*

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41 “Now you sit there and answer ques¬ tions. This is a court of law. You’re in this court as a citizen, and I’m here as a judge, and I propose to see that the respect due to the court is en¬ forced.” There was a moment’s silence while the judge glared angrily at the witness. ‘‘All right, go ahead, Mr. Ma¬ son,” Judge Haswell said. Mason said, “During the thirty days prior to the fifteenth of this month, did you deposit any money in any banking institution?” “I did not.” “Do you have with you all the twenty- dollar bills that you received during the last sixty days?” “I have, and I think making me bring them here is just like inviting some crook to come and rob me and — ” Judge Haswell banged with his gavel. “Any more comments of that sort from the witness and there will be a sen¬ tence imposed for contempt of court. Now you get out those twenty-dollar bills, Mr. Addey, and put them right up here on the clerk’s desk.” Addey, mumbling under his breath, slammed a roll of twenty-dollar bills down on the desk in front of the clerk. “Now,” Mason said, “I’m going to need a little clerical assistance. I would like to have my secretary, Miss Street, and the clerk help me check through the numbers on these bills. I will select a few at random.” Mason picked up three of the twenty- dollar bills and said, “I am going to ask my assistants to check the list of num¬ bers introduced in evidence. In my hand is a twenty-dollar bill that has the number L 07083274 A. Is that bill on the list? The next bill that I pick up is number L 02327010 A. Here’s another one, number L 07579190 A. Are any of those bills on the list?” THE courtroom was silent. Sud¬ denly, Della Street said, “Yes, here’s one that’s on the list — bill number L 07579190 A. It’s on the list, on page eight.” “What?” the prosecutor shouted. “Exactly,” Mason said, smiling. “So, if a case is to be made against a person merely because he has possession of the money that was stolen on the fifteenth of this month, then your office should prefer charges against this witness, George Addey, Mr. District Attorney.” Addey jumped from the witness stand and shook his fist in Mason’s face. “You’re a cockeyed liar!” he screamed. “There ain’t a one of those bills but what I didn’t have it before the fif¬ teenth. The company cashier changes my money into twenties, because I like big bills. I bury ’em in cans, and I put the date on the side of the can.” “Here’s the list,” Mason said. “Check it for yourself.” A tense silence gripped the court¬ room as the judge and the spectators waited. “I’m afraid I don’t understand this, Mr. Mason,” Judge Haswell said, after a moment. “I think it’s quite simple,” Mason said. “And I now suggest the court take a recess for an hour and check these other bills against this list. I think the district attorney may be surprised.” And Mason sat down and proceeded to put papers in his brief case. . . . Della Street, Paul Drake and Perry Mason were sitting in the lobby of the Ivanhoe Hotel. “When are you going to tell us?” Della Street asked fiercely. “Or do we tear you limb from limb? How could the garbage man have — ?” Collier’s for January 17, 1953 JUST ONE BRUSHING WITH COLGATE Chlorophyll Toothpaste DESTROYS BAD BREATH Originating in the Mouth. Here is the magic power of chlorophyll to destroy bad breath originating in the mouth! Colgate Chlorophyll Toothpaste in most cases acts quickly, acts thor¬ oughly, and the purifying action lasts for hours' Help Your Children Hove Sound, Healthy Gums! “Wait a minute,” Mason said. “I think we’re about to get results. Here comes the esteemed district attorney. Vernon Flasher, and he’s accompanied by Judge Haswell.” The two strode over to Mason’s group and bowed with cold formality. Mason got up. JUDGE HASWELL began in his best courtroom voice. “A most deplora¬ ble situation has occurred. It seems that Mr. Frank Bernal has — well — ” “Been detained somewhere,” Vernon Flasher said. “Disappeared,” Judge Haswell said. “He’s gone.” “I expected as much,” Mason said. “Now will you kindly tell me just what sort of pressure you brought to bear on Mr. Bernal to — ?” “Just a moment. Judge,” Mason said. “The only pressure I brought to bear on him was to cross-examine him.” “Did you know that there had been a mistake in the dates on those lists?” “There was no mistake. When you find Bernal, I’m sure you will discover there was a deliberate falsification. He was short in his accounts, and he knew he was about to be demoted. He had a desperate need for a hundred thousand dollars in ready cash. He had evidently been planning this burglary, or, rather, this embezzlement, for some time. He learned that Corbin had a criminal rec¬ ord. He arranged to have these lists fur¬ nished by the bank. He installed a burglar alarm, and, naturally, knew how to circumvent it. He employed a watchman he knew was addicted to drink. He only needed to stage his coup at the right time. He fired Corbin and paid him off with bills that had been recorded by the bank on page eight of the list of bills in the payroll on the first of the month . “Then he removed page eight from the list of bills contained in the payroll of the fifteenth , before he showed it to the police, and substituted page eight of the list for the first of the month pay¬ roll. It was that simple. “Then he drugged the watchman’s whisky, took an acetylene torch, burned through the vault doors and took all the money.” “May I ask how you knew all this?” Judge Haswell demanded. “Certainly,” Mason said. “My client told me he received those bills from Nesbitt, who took them from the petty- cash drawer in the safe. He also told the sheriff that. 1 happened to be the only one who believed him. It some¬ times pays, Your Honor, to have faith in a man, even if he has made a previ¬ ous mistake. Assuming my client was innocent, I knew either Bernal or Nes¬ bitt must be guilty. I then realized that only Bernal had custody of the previous lists of numbers. “As an employee, Bernal had been paid on the first of the month. He looked at the numbers on the twenty- dollar bills in his pay envelope and found that they had been listed on page eight of the payroll for the first. “Bernal only needed to abstract all twenty-dollar bills from the petty-cash drawer, substitute twenty-dollar bills from his own pay envelope, call in Cor¬ bin, and fire him. His trap was set. “I let him know I knew what had been done by bringing Addey into court and proving my point. Then I asked for a recess. That was so Bernal would have a chance to skip out. You see, flight may be received as evidence of guilt. It was a professional courtesy to the district attorney. It will help him when Bernal is arrested.” Actual clinical tests (now published in a dental journal!) with 589 chil¬ dren show that Chlorophyll Tooth¬ paste can reduce gingivitis twice as fast as a white toothpaste! Even severe cases of this serious gum trouble were quickly improved! Here is scientific proof that regular brush¬ ing with Colgate Chlorophyll Tooth¬ paste can help your children have a betterehanceforsound, healthy gums! RIDS MOUTH OF DECAY BACTERIA! Just one brushing with Colgate Chlorophyll Toothpaste cleans your mouth of a high percentage of bac¬ teria. Remember: baeteria and acids are a chief cause of tooth decay. Every time you brush with Colgate Chlorophyll Toothpaste you reduce these destructive acids! Now! The Full Benefits of o Chlorophyll' Toothpaste in a New, Exclusive Colgate Formula!

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Before show she was nervous, giggly about acting^ in 3,000-seat house. “I'll have to yell,” she said^ntti \l late Mipper Hie shared a pizza with leading man. Charles Cooper (at right) Collier’s COLOR CAMERA On the Road \ T"!OR its audience, a touring Broadway play is H a glamorous spectacle bearing no reality be- L yond the footlights. What happens when the stage magic is done — how' the players eat, sleep, travel and spend their hours in a parade of strange cities — is a question audiences rarely consider. Until recently, Julie Harris, star of the prize- winning Broadway play I Am a Camera, had little idea herself of what lies behind the bright fagade of a traveling show. Julie is a star born and nur¬ tured on Broadway. Her career has taken her on several short, leisurely tours. But she had never come face to face with real trouping until I Am a Camera, which is touring the country until late spring, embarked on the most grueling experience an actor can know: a run of one-night stands. It began on a recent cold, wet night in Daven- Collier,!i> for January 17, 1953 42

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jigging gifts she'd bought that afternoon, Julie lent to theater to watch crew set up the scenery Wearing hat she uses in first scene of play, she did limbering-up exercises between acts next day, troupe came to Des Moines. Julie ad an hour for sight-seeing before curtain time When given her salary by company manager As she studied worn face after show, a train Manning Guriau, she quipped: fcTs it worth it?"' already waited to take her to Salt Lake City with Julie Harris The Young star of I Ain a Camera discovers wliat the old-timers mean whenever they talk about trouping port, Iowa. In the hectic week which followed her performance there, Julie faced an average of eight long, weary hours each day traveling on trains and busses. She spent two nights on sleepers and occu¬ pied six different hotel rooms. She grabbed hurried meals in coffeeshops and all-night diners. She was homesick. Every night she called her husband (Jay Julicn, a New York lawyer) and wrote home to friends. Her days began to get mixed up: there came a morning when she awoke, looked at the ceiling and wondered aloud: “Where am I today?” Following the Davenport performance came Ce¬ dar Rapids, Iowa. They arrived there late in the afternoon. That night, after the final curtain, Julie learned how fast a show can move: the troupe had one hour in which to remove make-up, dress, pack and catch a midnight sleeper for Omaha. They made the train three minutes before depar¬ ture time: it didn’t pull out for almost two hours. In Omaha at seven the next morning, a reporter wanted to know how she liked touring. “It’s won¬ derful,” she told him, straining to keep her eyes open. Then she went to her hotel to sleep. She awoke at noon. Anti suddenly there was time to spare. She read a hook. She found some shoes that needed fixing and took them to a cobbler. She stayed out in a forbiddingly cold afternoon, ex¬ ploring Omaha until dinner. With the troupe slated to spend the night in Omaha, there was time for a rare break in the rou¬ tine: after the show, the parents of a friend of Julie’s held a party in her honor. It was a small, informal affair, “Most exciting time we’ve had in ages,” she said afterward, and meant it. 1 Am a Camera hit the road again the next morn¬ ing. First a train and then a bus, and then Des Moines. There wasn't time to do much more than rest and eat before the show; by midnight they would be on a train bound for Salt Lake City. The performance was given in a half-full, 4,000- seat movie theater, in which the actors' voices rieochcted off the walls Afterward. Julie studied her tired face in the dressing-room mirror. ‘Tm beginning to wonder,” she said, only half seriously, “what I'm doing here.” And then a young couple knocked at her door. “We just wanted to thank you,” the man said. “Wc don't get much theater around here. It was a wonderful experience.’' Julie watched in her mirror as they left. “And there,” she said, “is my answer. Salt Lake City, here we come!” AAA 43 PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY JERRY COOKE

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WHAT DOES THE '53 PLYMOUTH’S NEW i true balance MEAN TO YOU? Before you even think of buying any new car, drive the new 1953 Plymouth — at your dealer’s now! Plymouth is intro¬ ducing something new in ride-engineering — a new way of keeping the ride in true balance— so the new 1953 Plymouth steers and rides like no other car in the low-priced field! For example . . I [ Ne tv control of ROLL — a car that stays more level and steers true on the sharpest curves First time you drive the ’53 Plymouth you’ll notice how it refuses to tip or sway, and how it "corners” like a cat on the sharpest curves! In the new Plymouth, the center of gravity has been lowered, the frame is 4 inches wider and the new, wider rear springs are angle-mounted to resist roll. The beautiful balance built into this car gives you road-hugging stability under all driving conditions. New control of PITCH — freedom from 44 rocking-horse ” motion when you go over a bump In the '53 Plymouth, the masses of weight are placed where they’ll resist forward and-back or pitching motion of the car. This new weight distribution combines with other ad¬ vanced engineering features such as synchronized springs. Rear springs are synchronized to react a split-second faster than front ones, so they catch up with the rebound of the front springs and keep the ride level. You get a gliding — not a galloping-motion in a Plymouth! New control of JOUNCE — protection against the bum p-and-b ounce of road shocks In the '53 Plymouth, rear springs are wider, and have more up-and-down room to react in. The rear axle is set farther forward on the rear springs, so wheels stay firmly on the road while allowing full spring action. And work¬ ing with this new spring suspension are Plymouth's famous Oriflow shock absorbers. Result: you go over the most violent chuckhole or bump in a smooth and steady flow of motion. Alt this — the control of three riding motions, roll , pitch and jounce — adds up to true balance ! Try it — For the best ride and the easiest handling you’ve ever known in a car. CqMipmtnl »nd (rim ara lubjacl to availability ol malarial* NEW THE NEW instrument panel features attractive two-tone color schemes, and a new center loca¬ tion of the glove compartment, more convenient for all front-seat passengers. . _ £ *

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More head room even though the car is lower . . . plenty of leg room ... in sedans, rear seats with 8 inches more hip room ! Horsepower stepped up to 100, compression ratio to 7.1 to 1. THERE’S MORE QUALITY IN IT-YOU GET MORE VALUE OUT OF IT THE NEW one-piece windshield is more uniformly curved so you have an undistorted view of the road. There’s 16% more glass area in the ’53 Plymouth, Constant-action electric wind¬ shield wipers. Superb vision! THIS NEW quarter window lets rear-seat passengers look sideways without leaning for¬ ward, And there’s a new, larger curve-around rear window that adds to your vision. A NEW EASY-EXIT 1/3-2/3 division of the seat back in models with divided seats lets a rear-seat passenger get in or out without disturbing front- seat passengers. No one sits on the seat-division. Plymouth Division of Chrysler corporation, o*tr«it 31. Michipn

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SUPER' (or. They’re tops as an appetizer or the main course Ik By HARRY THERE'S no more tempting dish on a cold winter evening than a steaming bowl of soup. It’s welcomed equally by rich man and poor man, by gourmet and trencherman. A good soup will titillate and stimulate the most pedestrian of appetites at the start of a formal dinner. Or it will serve as the main course for a hungry and impatient family. It is the pride of a dinner hostess, the refuge of a busy and thrifty housewife. Many soups have become solid favorites over the years. Here’s how to make some of the best of them: Water bury Soup j mj An expensive and famous New York restaurant has established and embellished its prestige by offering a tasty soup, smooth as silk. It can be made quickly and should bring you an accolade. I have served this soup so many times and noted the reaction it gets that I now keep copies of the recipe on hand to give to those who request it. The demand is usually equivalent to the number of guests at the table. Here is the recipe: Canned consomme, 1 quart Egg yolks, 2 Curry powder, 1 teaspoon Heavy cream, Vi cup Tart apples, finely diced Chicken Noodle

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SOUPS n' a meal. Here are some taste-tesled recipes 80TSF0RD Make a paste of some of the consomme and the curry powder, stir into the balance of the consomme, bring it to a boil, let the vol¬ ume reduce a little. Remove from the fire, add the cream and egg j yolks beaten together, but do it slowly while beating. Replace over low heat, but do not permit to come to a boil. Place a table¬ spoon of the diced apples in each soup plate, pour in the hot soup and serve. Ample for eight. If you like a well-flavored cold soup, let the mixture cool, then chill. Excellent on a hot day! Chicken and Mushroom Soup The addition of a little wine to canned soups creates a minor miracle, especially when you blend two soups. This combination will serve six: Condensed chicken soup, 1 can Condensed cream of mushroom soup, 1 can Dry sherry wine, Vi cup Milk, 1 cup Water, Vi cup Salt and pepper to taste. Heat soups, milk and water in a double boiler. Add wine 10 minutes before serving. Season with salt and pepper. Dust each serving lightly with paprika. (Continued on page 48 j

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48 FIRST AID for INDIGESTION FfcshenUp with Alka-Seltzer brand >*0 u S r0i cw ^You’ll like the way ALKA-SELTZER^ gives controlled alkalizing action to soothe your stomach. Get speedy relief— without bounce-back of excess acidity. Enjoy sparkling ALKA-SELTZER! TrM Alka-Seltzer also for HEADACHE COLD DISTRESS MUSCULAR ACHES DISriATtO AT DRUG STORES EVERYWHERE U S ««d c«ned« MILES LABORATORIES, INC., ELKHART, IND. LOOK for Rupture Help Try a Brooks Patented Air Cushion appliance. This mar¬ velous invention for most forms ol reducible rupture is (JUAR- AN'I h I* 1 ) to bring YOlT heav¬ enly e nnfort and security — d v an) mitht — at work and at p av or it costs you NOTH¬ ING ’ Thousands happy . Light, □cut-fitting. No hard pad3 or snrtDga. I* or men. women, and children. Durable, cheap. Sonf on trial to prove it. Not sold in 9tores. Beware of imitations. Write for Free Book on Rupture, no-risk trial order plan, and Proof of Results. Ready for you NOW! BROOKS APPLIANCE CO.. 407 A Stale St.. Marshall. Mich. PSORIASIS AT ALL DRUG STORES doesn’t keep me in the background I USE SIROIL Learn how hundreds of thousands ot users have found Si roil tends co re¬ move psoriasis crusts and scales on outer layer of skin. Light applications help control recurring te* sions. Sirotl doesn't stain clothing or bed ltnen. Offered on two weeks sat¬ isfaction or money re¬ funded basis. Wn'fe for free booklet Siroil Loboratories, Inc. Depf. CR-94, Santa Monica, Calif. Soup will warm you in winter , cool you in summer — and temp Soup Sauterne Another happy combination is cream of pea soup and consomme Madrilene. The end result is called soup sauterne. Here is how it is done, and there is sufficient for six or seven: Cream of pea soup, 2 cans Sauterne, Vi cup Consomme Madrilene, 2 cans Pinch of thyme Blend ingredients, heat thoroughly in a double boiler, add salt and pepper to taste. Garnish each helping with a sprig of parsley. Tomato Bouillon This light, flavorsome and invigor¬ ating soup is one of the best preludes to a dinner. It is easy to make, Tomato juice, V/i cups Oregano, Vi teaspoon Dried basil, Vi teaspoon Parsley flakes, 1 teaspoon Heat together, season to taste with salt and pepper, serve very hot. Enough for six servings. Basque Soupe a I'Oignon A Basque artist taught me how to make onion soup. If he could paint as well as he cooks, he would be rich and famous. As it is, he’s a mediocre man with the brush, but very happy. Here is the formula — and don’t devi¬ ate from it, I pray you: Onions, medium, 5 Flour, 34 tablespoon Pinch of thyme Salt and pepper to taste Bacon fat, 2 tablespoons Garlic, 2 cloves, mashed Tarragon wine vinegar, 1 table¬ spoon Water or vegetable broth, 2 quarts, hot Slice and chop onions finely, saute in fat over a low flame. Add flour, stir well, then add the garlic and let cook until light golden color. Add thyme and vinegar, and water or broth, simmer for about 45 minutes, by which time the volume should be reduced to 1 Vi quarts. Pour into in¬ dividual crockery casseroles, top with a slice of French bread capped by a thin slice of Swiss cheese. Pop under the broiler until the cheese melts and the bread toasts. Here is a rich and lively brew, enough for six to eight hungry people. If it’s for luncheon or supper, a salad of sliced cucum¬ bers and radishes in a vinegar sauce teams up very chummily with the mag¬ nificent onion soup. Bean Soup A sturdy companion to the onion soup of France is the hearty and enor¬ mously good American Navy bean soup. I’ve eaten it in camp and cabin, in penthouse dining rooms, in farm kitchens and in Army mess halls. It is always good, a prime masculine favor¬ ite. It is seldom made the same way, but in spite of the deviations, it always has been better than good. A bean-soup addict from youth, I prefer my own method of making it. It is a formula that has been in my family for over three centuries. The fact that it has survived is clear evidence of its virtue. We used a leftover ham butt, although you can get the same wonderful flavor by starting with an uncooked ham butt. Try it, and see if I am not right: Ham butt, 1 Vi pounds Navy beans, 4 cups Onion, large, 1 Celery, finely diced, 1 stalk Potato, finely diced, small, 1 Tomato juice, Vi cup Thyme, Vi teaspoon Skin and cover the ham with cold wa¬ ter, boil until tender, let it cool and skim off fat. To the beans, which have been soaked in cold water overnight, add on¬ ion, celery and potato. Simmer about three hours until beans are soft, adding about eight cups of hot water to get a volume sufficient to serve eight people. Add tomato juice about one half hour before serving, the thyme 15 minutes before serving. Stir from time to time to prevent burning. Just before remov¬ ing from the heat, lift out the ham butt, discard the bone, cut the ham in bite- sized pieces. Put about half of the beans through a ricer and return to the pot along with the diced ham. Thick and nutritious, the soup is distinctive and filling. The servings should be on the liberal side, and there is sufficient for eight. There are those who stoutly and enthusiastically maintain that the soup is better on the second day, a fact I can¬ not dispute. On a cold and blustery night, with the wind shaking your windows, there’s nothing better for a homespun dinner than a big bowl of steaming bean soup, toasted pilot crackers, a robust salad, a fruit pie for dessert — and plenty of coffee, strong and valiant. Vichy ssoise But when the temperature soars, there is nothing more delectable than a dish of icy-cold Vichyssoise, a soup of French origin, but perfected in this country. I am going to speak of the homemade variety, but the canned soup is also excellent. Here’s how you can make your own Vichyssoise: Leeks, finely diced, 4 Onion, finely diced, medium, 1 Butter or margarine, 4 tablespoons Chicken broth or stock, 3 cups Potatoes, mashed, Vi cup Salt, Vi teaspoon Pepper, Vs teaspoon Light cream, 1 cup Parsley flakes or finely chopped chives Clean, remove tough green parts of leeks, dice with the onion and saute over low heat in half of the butter or • c‘ margarine. Cook until tender but do not brown. Add chicken stock, cook for 15 minutes, then rub through a coarse sieve. Add potatoes, balance of the butter or margarine, salt and pep¬ per. Stir or beat until the mixture is silky smooth. Cool, add cream, stirring constantly, and chill well. Garnish with parsley or chives when served. Suffi¬ cient for four. The flavor is delightfully delicate, as elusive as a flying saucer. This soup offers an ideal way in which to launch a summer luncheon or dinner. Vichyssoise also may be served hot, but in the opinion of set¬ tled eaters the soup loses some of its flavor when eaten hot. j Iced Borsch Another summer soup of un¬ deniable excellence is chilled borsch. Originally a Russian dish, the traditional recipe calls for a small roast duck, a cracked shin of beef, a knuckle of veal and seven vegetables, among other items. Probably not a pop¬ ular dish in Red Russia in these days of austerity meals in the av¬ erage Soviet home! But borsch, American style, is simple to , make, contains only economy in- ! gredients and, when it is served chilled, its delicate nuances of flavor are indescribably good. Here’s the recipe: Beet juice, 2 cups Sour cream, % cup Lemon juice, 1 tablespoon Salt, 1 Vi teaspoons Pepper, Vs teaspoon Scallions, finely minced, 2 table¬ spoons Beets, finely diced, 1 cup Water cress, 1 bunch Sour cream for garnish, V* cup Add water to canned beet juice to make the necessary amount, blend with sour cream, lemon juice and sea¬ sonings in a bowl and beat smooth with a rotary heater. Add scallions, diced beets and coarsely cut water cress leaves, discarding the stems. Chill thoroughly, serve with a topping of sour cream. The scarlet and white makes a pretty picture, and it is as good as it looks. Plenty for four. Shrimp Bisque Down in New Orleans, where so many famous dishes were born, the cooks produce a bisque d' ecrevisses, a shrimp bisque so good that it has been cheered by generations of solid eaters. Happily, tbe formula has now become national, and it is shared by all: Shrimp, raw, 1 Vi pounds Butter, 1 cup Tomato paste, 2 tablespoons Flour, 2 tablespoons Fish stock, 5 cups Light cream, \Vi cups Dry sherry, 4 tablespoons Parsley, minced, 2 tablespoons Croutons, fried in butter, 1 cup Salt, cayenne pepper, paprika Fry shrimps in Vi cup butter; when they become a brilliant red, cool, shell, devein and cut into small slices. Place in a bowl and add remaining Vi cup Collier’s for January 17, 1953

Page 197

49 i<r family's appetite the year around butter, 1 tablespoon of the tomato paste and crush until thoroughly mi\ed. To the pan in which the shrimps were cooked, stir in the flour, balance of to¬ mato paste and shrimp mixture. Re¬ place over low heat and stir in fish i stock. When the mixture boils, remove | from heat, add cream, parsley and I sherry. Correct seasonings, serve in heated bowls with croutons. The fish stock is compounded by cooking fish bones (obtainable from your fish dealer), peppercorns, a little butter, 1 chopped onion, carrots, celery, a bay leaf, Vi eup white wine and 8 cups of water. Simmer for 3 hours; strain be¬ fore using. The recipe produces about eight gen¬ erous servings, perfect prelude to a dinner of thinly sliced baked ham, a water-cress salad, a green vegetable, toasted rolls. A lemon sherbet for des¬ sert, or fruit in season, is indicated. Philadelphia Pepper Pot If you have ever lived on Philadel¬ phia’s Main Line, or dined in one of its clubs, you will remember Philadelphia pepper pot, an American regional crea¬ tion, generated in a sector which still places great stress on tasty victuals. The soup is smooth, unctuous and enor¬ mously good. Here’s how it is made: Tripe, 4 pounds I Veal joint, 1 Bay leaves, 2 Onions, diced, 2 Herbs, 1 bunch Potatoes, diced raw, 4 Parsley, minced, 2 teaspoons Salt, 2 teaspoons Pepper, ground, 1 teaspoon Cayenne pepper, Vi teaspoon Whole sweet red pepper, diced, 1 Beef suet, 1 cup Flour, 2 cups Philadelphia cooks place scant value on time, for this is a two-day job. But, when you savor it, you acknowledge that the time has been well spent. Scrape and clean tripe, wash in 3 or 4 waters, cover with cold water and sim¬ mer rather briskly for 8 hours, adding water from time to time. Cool and cut in Vi -inch squares. The following day, simmer the veal knuekle in 3 quarts of water, skim ofT scum as it rises. Sepa¬ rate meat from the bones, cut into dice. Strain the broth, add bay leaves, chopped onions and diced meat and simmer for 1 hour. Add potatoes, herbs, paisley and red pepper cut into thin strips. Follow this with the tripe and the seasonings. Compound small dumplings of diced suet, a little water and flour — tiny affairs no more than Vi inch in diameter. Roll each in flour, gently lower into the seething pepper pot for 5 minutes. Serve piping hot, and let the bowls be generous. There should be ample servings for eight. Pepper pot, a salad of sliced tomatoes and some toasted English muffins will constitute fare that is at once robust and stimulating. Ever notice how well fed the citizens of Philadelphia appear? I strongly suspect that part of it is due to pepper pot, and perhaps some of it is due to their incomparable red snapper soup. Incidentally, both soups are now available in cans and are uniformly palatable. There was a time when the average housewife looked upon all canned soups with deep suspicion. Then an alert soupmaker started to invite mem¬ bers of women’s clubs to visit his plants. They saw premises as neat as their own kitchens, they saw vast and shining caldrons equipped with temperature controls, they saw critically inspected ingredients go into the soups, and they saw the rigid tests for butter, cream, meats, condiments and herbs. They went back home converts to canned soup and they told other women what they had seen. Canned soups leaped into popularity. There was a time when the soup ad¬ dict also viewed dehydrated soups with suspicion. However, several types of great merit have been put on the market in the last few years. These soups are a compact concentrate which may be quickly transformed into a steaming brew so good it will please an epicure. Just add water and bring to a boil for the time specified on the package. Homemade, canned or dehydrated, hot or cold, soup will give you and your guests a real mealtime treat. ^ ^ ^ WITH CAR BE1AUTY INTACT Trode Mork Reg. U. S. Pot Oft NOW TO PREVENT LOSS OF BEAUTY Parcelainize is a scientific paint treatment which produces a tough, dry, sparkling surface sa Strang and durable that it takes the worst the weather has ta offer and asks far mare. There's nothing like Parcelainize. It's the World Standard far fine automobile appearance. And it's nat a caating — nat an ail, wax ar glaze ta turn dell, wash aff, peel aff ar heat-saften and trap surface grime. Porcelainize outlasts the average wax or polish job 3 to 4 times. Whether yau live in snawland ar not, Parcelainize provides maximum protection against the weather and insures that beau¬ tiful appearance sa necessary far business and social prestige. See yaur New Car Dealer naw. 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Page 198

mm. m, 0 ^ v ,. **' ■ A‘ - J -f/,- >- .♦ •V ^ .h • J • - A , / * ' - A/ , * a • - ' t/ /*.* / / V* *tr . £'■ -.,,•» ^ 4 ' ■ jT'pPi* * w ./ /' - * v 1 - '7 f -4. * # J#

Page 199

By ALAN WYKES Here, in this country village, she had spent her childhood. Here she had first heen in love. Now she was a visitor — grown, married, changed. And where was her love now? THE letter was addressed to her personally: Mrs. Mary Gresham, 55 Warburton Close , Cargill f Birmingham. Alex watched her with mild amusement from across the table as she opened it. It was just a sheet of paper with a newspaper clipping stuck on it. There was a note appended below the clipping, in Jeff’s oddly formed hand¬ writing that, until that moment, she would have sworn she’d forgotten: Thought this would inter¬ est you. The clipping was a paragraph from a local news¬ paper. It seemed that a bridge called Apple Acres Culvert was to be demolished, and would, under the new rural development scheme, in time be re¬ placed by a wider bridge, of more modern con¬ struction. Mary didn’t look at Alex; she didn’t look at anything for a moment. Then she passed him the clipping. “It’s just a bit of local news from home,” she said. She tried to keep her voice steady as she lied quite unnecessarily: “I can’t imagine who sent it. Probably old Sprogg, the news agent.” Alex rose and gathered up his pipe and matches from the mantelpiece. “Knowing,” he said, smil¬ ing, “that, with the sentimentality of your sex, you’d probably be quite prepared to travel three hundred miles to have a last weepy look at the old rustic bridge before it’s finally torn down?” He turned, stuffing his pockets, taking the paper from the breakfast table. “Hey! I believe I’ve got something there. Is that a nostalgic tear I see?” “Certainly not,” Mary said. She clattered the dishes onto the tray. “No?” He tilted her face. The light browm hair fell back from her shoulders. “You’re lying to me, woman,” he said. “This bridge, this cul- She was aware of liis tenseness. “What did you come hack for?*’ he said suddenly, urgently. He looked puzzled, but he didn’t really care vert, whatever it is — it means something to you, doesn’t it?” “We used to play on it as kids — dare each other to walk the parapet. There’s a stream with tad¬ poles. We used to catch them and put them in crocks — ” “We?” She looked down, away from him. “The kids in the village. The road runs over the culvert, and thcre’re some acacias on one side, and the other side drops to Butter Row, and you can see the post office because it’s the only building with a red roof, and farther past that there’s McLaugh¬ lin’s garage and — ” He watched her seeing the things of which she was speaking. Yes, it meant something to her all right. “Could you do it in three days?” he said. “A day there, a day back and a day to stand on the bridge and weep?” “Alex,” she said, “you don’t really mean it?” “Well, considering that if it hadn't been for me, you’d probably have married old Sprogg and never left the place — well, I guess 1 can do without you for three days. In seven years you haven’t moved from my side. I think a nostalgic adventure would probably do you good.” “Darling,” she said. “I do like you. I do like you so much.” “You're not bad yourself,” Alex said. “You’re not bad at all.” MARY made the journey on Thursday, so that she could return for the week end. She wished desperately that she did not have such a longing to go. It was cheating Alex in a way, and herself too. But when someone crops up out of the past . . . At the tiny station she was the only passenger to alight — she had been almost the only passenger in the single-coach local train. The station was deserted: there wasn't even any¬ one to collect her ticket. She paused on the dirt road that led from the station to Aunt Lou Flagg's, set down her dressing case, and breathed deeply. It was very easy to convince herself that every¬ thing was as wonderful as she’d known it would be. The scents and the scene were precisely as they should be — as if she had never for a moment left the place of remembered childhood. The road turned and rose, and at the top, like a ship at anchor, the turreted house rode the sea of orchards in the thin sunlight. It wasn’t the sort of house you bought: it was the sort of house >ou came by. Jell had inherited it. He lived there now . Once, brandishing a wooden sword and wearing a pyra¬ mid hat made out of newspaper, he'd said as they stood on Apple Acres Culvert, “You’ll live there with me, see?” She looked at the clipping again. ... To be demolished to make way jor a wider, modern bridge. They were ten then. The bridge was the place where they always parted — he to walk stolidly, and without looking back, up the hill to the house: she to return to Aunt Lou Flagg's cottage. She always turned to wave, perhaps a do/en times: but he never looked back and she would never injure her pride by asking him. Always, at the bridge, at parting, there had been his inevitable question: “Why don’t you come on up? Nobody'll eat you.” “No. I like it horn here best.” “But you can't see it properly, silly.” “Yes. I can. 1 can see it as 1 want to see it.” Something would be spoiled it she saw the hoi ^e before the right time — she knew that: it was an ever-present know ledge. Later, years later. Jell said, “1 know why you’ve never wanted to go up to the hou^e. It’s because vou're waiting for me to carry you over the thresh¬ old.” That was on the bridge too. “What a quaint idea,” she said, and made herself laugh. But she ILLUSTRATED BY ROBERT FAWCETT

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“Time for you two to disappear collier s somewhere. Supper is almost ready” stan hunt 52 knew it was true. “You needn’t think 1 want to marrv \ou, so there,” she added. “Marry?” Yell said. “Huh! That’s all a lot of rot.” Within six months, though, he had asked her. That night she told Mrs. Flagg; it was something that had to be told. “JelT Colvin's asked me to marry him' He really means it, too. He asked me on the bridge, and that’s a sort of sacred place. Whatever you say on the bridge is cross->our-heart — ” AUNT LOU looked up, not startled, certainly not cross, perhaps not even amused: just accepting, nodding her head. “Nothing unusual in that. People do it every day.” Behind her the flowered bag of knitting swung on the chair. "The thing is — when?” “When I’m twenty-one,” Mary said. 1 won’t have to mind you any longer, then. 1 ean do what I like. You’re only my guardian till then/’ I he older woman looked up. “My dear, I wouldn’t stop you doing what you wanted, what you really and deeply wanted, at twenty-one or now or any time. But is it what you really want?” “Of course,” she said with unneces¬ sary vehemence, and ran from the room. She had believed it. She had be¬ lieved Jeir and she were made for eaeh other because she needed to. She liked being with him; she liked the way he openly — believing it to be secretly — ad¬ mired her; and the way that sometimes, if she wasn't looking direetly at him, he’d murmur lines of verse. She liked most of all the thought of living with him in the anchored ship that would be his one day. They wouldn’t part on the bridge: they’d go straight up the hill to¬ gether that day, for the first time. Then Alex had eome. He’d come right out of nowhere and set himself down in the post office one morning when Mary was buying some stamps for Mrs. Flagg. “Cold in this part of the world,” he said. He was tall, with brown hair and a pipe that seldom left his mouth. He was staying for three weeks, sur¬ veying a possible site for a provincial depot for his firm. “I suppose you wouldn’t know anywhere I could park? Mr. Sprogg tells me there’s a Mrs. Flagg—" “Yes,” Mary said. “I live with her.” “Well, that decides me,” Alex said. Mary couldn’t help being amused. Later, she deeided Alex was the kind of man who eould get away with it; he was, as a matter of fact, rather lovable. “1 like him,” she said to Mrs. Flagg, a few days later. “I can see you do,” Mrs. Flagg said, dryly. At the end of the seeond week Mary’s birthday eame. Alex had not known about it till the very afternoon. When he eame in from the site with his portfolio under his arm, he saw the cake on the table. “Twenty-one can¬ dles,” he said, standing there and count¬ ing them deliberately. “And you never told me.” JelT was not there. He’d been up in London for most of that winter. When Alex asked her to marry him that night, it seemed that Jeff had been away, right out of her life, for years. She said, smiling, “I feel like a Vie- torian maiden. I want to say, ‘This is so sudden.’ ” Alex said, “1 expect it seems like aw¬ ful eheek on my part.” “It doesn't, somehow. It should, but it doesn't.” That was true. “I’ve nothing mueh to offer you,” he said. “A regular job, promotion pos¬ sible but not probable, a bit put by, a ehanee of a house through a building society, and enough left over to furnish a couple of rooms in it. It’d have to be in Birmingham — my firm’s there, and there’s no possibility of getting shifted.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You mightn’t like it after Devonshire, Mary. Besides, just beeause I'm free, I'm tak¬ ing it for granted you are too. And I daresay you're not.” She never even hesitated a seeond. “Yes,” she said, ‘i’m free”; and later: “Yes. I’ll marry you.” It was as brief and sudden as that, like the pain of a wound. Aunt Lou, tilt¬ ing in her ehair, said, “You’re not thinking, you’re not using your brain.” “No,'’ Mary said. “Not my brain — my heart.” ALEX went away at the end of the week. When he had gone, she real¬ ized that, though he had not whispered a single endearing word, though his love was unspoken, she eould think of nothing but the day he'd send for her. She told Jeff. That had to be on the bridge too: Where else eould she make the disclosure? Wearing a green dress, not looking at Jeff or at the stream or at the winter landscape, she told him. He didn’t say anything for long min¬ utes. Then, looking away from her, he said, “Did you tell him about us?” “No,” she said. “I didn’t. Suddenly it seemed to me there wasn’t anything to tell really.” After a moment he said, “You really believe that?” She felt frightened, ehilled; dusk was eoming on. In the frightened voice of her awareness she spoke again. “Well, why not? After all, I’m free.” She thought: You ean’t claim me because you’ve known me all your life, beeause we played kids’ games together; you can’t — “Yes,” Jeff agreed. “You’re free.” She remembered a kind of anguish possessing her after that; but through it Jeff spoke again — one of his bits of verse, one she'd never heard before, as if all along he’d been keeping it seeret, knowing, perhaps fearing, that the mo¬ ment would come for it to be spoken. “ ‘Free is the girl in green, broken my dream; Careless, my stream glides by; Beneath the bridge my stream goes by.’ ”... ... To he demolished, to make way > for a wider, modern bridge. Mary looked up from the clipping. Ahead lay the bridge, arched and nar¬ row, its red bricks ehipped and seratehed and initialed. So many people . . . so many times . . . Beyond it the acaeias bloomed in wild abandon; the heady scent filled the air as though it were already evening. She turned off to the left, down Butter Row, without giv¬ ing the bridge another glance. Aunt Lou was as unchanged as the seene. She had a dress for summer and a dress for winter. It was the summer one she wore now — dark as old port, with earefully laundered laee at neek and eulls and a blaek band eneircling her throat. “My dear,” she said. “I knew you’d be along about now. I heard the train’s whistle.” At her shoulder the flowered knitting bag (it might have been the same one) swung gently from the baek of the chair. “And how is Alex?” “Alex is wonderful,” Mary said. “But I had to come. I just had to. You do understand, don’t you, Aunt Lou?” The question was evaded, the knit¬ ting put carefully in the bag. “You must be tired, dear. Your room’s quite ready. Jeff’s expecting you in the morn¬ ing. He and Sonia — ” “Sonia?” Mary felt her heart leap. “Yes, dear. Sonia.” Aunt Lou busied herself with blue plates from the dark dresser. “Surely you didn’t expect Jeff to spend the rest of his days in bachelor pining, simply because you — ” “No, 1 suppose I couldn’t have. It was just that — well, 1 didn’t know.” “Five years,” Aunt Lou said. “They have three very nice children. They were married the year Jeff inherited the house. There’s an old saying about wa¬ ter flowing under bridges. But since you never asked about Jeff in your let¬ ters, I never mentioned him in mine. Most people don't like a part of their lives they've lived interfering with the part they’re living now.” Mary looked out of the diamond- paned windows — MeLaughlin’s Garage and Mr. Sprogg crossing the road with a hoe on his shoulder. The familiar scene. “No,” she said, “but somehow it al¬ ways does.” . . . Lying in the eool, narrow bed in the remembered room, she thought: Jeff married. Jeff married to a girl named Collier’s for January 17, 1953 COLLIER’S “I like winter sports if they don't try to get too fresh” JANE KING

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53 Sonia. Jeff with three children. The thought echoed, through her waking or I sleeping mind, the whole night long. By morning she was aware of a sense I of urgency about her visit. She no longer concealed it. “When he sent that clipping telling me about the bridge,” she confessed to Aunt Lou, i “I thought it was just a sentimental journey 1 wanted to make. But now — ” Aunt Lou looked across the sunny breakfast table. “But now you’re afraid it's something more serious. There’s a little doubt in your heart; you’re not absolutely sure that marrying a man you knew three weeks and living in a suburb of Birmingham in a semi¬ detached villa is just what you wanted. Be honest with yourself, my dear. Isn’t that so?” “Yes,” Mary said quietly. “As long as I thought Jeff had forgotten, 1 was prepared to forget too. But I know now that he hasn't. And I’m afraid — afraid he may have made a mistake too.” “You must go and sec. 1 could tell you. But whatever I told you, you’d have to confirm with your own eyes.” MARY went Up to the house slowly, deliberately slowly, like a child going to meet an expected punishment. It was cool; she crossed the bridge without lingering and went on up be¬ tween the orchards where a little of the fallen blossom clung to the ground like spindrift. He might be reproachful, she thought, steeling herself for possi- I ble bitterness. The garden was walled all the way round and had a green gate with a brass bell. She pulled the bell, and almost immediately heard quick footsteps. The gate opened and Jeff stood there, apparently on his way out, for a trench coat was slung over his shoulders. He did invite her in, but came out to stand in front of her, pulling the gate gently shut behind him. “Mary,” he said. He’d broadened, and she thought with sudden shock: Why, being rich has made him fleshy. But his clothes were good, if slightly ostentatious, with rather too many pleats at the waist of his expensive flannel slacks. He took her arm and steered her back down the road toward the bridge. “Sorry, old girl. Sonia and 1 had a bit of a brawl. It wouldn’t have been a nice atmosphere to ask you into. You probably don’t approve ol that sort of thing in Warburton Close.’’ Mary ignored the implied sneer. “Do you olten quarrel?” she asked. “Us? l ord, yes. Life’s one long gory fracas. We heave things at each other sometimes.” They came to the bridge, passed over and beyond it. “About time they widened the thing,” he said casually. JEFF looked straight ahead as they walked out of the village. He no longer held Mary’s arm. She thought: He’s changed, become bitter. All the time, all the morning, she was aware of his tenseness. They came to a place where they’d played as children, but she knew he had not chosen that place for any reason but its convenience at that moment. “What did you come back for?” he said suddenly, urgently. As she looked up at him she could see a momentary puzzlement in his glance, as though he really wanted to know: but it passed in a second, and she knew the question need never have been asked, just as the clipping need never have been sent. He might even have forgotten that he’d sent it. He didn’t really care, either; it was another kind of life he was leading now. She saw just how it was — how brief flashes of the old one came back and touched him sometimes, like needles. In such a moment, he must have sent the clipping. She saw how, in a little while, he would no longer be troubled by any memory of her. He would remember her with cool detachment. “Tell me about life in the suburbs,” he said. Somehow he made it sound patronizing. Color flushed in her cheeks. “I don’t like you this way,” she said. “You're not the same person I remem¬ ber at all.” 1 hen, more quietly, she said, “ ‘Free is the gil l in green, broken my dream — ’ ” Jell laughed, quite unnecessarily loud. “That tommyrot! I’ve got past all that. Sonia and 1 live an intelligent life. It’s the sort of thing I’ve always wanted — ” Mary listened to him speaking of the cocktail parties, the houseboat the\ had on the river somewhere, the coed school they were going to send the children to, the housemaids and crooms who came and went, the pu’if-a-wrrc in Jcrmyn Street, the valuable contempo- rarv water colors he was collecting the fashionable young composer who had written a svmphony . . She watched the dark lace Irom which something of youth had departed, and thought with momentary pain* It’s because of me he’s changed like this. But it wasn't true; she knew that. People went different wa>s. the\ came to a bridge and crossed, or they stayed on this side. You went a bit ol the way together, then . . . “Well, I’m glad to know you’ve been so successful,” she said. “Me? Yes, indeed, A few solid in¬ vestments I inherited from the old man, beside the house.” He jingled keys. “All in all 1 can count on three to four thousand pounds a year.” “That’s nice,” she said. “Well, isn’t this w'herc we say cheerio?” “The bridge? May as well. Getting latish, I suppose. I don’t know if you’d care to come up for lunch?” Mary smiled. “I don’t think so really, Jeff,” she said. “No? Well, some other time perhaps. Always glad to have you. That reminds me. I’ve been telling you all about my life — and I haven't heard a thing about yours.” “My life,” Mary said, “you would call very dull: getting meals, peeping from behind the lace curtains, queuing lor the groceries — ” “Ha!” Jeff said. “Looking after the old man’s inner man, eh?” While he was laughing, the thought that she had been lighting off all day recurred: In a year or two he’ll be fat. run to seed, a bore. “Well, Jeff,” she said. “I’m glad 1 came, glad I’ve seen you.” They shook hands almost formally on the bridge. “Like when we were kids, eh?” Jeff said, “You never would come up to the place, remember?” “Yes,” she said. “I remember.” SHE walked back to the cottage and repacked her suitcase. “I really think 1 ought to get back. Aunt Lou. I’d forgotten there was an afternoon train. I’ll wire Alex from the junction. He’ll be so pleased, 1 know exactly what he’ll say — he’ll make a joke about the bridge being too far gone to stand on by the time I got there.” “And was it?” “I think it was,” Mary said softly. On the way to the station she did not look back. She felt no regret save for the scene, the scents, the remembered words of childhood and early love. I’ll always remember and love those, she thought. But she knew she wouldn’t come again. The new bridge will be there soon, she thought — wider, safer, with no scratched hearts and initials, no senti¬ ment at all. For her, that was in an¬ other place now. In the speeding train she thought faintly, as if through gauze, of Jeff and Sonia measuring out their lives in cock¬ tail glasses and belligerent argument. She thought of Alex meeting her at the station, saying, “Glad to be back?” and her own, heartfelt reply, “Yes. I am glad to be back.” She thought of the walk to the subur¬ ban terrace, the rooms that he would have tidied to please her, the curtains billowdng at the opened windows — the place where love was. Collier’s for January 17, 1953

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Ships lie at anchor off Thule. Greenland, during construction of U.S.'s northernmost air hase. Huts at left housed workers and supplies. Water color is typical of 73 Bernt Balchen paintings now on display in Nev York. Many depict historic events in which Balchen played major rohlf die Col. Bernt Balchen’A The renowned explorer, pioneer pilot and swashbuckling Medal of Honor winner discloses a new facet to'® Balchen’s crashed plane lies on Greenland icecap above another downed craft after both were wrecked seeking lost C-53 in *42. Balchen won fame leading party 100 miles overland to safety 54 B' i) All Col. Bernt Balchen 1 ERNT BALCHEN is . living legend. Duim1]^ the last quarter century h has become a symbol o he-man adventure and dai ing. He flew the antarcti with Byrd (and won th Congressional Medal c Honor for it) in the wire and-strut days when mot people considered trave by air either for the foo hardy or for those in a life ! « and-death hurry. In th pioneer days of aviatior he was described as the greatest pilot in the world b Clarence Chamberlain, the first man to fly tram atlantic mail. Balchen has logged more hours over ic1 and snow than any other human. But during thes years of derring-do, he has kept his eyes open — an they are the eyes of a sensitive, sentimental artist. Often, in pencil sketches done from quick note on the scene, or from memory, he recorded the dq| tails of his most exciting adventures. During the la; four years he has set his hand to painting those seem] to in water colors. Thus, visitors to New York’s Gran Central Art Galleries currently are viewing a lifetirr 0! of swashbuckling exploits in 73 of Balchen’s painting Collier’s for January 17, 195 Ifc ill

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I ng long arctic flights, Balehen was fascinated by tile warm-weather Solitude of Alaska, where Balclicn often serves as expert for the Air i iiip of ice fields into bergs. He made sketches, later did painting Force, is expressed in water color of mammoth Kadiak hear on glacier a dien was key figure in dropping supplies to Finnish and Norwegian ps mopping up Germans in 1945. Painting captures the intense cold Weird lighting effect is produced in Norway's Sinidnl Volley by sun's rays diffused by overhanging clouds. River and mountains are in shadow [retie Art mality — as a water-color artist The water colors enable the viewer to see — ugh Balchen’s eyes — the rescue of fliers lost in the ic; the establishment of the U.S.’s northernmost base at Thule, Greenland; a parachute drop to 3ly the Norwegian underground, and dozens of :r perilous undertakings. Although Balehen became interested in art as a d in Norway, he never has had any formal instrue- . When he decided to make a permanent record lis years in the Far North, he bought some books irt and became his own teacher. But so keen is his feeling for the scenes he paints, so vivid are his recollections, that the viewer es the emotion Balehen wishes to express. Balehen himself says that his reawakened interest rt has increased the love and appreciation he has the arctic and its startling beauty. “One must ab- he says. “There are so many things 1 see now 1 never saw before.” In style, Balehen's work reflects the vast bleakness he North. Typieai of his work is a water color of ant Kadiak bear. Under Balchen’s experienced d, the bear attains its full stature us a behemoth of north country when he paints it as a solitary figure inst a glacial background. After 25 years in the arctic, Balehen, both as ex- •er and artist, is still thrilled by its splendor. “There’s so much to find,” he says. ilier’e for Jnniuiry 17, 1953 Striking contrast of light and shadow is created on Greenland mountainside by low-lying arctic- sun at high noon. Mountain is neur Ikutek, u Far North air base Balehen helped to construct 55

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>wVj* By N. B. STONE, Jr. It was Clay’s job to go thousands of miles to arrest his friend. It was no part of the job to take him away from the girl he loved CLAY WALDON left Salem in the late afternoon and rode north on the Orcgon-California trail, through the soft sunlight that lay over the flat stretches of the Willamette Valley like golden mist. He traveled slowly; for his paint horse was jaded, thin at the withers, and his ribs were bunched under his hide like a washboard. It had been an overlong trip. Clay had been in the saddle for five months, all the way from Three Forks in the heart of Texas, through the Arizona Territory and California, and now into this new state of Oregon. Even so. the trip was not half completed, for there was still the ride back to Texas to be con¬ sidered. Somewhere on the trail back, after he had picked up Sam Gates in Portland and made the summer passage through the mountains, he planned to stop over for a week or so, while his horse fattened up and worked the kinks out of his leg muscles. The trail cut a brown gash through the valley floor. On either side were fields green with unripe wheat and oats, and in the distance the Willamette River snaked over the land, slate- blue in the sunlight. Bees droned in the fields, and the still air was sweet with the savor of sun-warmed earth. Clay rode with slack-jointed ease: a wiry man, with skin the color of old leather. Beneath a wide-brimmed Stetson his face tapered to a blunt, determined chin. An old break flat¬ tened the bridge of his nose, curving the tip down in a pro¬ nounced hook, and a handle-bar mustache curved down around the corners of his mouth. From the shade of his hatbrim, eyes as gray as a thundercloud looked out on the world with uncom¬ promising boldness. He wore range clothes: his jeans were tucked into high-heeled boots, and a battered buckskin jacket hung loosely on his shoulders. The trail rounded a clump of alders, swinging toward the river, and ahead a log farmhouse broke the lonely pattern of the valley. Behind a rail fence, a herd of fat cows grazed in knee-deep grass. An elderly man with tobacco-stained whisk¬ ers and dirt-stained coveralls leaned on the fence and watched the horse and rider approach. “Howdy,” the farmer said. Clay Waldon reined in his horse. “Afternoon,” he said. The farmer looked at him with open curiosity, and his eyes rested speculatively on the long-barreled Colt revolver, hol- stered against the rider's thigh. “Stranger in these parts, hey?” Clay Waldon reached for the makings and rolled a ciga¬ rette. “I’m a stranger,” he said. “Horse looks plumb tuckered out. Don’t see them fancy Mexican saddles much around here. Come a goodly way, did ye?” Waldon nodded. The farmer plucked a stem of grass, chewed thoughtfully Amy nodded and smiled at Clay. Then she saw the gun on his hip, and her smile vanished. Her eyes froze a little, as she looked at the stranger. “Is something wrong?*’ she asked ILLUSTRATED BY MAH CLARK

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Here’s one source of information that keeps all the family up to date Colliers Encyclopedia AU,NEW cover-to-cover reads like a m.a written hy over 2,000 authorities, associated vidi ever 2.10 col¬ leges and universities throughout tin* world. It is endorsctl hy *eien list*, religion*-, hu'diic** and educational headers; eii llunda'I ieally mirurd from coast to const; rrconirririuh d for the home by the Strhscriplion Hooks (.(immithr of the American Library Association. Why postpone "ivin*; your family this im¬ portant reference and study aid? Especially when Collier's Encyclopedia will he delivered postage paid to yonr home for only a small down payment . . . tin* balance on Collier's Monthly Budget Plan over a period of two years. Imagine what it would mean to vour children to have, in their home, this almost inexhaustible source of accurate information on subjects they study in school. Collier's Encyclopedia will help stimulate your chil¬ dren’s reading and make them eager lo learn. Get Collier’s Encyclopedia and you'll agree with Dr. Thomas P. Neil, Professor of History at St. Louis University who says: “Collier's Encyclopedia has been a big help , and it would be a bargain at twice the price as a tool for helping raise the children properly Makes You An Expert When Your Friends or Children Ask: FREE 1. Who is Syngman RheeP 2. How many wells are now producing oil in Iran? 3. What United Stales President was re¬ jected entry into West Point because of a weak eye? 4. Who is the Communist-trained guerrilla leader in Indo-China? 5. W hat famous British admiral crossed the *T’ and in what battle? 6. What is the meaning of the Arabic word "shah mat” and how docs it apply to a favorite American game? 7. W hat is the difference between a photo¬ micrograph and a inicrophotograph? 8. Do yon weigh more (1) at the Equa¬ tor or at the North Pole (2) at sea level or on a mountain? 4\ Sir FRS n.is W poo tpjotf ,n ojow no l (ft ydorfoint/d pnu XU,r.>ulo.»oa..,u, n « ^oun,do,nui r> W,..*.,/™* .oj.mu >, fo ipln I'rtonopl p.tffjopio o *, ydojtioJMWonapI F (> *s.u,o Jo .>u,v.. n Ju X,„p».> >*ift»Shs pan '(pn>p si Jtupf .op.. «uimw t.jnu, f f/ u.,of punupy * V»'iV "V *’// ‘uumnjj. S *> ' ojL* o viLd '«o,npuoj ,00*0,0** jni,nj*d *,«»* {Z »s,oX V»"«S? Jo (f . . This big, 2 l-pagc, full-color book, crammed full of exciting topics and illustrations taken right from the pages of COLLIER’S ENCYCLOPEDIA! See for yourself how Collier's covers new subjects, sports, science, cosmic ray and atom-smashing experiments! Yes. even unusual primitive tribes, outlandish animals and a host of other surprises! Also included are aul hnritutix e reviews and signed statements by delighted owners of COLLIER’S ENCYCLOPEDIA. FREE BOOKLET in full color Collier’s Encyclopedia C-30 1 Crow e||-Oolljer Building [ bit) Fifth \\ cniie, New Y ork 19, N.Y. Please send me, without cost or obligation, your big, 21-page. [ elahoralclv illustrated book AUDI M) 1 HE WORLD Willi COLLIER'S ENCYCLOPEDIA.” Also, informa- i lion about how easily I ran own COLLIER’S KNCYCLO- I PEDIA on convenient terms to lit my family budget. Name . t Address. . . . I 20 volumes each lux¬ uriously bound in black Du Pont fabrikoiil: red panels and 22-karat gold stamping. Actual si/e: 10' s” x 8 V'. t Zone State

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58 on it, and said, “Might ye he a man of the law?” Clay Waldon shrugged. “Might be.” His star was in his pack behind the sad¬ dle along with the warrant, and the extradition papers issued him in Salem - hut twenty years of tracking down lawbreakers had evidently left their mark on him. “No otlense, stranger,’’ the farmer said. “Don't see much of the law in Oregon. We’re mostly, peaceful here.” Clay Waldon looked out at the val¬ ley, all soft and pretty to the eyes. “It looks peaceful enough,” he said. 1 he farmer waved a hand to the north. “Calculate you're headin’ for Portland." he said. “No more’n thirty mile on down the river.” “Much obliged.” Clay Waldon said. He nodded to the farmer, and rode on. Af DUSK he was following the trail along the riverbank, and on a beach of white sand he made camp for the night. He unsaddled and turned his mount loose to graze. Driftwood cast up by the spring floods was plentiful. He huilt a fire in a bed of rocks and cooked up a meal of beans, bacon and pan bread. By sunset he was in his blankets. He woke up an hour before dawn and rekindled the fire. Breakfast was the same fare as supper the evening be¬ fore, with the addition of cotl'ce, which Clay hoiled in a lard pail. Finished, he washed the tinware and made up his pack. Then he squatted on his heels before the fire and rolled his first ciga¬ rette of the day. When dawn came, he was still in that position, smoking and staring into the coals, thinking about the events that lay ahead. According to the records of the land office in Salem, a Sam Gates had filed claim to a hundred acres of timberland west of Portland. The clerk’s descrip¬ tion tallied with Clay’s, and now all that remained was the arrest and the return to Texas. Arresting Sam would he no problem. The ride up from Texas, while wearing enough, had been merely routine, magnified beyond its usual lim¬ its. No, the problem would be the ride back; that would wear him down, if anything would. He rememhered Sam Gates as a young giant, strong as a w ild steer, and with a great deal of patience. Taking a man like that back to jail in Texas would be something of a chore. Clay Waldon sighed and rose to his feet The months ahead would test him. He was fifty \ears old, and for the first time in his life, he felt the weight of his years. Of late, he had been both¬ ered b> things that had never bothered him before. It seemed now that, when¬ ever he was soaked through hv a rain, somehow- an ache settled in his bones. There were times, too, when he was wrapped in his blankets at night, that the cold came up from the ground and bit into the small of his back. He whistled up his paint horse, sad¬ dled, lashed the pack behind the saddle and swung stiflly up. Just like he had been thinking, lately his legs seemed a mite touchy in the mornings. He reached the settlement of Oregon City at noon. Here the river plunged over a falls, and clouds ol spray Hashed back the sunlight. Beyond the settle¬ ment the trail plunged into deep timber, emerging finally on the bank opposite Portland, where a ferry waited. Down-river a sailing ship lay at an¬ chor, sw inging idl> in the current. Two men with long poles guided a log raft along the bank, and from somewhere upstream came the sound of a steam¬ boat’s whistle. The paint horse shied skittishly, and Clay Waldon dismounted and led the horse up the ferry ramp. A bearded farmer and his bonneted wife moved to one side, and he led the horse to the offshore end of the ferry, stop¬ ping beside a horse and buggy. The steamboat whistled again. A portly gentleman in the buggy held the reins tightly in one hand, and with the other flicked the ash from a cigar. “That'll be the Caly-ope,” he said. Clay Waldon looked up the river and saw the steamboat rounding a bend, her black funnel spouting smoke and her decks lined with passengers and cargo. The ferry waited until the Calliope swept by and the wash from her stern wheel subsided, before proceeding across the river. “She’s been to Oregon City.” the man in the buggy volunteered. “This eve¬ ning Captain Love will take her up the Columbia to the Cascades. Hear there’s a new bunch of pioneers just come over the trail, waiting to get to Portland.” “She leaves tonight?” Clay asked. “Seven o’clock. I got a shipment of Boston-made furniture going on her to some settlers in The Dalles. Come in yesterday on the clipper ship anchored yonder.” . . . The ferry pulled in to the Alder Street landing, and Clay Waldon led his horse down the ramp and onto the hard mud street. Here on the water front were the majority of Portland’s buildings, for the most part one- and two-story frame structures. Wooden quays lined the water front, and at one of these the Calliope w'as berthed, dis¬ charging passengers and freight. Across the street from the quay a sign above a door identified the office of the Tw'o Rivers Steamboat Company. Clay Waldon made his reins fast to the tie rail in front of a saJoon and went along the boardwalk to the office, where he bought two tickets for the trip that night to the Cascades. Returning to the saloon, he stepped in through the swinging doors, found a place at the har and ordered a whisky. THE saloon was crowded, hot with the sun beating against the fir shakes on the roof, and smelling strongly of sweat, whisky and tobacco smoke. Clay sipped his drink slowly and with relish. Usually, he denied himself pleas¬ ures of this nature. His profession was a demanding one; he could only rarely permit himself the comfort of a drink in the company of others. But here he was a stranger, comfortahly anony¬ mous, subject to stares and conjectures but not to criticism. He drank and lis¬ tened to the hum of voices in the room, all American, but with a variety of accents. Beside him at the bar a man spoke to another in a folksy drawl about the Kaintuek hills, and at a table, a clipped New England voice was raised in sud¬ den anger. “Abe Lincoln carried this state, and, by God, we stand behind him!” Clay Waldon looked around at the others in the room. These were all big men. with big, work-calloused hands: farmers and loggers, judging hy their clothes. They w'ere hard-looking men, too. like most men found in saloons in the West; hut in these cases it was the hardness that came with fighting the ele- go around in about six whistles, three wolf calls, eight invitations to have a drink, and five inquiries collier’s as to what ITl he doing tonight’’ von riegen meats and the Indians, and in hewing a home out of the wilderness. When he finished his whisky, he w'ent out to the street to find the town mar¬ shal’s ollice. This consisted of a desk in a one-room building on Oak Street. The marshal was Jay Calliston, a white- haired man with a pair of benign and twinkling eyes gazing out of a wrinkled face. Clay Waldon produced his papers and explained his mission. Jay Calliston frowned and shook his head. “Hate to hear you come after young Gates,” he said. “Figured he was on the dodge when he blew in here six months hack. Still, the frontier is chockabloek with fellows like him. Young fellows lull of vinegar. Some¬ times they gets out of line, but then gen¬ erally they settle down and grow old and become good citizens.” His eyes were suddenly tired. “Seems you come a goodly distance to take the hoy back.” Clay Waldon nodded. “It’s been a long trail.” he said. “Young Gates ain’t caused any trou¬ ble since he come to Oregon. He got himself a nice place outside of town, and appears to be the sort of young man this community could be proud of. Seems to me that justice ain’t worth a hang if you don’t mix it up w'ith a little common sense. Your papers state Sam Gates maybe killed a man accidental. Well, it seems foolish to traipse more’n a thousand miles to take him back to prove maybe he didn't. You must want him pretty bad for that.” “It’s the state of Texas that wants Sam Gates,” Clay Waldon said. The marshal sighed wearily and ran a hand over his face. “Can’t say 1 favor what you're doing,” he said. “But I reckon 1 can’t stop you.” “I’m much ohliged.” Clay Waldon said coldly. He nodded briefly and went out the door. HE RODE west on Alder Street. Plank walkways crossed from side¬ walk to sidewalk at intersections; the mark of Oregon rains showed in the gutted streets. But now the black mud was caked and crumbling to dust under the sun. Away from the water front the buildings were scattered, and the street narrowed to a path that entered the forest, deep-shaded here, and carpeted with green moss. Sunlight broke through the pattern of high branches overhead. The sound of an ax biting into wood rang clearly in the air, and Clay Waldon dismounted, making the reins fast to a bush, and went ahead on foot. He left the path and moved cau¬ tiously through the firs, finally coining to a clearing w'here a young man was splitting fence rails — a big young man, with arms like the erosstrees of a cov¬ ered wagon. Clay Waldon stepped into the clear¬ ing. “Hello, Sam,” he said. The young man paused, his ax in mid¬ air, looked at the visitor and tossed the a\ to his feet. He stood there, star¬ ing dispassionately at the other. His face was square, and his shoulders w’ere square, bulging under a too-small denim shirt. His lips broke in a sudden grin. “You’re a long ways from home, Clay,” he said. Clay Waldon nodded. “We’re both a long w!ays from home, Sam.” Sam Gates shook his head. “Not me, Clay,” he said. “This here’s my home, now.” He made a gesture around the clearing. Stumps dotted the land, and at the far end was a log cabin — new, from the looks of it, for the peeled ends of the logs were still sap-wet. Sam Gates was wearing Texas boots and work-soiled dungarees. Clay Wal- CollierN for January 17, 1953 $ i l S' / I Cl Son k; 5a: iSf jeou; a p drai C plio you wit) hot! Wc y T an. dyi wa- too wa Ho tak Th is ou ba< k it. sta do yo hi' he "v T( li- a F, 4 (

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59 BUTCH “Butch has never been a worry to me. He collier s always hurries straight home from work” larry Reynolds Ion looked at his waist, where a gun >elt should be. “Forget your guns, lam?” he said. “Hung ’em on the wall the day I fin- shed the cabin. Don’t need guns in this country. Folks here are peaceable.” “Not like Texas, eh?” “Not like Texas. Even if I did have \ gun, I wouldn’t be fool enough to iraw against you.” Clay Waldon acknowledged the com¬ pliment with a dry smile. “Never knew iou to worry about anbther man's hand >vith a gun, Sam,” he said. “It didn’t bother you none the night you shot Webb McGilvey.” Sam Gates spoke in an even voice. “Twenty-thirty men was in the saloon and seen Webb draw first, Clay.” “So we heard. But it isn’t Webb’s dying that brung me here, Sam. There was a saddle bum standing by the bar, took a slug in his belly. Some says it was Webb’s. Some claims it was yours. However, that's for a jury to decide.” Sam Gates smiled thinly. “You ain’t takin’ me back. Clay?” he said. “Reckon that’s what brung me here. This Oregon is a state now, and Texas is a state. I got the warrant, all made out legal, and papers to extradite you back to Texas.” “I sure didn’t mean to shoot that hombre, Clay — if it was me that done it. It was an accident, like.” “The state of Texas wants you to stand trial, accident or not. If they don’t prove you done it, like as not you’ll go free.” Sam Gates frowned and scratched his head. “I figured some of Webb’s boys might be after me,” he said, “which is why I hightailed it out of Texas, but I never reckoned on the law being on my trail. Why, when I was just a little shaver, they was having a man for breakfast back in Three Forks every single, solitary day. Mur¬ ders, most of them killings were; and Collier’s for January 17, 1953 the law didn't stop those goings on.” “Those were the old days, Sam,” Clay said; and he thought about the old days, and how different life was now. THOSE were the days of the necktie parties, and of the nightriding vigi¬ lantes, who, more often than not, were a bunch of ’border thieves out for no one’s good but their own. Now, except for a few wild sections, the frontier was pushed back clear to the Pacific Ocean. The reign of terror and bloodshed that, like some dread plague, had always ac¬ companied the settlers and pioneers in their honest search for land was dying out, sent to its grave by the guns of a thousand marshals in a thousand West¬ ern towns — quick-thinking men, whose tenure on life was in direct ratio to their speed and accuracy in drawing and firing a gun. And where the wil¬ derness disappeared, and the courts — the only foundation on which a land can grow and prosper — appeared, the marshals went out now with warrants and extradition papers. In the West, law and order were finally coming into their own. “We’ll be going tonight,” Clay Wal¬ don said. “There's a steamboat leaves at seven for the Cascades.” Sam Gates looked carefully at the other before speaking. “You couldn’t wait maybe a few days. Clay? 1 got reasons for asking,” he said. Clay Waldon shook his head. “Won’t have the time, Sam,” he said. “The ribs on my paint horse are nigh bustin’ out of his skin. From the Cascades we backtrack on the Emigrant’s Trail far as Kansas, then head south. We’ll have to push on slowly. Winter sets in early in the Rockies, and 1 figure to be well clear of them come September. There's good grazing on the other side, and we won’t stop till we get there and give my horse a chance to fatten up.” “But two-three days won’t make no If you’ve trees or timber to cut. let McCulloch power saws take the hardest share of the work In tall timber and small woodland — in parks and groves— thousands of hours of hard work are saved every day with these , engine-driven McCulloch tools. SWING MADE EASY! This powerful 1-man McCulloch saw weighs only 25 pounds, cuts rapidly through branches, trees, and logs up to 4 feet thick. It saws full power in airy position, on the ground or in a tree. This new, gasoline-powered portable fire pump delivers 15,000 gallons of water per hour, weighs only 57 pounds complete. MeCUUOCH World's lorg#*f 0-1 ild*r* of poW#r Cho,n "How To Make Money From Small Woodlands " McCulloch motors CORPORATION Los Angeles 45, Californio Send literature on items checked and name. of nearest dealer . . . □ 3-hp chain saw □ 7-hp chain saw □ Fire Pump □ Earth Drill □ Small Wood¬ land Manual McCULLOCH MOTORS CORP. 6101-D W. Century Blvd . Los Angeles 45. Calif Name_ Address City_ Zone State BIGGER. THEY ARE! Two-man 7-horsepower McCulloch chain saws cut trees or logs of any size in short order. They’re light, for easy carrying over any terrain. FT DIGS HOLES, TOO ! NEW McCULLOCH FIRE PUMP Any two-man McCulloch saw can be converted in less than a minute into a hole-a-minute Earth Drill— the newest tool for post-hole digging.

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The best thing you know wherever you go NATIONAL CITY BANK TRAVELERS CHECKS Backtd by Th« National City Bank of Now York Momber Ftdorol Deposit Insurance Corporation never mind, Clay. You figure gettin’ me back to Texas?” “I do.” “You wait two-three days while I finish up what I been planning on, and I’ll give you the promise not to pull a powder on you.” Clay Waldon sighed. It was a tempt¬ ing offer, and would make the trip back that much easier. But every day counted, and he shook his head. “No, Sam. We leave tonight,” he said. The young man smiled, but his eyes were cold. “You’ll never get me back then. Clay,” he said. “I reckon to.” Sam Gates laughed shortly. “Sure, you can rope me to my horse like a sack of meal,” he said, “and you can tie me up real solid every night when we make camp. But sooner or later I'm busting free. When that happens, I'm off, and there won't be any catching me.” Clay Waldon nodded somberly and said, “Even so, we leave tonight.” THERE was movement at the far side of the clearing. Clay swung quickly about. Then he saw it was a girl, sun-bonneted and wearing a calico dress. She picked her way between the stumps toward them. Even at that dis¬ tance Clay Waldon could see she was a looker, slender, and with black curls pecking out from under the bonnet. “That’s what I was speaking of, Clay,” Sam said, and he sighed heav¬ ily. “1 been thinking of asking her to marry up with me.” “You haven’t spoke for her yet?” “No. I reckoned I shouldn’t ought to rush her. Still, now you’re set on tak¬ ing me back, I figured I might hurry things up a mite. Maybe in two-three days I could convince her.” Clay Waldon watched the girl ap¬ proaching. He saw the quick flush of her cheeks, and the way her eyes lighted up when she looked at Sam Gates. There was a basket on her arm, and she handed it to the young man. “Here’s some fresh biscuits, Sam,” she said, and then she turned soft, brown eyes on Clay Waldon. “There’s enough for your friend, too.” “This here is Clay Waldon, come up from Texas to see me,” Sam said. “Clay, meet Amy McDougal. Her folks got the homestead next to mine.” Clay Waldon took off his hat. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said. She nodded, and a smile touched her lips. Then she noticed the gun on his hip, and the smile vanished. Her eyes froze a little as she looked at the stran¬ ger. “Is something wrong?” she asked. A right smart girl, Clay Waldon thought. She’s read my brand, and there won’t be any fooling her. She re¬ minded him of a girl he had known thirty years before, back in Ohio. Same tilt to her nose, same full red lips, same firm look to her, that would turn soft if the right man came around. He had been the right man for that girl in Ohio, but then he went away for two years; and when he came back to ask her to marry him it was to find that another right man had taken over in his absence. An old sense of loss touched him, and he shrugged it off. A man should never look back. He glanced from the girl to Sam Gates and felt vaguely troubled. At the best, Sam wouldn’t be back for close to a year, providing the jury saw fit to ac¬ quit him. There was a possibility that the girl might not wait even that long. Girls were peculiar about such things, especially girls on the frontier, where eligible men outnumbered them twenty to one. To Clay Waldon, adherence to duty was a form of religion. It was his duty to take Sam Gates back to Texas, to stand trial according to the due proc¬ esses of law. But he saw no cause why he should stand in the way of Sam’s and the girl’s future happiness, providing it didn’t interfere with his duty. He looked up at the sky, saw the sun was about at three o’clock and he came to a sudden decision. “Sam tells me,” he said to the girl, “that he was plan¬ ning to ask you to marry him.” Her eyes opened wide at this, and her lips set in a prim line. “Why, Mr. Wal¬ don,” she said, “if that was his inten¬ tion, don’t you think it would also be his business?” Clay Waldon nodded and said, “Most cases, yes. However, time is getting short, so if you’ll be excusing me, miss, I would like to ask if you would con¬ sider taking your vows with Sam this very afternoon?” “Well, really,” the girl said in a shocked voice, “I don’t think I ever have heard the like.” She looked at Sam, and her eyes were angry. “Sam, if you can’t — if you couldn’t speak for yourself, at least you might have spared me this — this humiliation.” Sam had been staring openmouthed at Clay Waldon. The truth was, he was a little afraid of Amy — shy, maybe the word was — and for several months he had been working up his courage to ask her this question that Clay put so bluntly. He was flabbergasted. “Now, Amy,” he said, “don’t be fret¬ ting yourself. Clay only thought he was maybe — maybe helping me along.” “Can’t you speak for yourself, Sam?” the girl interrupted. Sam scratched his head uncomfort¬ ably. “Fact is,” he said, “I done whit¬ tled these trees down to stumps and built this place with maybe that idea in mind. That is, that you and me — pro¬ viding you was willing — well, that we might — ” He stopped then, at a loss for words, and scuffed a big shoe over the ground in silent embarrassment. “Yes, Sam?” There was a look of quiet despera¬ tion on his face. “All right,” he said in a husky voice, “I’ll speak my piece. I’m right fond of you, Amy, and I fig¬ ured soon to ask you to marry me.” “Well, then, now that you have asked, even with the help of Mr. Waldon, I’ll give you my answer,” she said. She smiled, and there was a curious mois¬ ture in her eyes. “I’ve wondered how long it would take for you to make up your mind, Sam.” “Well, I’ll be dogged,” Sam said, grin¬ ning, and then his face darkened. “Only one thing, Amy. Like Clay, here, says, we need to get married this afternoon. You remember I told you about that gun fight I had, which is why I came to Oregon?” She nodded, looking sideways at Clay Waldon. “I suppose Mr. Waldon is a deputy sheriff,” she said. “They.sent him after me,” Sam Gates said. “They want me back in Three Forks to stand trial.” Amy looked at him searchingly. “You said you shot that man in self-defense, Sam.” _ “He did that right enough, miss,” Clay Waldon broke in. “However, there was another man killed by a stray bullet. There’s a difference of opinion whose gun it come from. That’s what the jury will decide.” Amy turned to Clay. “It seems to me, Mr. Waldon,” she said, “that you have come a long distance just to take a man back to be tried for an accidental shooting that he may not have done.” “It’s the law, miss, and it can’t be sidetracked. As for me, I got nothing personal against Sam, and I hope the jury sees fit to turn him loose.” “Yet you’re taking him back?” “It’s my duty, miss,” he said simply. THE girl looked at him in silence. There was no expression on his stern face, no hint of a sentimental weakness that might be used to advan¬ tage. His manner was gravely courteous, but that was all; and she sighed, realiz¬ ing the futility of pleading with this man. “Very well,” she said in a small voice. “When do we leave?” “We, miss?” “Yes.” “I got tickets for Sam and me, on the Caly-ope, going to the Cascades at seven tonight, miss. But you can’t come along.” “I can’t?” sh^ said coldly. “Never¬ theless, I will, Mr. Clay Waldon.” She turned to Sam. “I’ll ride into town COLLIER’S ‘Oh, goody! Now I can run off with the cigarette girl!’ DICK CAVALL1 icd jag^L tlwat- c m , DO! Sai coi : hi l'Ll la dei th aoi foi Te an pa or th of cc ai a! Y B ll P d | tl a l fc \ t 1 c { 1 Collier’s for January 17, 1953

Page 209

61 I nd ask the Reverend Bairnsfeather to ;urry out. We can be married in your abin, Sam. That should give me an tour or more to pack before we go.” “Now, miss,” Clay Waldon protested, ‘you can’t be coming with us. It’s a ight long trail back to Texas, and — ” “The law says this is a free country, vfr. Waldon, so you can’t very well stop ne. Wives have duties, too, and I have llways believed that a wife’s duty is to >e with her husband,” she said, and she urned before Clay Waldon could speak igain and hurried off. The two men watched her disappear into the forest. CLAY shook his head and broke the silence. “You should stop her doing this, Sam. It’s a long trail, and no fit ride for a lady,” he said. Sam Gates smiled at Clay’s discom¬ fiture. “Amy’s got a lot of git up and go to her, Clay,” he said. “Five years ago she drove one of her pa’s covered wagons out here, in the train coming from Missouri.” Clay Waldon shook his head and was silent. Now there would be not one, but two, to keep an eye on. He thought of putting a stop to the wedding, but he had dealt himself in on that, and there was no backing out now. It might be that he could put the girl on her honor not to interfere with his custody of Sam. But what if she refused? He could see no solution to the problem. Sam Gates pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead. I “Let’s get along to the cabin, Clay,” he said, and he shoul¬ dered his ax and strode off across the clearing, whistling a tune, and Clay Waldon followed. Sam seemed right cheerful for a man about to return to Texas a prisoner, Clay thought, and he wondered if Sam Gates realized that the trial might not end up in his favor. Back in Three Forks, Webb McGilvey’s pa carried a lot of weight, being one of the biggest cattlemen in the country; and the possibility of a McGilvey-influenced jury could not be discounted. At the cabin door Sam turned and said, “With Amy coming along I won’t act up none, Clay. You got my word.” Clay Waldon was silent a mo¬ ment, his gray eyes thoughtful. In the West you got to know people right well, how they were deep inside, and Sam Gates was the sort would rather have his arm cut off at the shoulder than go back on his word. He nodded and said, “Best bring your guns along, Sam. We’ll now and then be riding through Indian country.” Clay sat down on a stump and rolled a cigarette while Sam went inside to make up his pack. White puffball clouds drifted across the sky, and the smell of fir was incense in the warm air. He liked this country, with its fertile valleys and its mile-high mountains, and greenness every¬ where you looked. It was new, like Texas when he had first seen it twenty years before — new, and with a feeling of bigness yet to come. Maybe one day, after he delivered Sam, he could turn in his star and drift on back here. Likely he could pick up some acreage, build himself a cabin and hang his gun up on the wall. There came a time when a man should do that. Collier’s for January 17, 1953 From deep in the timber a horse whinnied, and Clay rose to his feet with his eyes on the trail that led to town. Three riders appeared, and he saw it was the McDougal girl, dressed now in jeans and astride her horse, man- style, with a frock-coated man with mutton-chop whiskers, who was un¬ doubtedly the Reverend Bairnsfeather. The third rider was Portland’s marshal, Jay Calliston. The horses picked their way across the stump-filled clearing, and in front of the cabin the riders dis¬ mounted. Jay Calliston nodded shortly to Clay Waldon. “There’ll be no taking young Gates back to Texas,” he said bluntly. Clay Waldon stiffened, and his right thumb hooked itself in his belt, above the holstered gun. “No?” he said. Jay Calliston shook his head. “Your papers got no authority in this state,” he said. “No?” Clay Waldon repeated, and his eyes remained steady on the mar¬ shal’s face. The huge frame of Sam Gates filled the cabin doorway, and Clay Waldon caught the quick glance of the girl as she looked at Sam, and her lips parted in a strangely triumphant smile. “When was you last in Texas?” Jay Calliston asked Clay. “Rode west into the Arizona Terri¬ tory in January of this year.” “Well, then, you’ll be interested to know that in February of this year of 1861, the stale of Texas seceded from the Union.” Clay Waldon absorbed this informa¬ tion thoughtfully. There had been talk of secession in Texas for several years He had been inclined to put it down to the ramblings of cranks and misfits, and he had never believed that the step would actually be taken. Amy McDougal stepped up to him, her bare head all shining black curls in the sunlight, and she handed him a much-read and tattered newspaper. “News reaches Oregon slowly,” she said. “This is dated three months ago. A rider from the wagon train, waiting at the Cascades up the Columbia River, brought it overland to Mr. Calliston only a short while ago.” It was an Independence, Missouri, paper. Clay Waldon looked at the headlines. It was true, right enough, and he handed the paper back to the girl. Texas had been his home for twenty years. Twenty years, he re¬ flected, was a long time to stay in any one place. Sadness at the folly that sometimes rules the lives of men touched him, and he nodded gravely. “Seems likely,’’ he said, “that we won’t be riding back, after all.” There was silence then, broken only by the call of a bird, clear and knife¬ like in the warm air; and the Reverend Bairnsfeather cleared his throat and stroked his mutton-chop whiskers with a finger. “Shall we — er — proceed with the ceremony?” he asked. “My family will be here soon,” Amy McDougal said, “but we could go inside and be ready when they get here. Sam, you need a best man, and I wondered if Mr. Waldon would care to stand up with you.” “It would be my pleasure, miss,” Clay Waldon said. Sam Gates smiled. “Sure never figured you would travel across half the country just to watch me get hitched, Clay.” THEY turned and moved to¬ ward the cabin, and Clay Waldon thought back on his campsite of the night before, on the banks of the Willamette River. There was rich black soil there that would grow most any¬ thing. He could build a log cabin, with a porch where he could sit in the evening and look out over the river at the far-off green mountains. A man wouldn’t mind growing old in a place like that. A hand touched his arm. “I suppose,” Amy McDougal said, “that you know what a best man’s duties are?” “Well, now, can’t say I do, exactly, miss,” Clay Waldon said. “The most important one is kissing the bride, after the cere¬ mony,” she said. Her eyes glinted warmly in the sun. “I’m certain that someone who believes as strongly in duty as you do would not neglect that.” “Why, miss,” he said gruffly, and his face reddened under the weather tan, “you sure wouldn’t want an old codger like me doing such.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “But I do,” she said. She leaned near to him and whispered in his ear. “I’ll be for¬ ever indebted to you, Mr. Wal¬ don. At the rate Sam was going, it might have taken him years to ask the question.” AAA Next Week BISHOP SHEEN Answers His Fan Mail By every yardstick, Bishop Sheen’s weekly television show has enjoyed tremendous popularity. As a re¬ sult, the celebrated prelate gets up to 8,000 letters a week. Here is an insight into the mail he receives and, above all, a chance to read some of his inspirational replies ask FOR WID V BMt-RttMORCW mi CHMR* -B£ST ever wi*dE Hints for Driving on Ice or Snow 1 To stop, press brake pedal lightly, then release and press again as necessary . This avoids locking of wheels and reduces danger of skidding Use tire chains for greater safety. 2 To start, use second or high gear and apply power gently If you let your clufr i in grad¬ ually you’ll give the chains a chance to take hold. Use tire chains for greater traction. 3 To make tire chains last longer, keep them snug. The life of cross links is greatly shortened when they are loose and slap the pavement. Loose chains break from impact. With snug chains, the cross chains ride close to tire tread and “roll” against the road. Listen! Noisy chains wear out faster. Keep yours snug. ACCO In Business for Your Safety AMERICAN CHAIN & CAiLE COMPANY, INC. Bridgeport, Connecticut

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SHOULD CONGRESS BE 71 or not 71 ? That's the ijnestion on Capitol Hill, The consensus: it's bound to come — but who'll control it: I HAVE the feeling,” Senator Estes Kefauver told a Senate subcommittee many months ago, “that our government *of the people' and ‘for the people' should become more and more a government ‘by the people.’ ” And how better to achieve that end, he suggested, than by bringing the processes of government into their living rooms through the cool, impartial eye of television? If the Senator and like-minded colleagues have their way, our national legislators will soon be as familiar to the public as Arthur Godfrey, Milton Berle or Tom Corbett, Space Cadet. But before they have their way they will know they have been in a battle. Their lofty plans to televise the doings of Con¬ gress have evoked an equally lofty opposition. What looked to its proponents like an indisputable advance in the art of government h4S touched ofl a warm debate in Washington that cuts across party lines as few issues have done. At first glance, nothing could seem fairer or simpler than the proposition that the business of Congress is most intimately the business of the people, and that therefore an effective instrument of direct communications should be used to lay that business before them. The two visitors’ galler¬ ies in Congress testify to the acknowledged right of citizens to observe their representatives in action, but that right is limited by the fact that the House gallery accommodates just 616 persons, the Senate 621. Television would introduce no new principle; it would merely push back the walls of those cham¬ bers from Capitol Hill to Seattle and add seats — twenty, thirty, forty million of them. Would these seats ever be used? Leaders in the movement to televise Congress, spearheaded by New York’s Republican Representative Jacob K. Javits, cite the enthusiastic response to telecasts of United Nations sessions, the popular radio broad¬ casts of the Australian and New Zealand parlia¬ ments, the successful appearance of the Oklahoma state legislature on TV, and the telecasts of the Senate Crime Committee hearings in 1951. At their peak, the hearings of Kefauvcr’s com¬ mittee held audiences of from ten to twenty million Americans. Dust gathered on floor and furniture, meals went uncooked and marketing undone as housewives sent the normal Hooper rating of 1.5 per cent for a weekday winter morning in New York City to a high of 34.5. Office work, too, suf¬ fered where TV sets were available, and a spokes¬ man for the movie industry complained that the telecasts were worse for business ‘‘than a double- header World Series.” The appeal of the Kefauver “show,” running- hour after hour and day after day, was fairly de¬ scribed by the New York Times as a “major phe¬ nomenon of our time.” Its interest apparently carried over to other aspects of government. A Gallup poll found that 70 per cent of the voting population considered the televising of Congres¬ sional sessions “a good idea” and 78 per cent be¬ lieved such programs would “be interesting.” The groundwork for such a project seemed to be well laid, the objective was acknowledged to be worthy and the facilities were available. Could critics seriously object? Warn Against “Glaring Melodrama” They could and they did. Indeed, after the Kefauver hearings the cause of televising govern¬ ment suffered sharp reverses. Even while the crime committee telecasts were in progress, the Federal Bar Association of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut warned against their “glaring melo¬ drama.” Other top legal groups were equally crit¬ ical, and the American Bar Association ultimately condemned all radio and television coverage of Congressional investigating committee hearings. Last March. New York’s legislature, with Gover¬ nor Dewey’s endorsement, banned the televising, broadcasting or filming of any official state pro¬ ceeding to which witnesses may be subpoenaed. On the national front, the cause fared as badly. In February, 1952, Sam Rayburn, then Speaker of the House, banished the television camera, along with radio broadcasts, recordings and films, from committee hearing rooms. Rayburn singled out TV in his edict, advising all chairmen that “there is no rule of the House permitting televising of House proceedings.” On the other side of the Capitol, Senator Pat McCarran of Nevada spon¬ sored a resolution that would have banned news photographers as well as movie and TV cameras. Several Senators greeted the proposal to televise sessions with such unparliamentary adjectives as “silly” and “crackpot.” And, as though to make a clean sweep for the opposition, last October, United States District Judge Henry A. Schweinhaut acquitted two Cleve¬ land gamblers of contempt of Congress, ruling that they were justified in refusing to testify before the Kefauver committee under distracting conditions caused, at least in part, by TV cameras. Why all this opposition? What are the arguments against television on Capitol Hill — and are they irrefutable? No doubt the most complicated of all the prob¬ lems involved is the difficulty of selecting, without political bias, what should and what should not go out over the air waves. Besides the two chambers themselves, there arc usually more than 40 stand¬ ing, special and select committees, many of them spawning two or three subcommittees, all entitled to hold hearings at their pleasure. If all presently available channels were placed exclusively at the disposal of Congress, they would be unable to carry the total volume of activity (nor could the public possibly absorb it). No one envisions more than a fraction of such coverage, of course, and that's where the difficulty comes in. Someone would have to decide, on any given day, what part of the activity of Congress was best for the American people to witness. It would be for him to say, for example, whether they should see and hear a House subcommittee thrash out a new tax bill, the Senate Foreign Rela¬ tions Committee grill experts on our Far Eastern policy, or the House as a whole debate amend¬ ments to the Taft-Hartley Act. Clearly, this power would be far-reaching, and it would grow as people came to depend more and more on their television sets for an understanding of political issues. The danger, as opponents of Congressional TV Rep. Javits has introduced a bill to televise vital debates in House Sen. Kefauver, who gained fame on TV, leads Senate fight for it Sen. McCarran would ban video from Senate committee hearings Rep. Sain Rayburn, as Speaker, banned TV cameras from House Collier’s for January 17, 1953

Page 211

63 rELEVISED? Bv ROBERT BENDINER TV proponents claim camera’s gimlet eye would focus on had lawmakers, display their faults. Opponents say it would put premium on showmanship while quiet competence went unnoticed see it, is that politics would dictate the choices. Would a Democratic Speaker of the House, if he were the one to decide, be likely to 'give TV time to a committee bent on exposing alleged corruption by Democrats? No more than a Republican Speaker would single out a debate likely to cost the G.O.P. votes at the next election. Furthermore, what would prevent this all-powerful program di¬ rector from, let us say, telecasting the Upper House on Monday, when Senator Dingbat has arranged to deliver a powerful speech for boosting the olive-oil tariff, and turning the cameras elsewhere on Tues¬ day, when Senator Wingding rises to tear the olive- oil lobby to shreds? The Senate’s present rules of debate are, in fact, made to order for just this kind of discrimination. Since a member may rise at almost any time and discuss anything for as long as he wants, coherent debate such as television enthusiasts foresee would be purely a matter of luck. Discussing the subject with Javits over TV, Republican Senator Wallace F. Bennett of Utah put the case bluntly: “The way the Senate operates, it is impossible to set up a debate as a series of speeches that fol¬ low each other. A Senator would say what he wanted to say on the subject, and then his col¬ leagues would have a week or two to think over what he said and decide just what their reaction was. I’m sure you realize that if you would attempt to set up the Senate so that you could televise a . . . great debate you would have to completely destroy . . . the tradition and rules of the Senate.” With this same power of choice extended to committee hearings, what would prevent the view¬ ers’ getting only partial, one-sided testimony? Or what would keep a committee chairman from scheduling certain witnesses at nine in the morning, when few citizens are watching, and others at eight in the evening, when a telecast would have the eyes and ears of the country? Those who favor tele¬ vising hearings usually insist that coverage be com¬ plete, so the public can get a fair picture, but to follow the doings of a single committee for months would be to curtail drastically the televising of other Congressional activity of possibly greater im¬ portance. If, on the other hand, there is to be selectivity, Heaven help the selector. He would be so bar- raged by lobbyists and special pleaders, he would be under such pressures of party and of conscience, that his position would soon be unendurable. Yet if the choices were left to majority vote, the party in control could stack the air waves to its perpetual advantage. The problem of how to choose what should be televised is formidably complex, and in¬ volves principle as well as procedure. For example, there is the matter of a witness’s civil and moral rights. In banning I V from official proceedings in New York, Governor Dewey seemed clearly to have the Kefauver hearings in mind when he spoke of “batteries of cameras, mi¬ crophones and glaring lights” threatening to sub¬ vert the rights of the witness. In Washington, Democratic Senator Guy M. Gillette of Iowa, among many others, took the same view. Witness Is Under Unfair Handicap “A witness who is under attack and whose whole public or private life may be under scrutiny,’’ Gil¬ lette wrote, “is unquestionably harassed and dis¬ tracted both by the apparatus itself and by the realization that perhaps hundreds of thousands of people are hanging on every word . . . How can he be expected to think clearly, speak intelligently and keep his thoughts on the serious business at hand?" Apart from being affected by the apparatus, say these opponents of televised hearings, the witness is deprived of the usual judicial protections of cross-examination and rebuttal, on the ground that a Congressional hearing is, after all, not a trial. Yet the results may be as disastrous to a witness’s reputation as though he were on trial, especially if the proceedings are televised. Should the audience get only selected bits of the testimony, the risk of injustice would be even greater. Such considera¬ tions as these account for the bar associations' jaundiced view of televised Congressional hearings. Outsiders who suggest that TV would bring out the ham in our representatives might be accused of indulging in the time-honored American game of baiting Congress. But many members of that body do more than suggest it. Discussing the ques¬ tion on a TV show, Representative Richard Bolling, a Missouri Democrat, remarked, “It is human nature to put on a show if you have a big audience,” and added, “a lot of people can be very easily fooled by a smooth actor or a slick demo- gogue.” Republican Senator Alexander Wiley of Wisconsin warns of the danger that “a yearning for the TV limelight could cause a turning from the facts by legislators, could cause an outbreak of hammy theatrics, rather than continuous serious debate." A number of Senators have offered the opinion that the Upper House would never get any work done if television cameras were on hand to put a premium on rhetoric. The point draws further strength from the comment of several United Na¬ tions officials to the eRect that television and radio have made diplomacy difficult in that organization. Each session, in the words of one delegate, “turns into a propaganda battle . . . using ... the United Nations as a platform for political and psycho¬ logical warfare, rather than for negotiations.” People who feel that Congressional immunity is sometimes abused add still another count to the indictment. If a citizen may be damaged now by a false denunciation on the floor of Congress ILLUSTRATED BY LOWELL HESS

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64 to ANY CAR or TRUCK STEUIRRMURMER fuel I P«mp m IM - — •“'* " Get yours now ' Get quick, sure “split second” starts for your car or truck every time — in any weather! This Stewart Warner Electric Fuel Pump feeds a steady flow of fuel to your carburetor the second you turn on the ignition. Operates independently of the engine. Saves your battery. Saves you from the trouble and embarrass¬ ment of a car that dies at every stop. Easy ta install. Takes only minutes. Do it yourself or see your local Carburetor Shop or Service Garage. Precisian Built By STEUJHRT-WfiRnER Instrument Division, Dept. Y-13 1840 Diversey Parkway, Chicago 14, III. America's,, largest selling cheese cracker! Sunshine Biscuits . >•< Oklahoma televises its legislative sessions , and folks like if o' by a committee witness, it is a cinch, they say, that he will be far more seri¬ ously hurt if assaulted with the aid of television — especially since he enjoys no comparable facilities for rebuttal. Such procedure, Senator Wiley warns, “can lay the basis for slander to a degree which we have heretofore never con¬ ceived.” Other arguments against giving the TV camera a spot in the Congressional gallery can hardly be more than sug¬ gested here. Former Senator Ernest W. McFarland of Arizona, Democratic floor leader in the last session, warned that “the programs would play up the showman in Congress and not give the workers a fair chance.” What is even worse from a congressman's point of view, TV might mislead the public into thinking that the only work of Congress was what they saw on their screens, that a vacant seat meant a member neglecting his duty, when in fact he might be plugging away dili¬ gently and ten times as effectively in some committee room or in his own office. Beyond these questions lies what some members consider the worst stumbling block of all. Who would foot the enormous bill for bringing Congress to your TV screen? As a major figure in the controversy, Congressman Javits sounded out the leading networks on the subject. In general, they reflected a keen interest in covering both hearings and Congressional sessions, and indi¬ cated a willingness to absorb the costs — if they had the power to select. Cov¬ erage, said the National Broadcasting Company, “should be on the basis of news merit,” with television accorded “the same access to important news events as the press services, newsreels and newspapers have.” Who Should Be the Sponsor? Even for this limited coverage, it is doubtful, as Republican Senator Styles Bridges of New Hampshire has pointed out, that the networks could afford indefinitely to do the job as a pub¬ lic service. The other possibilities are commercial sponsorship, government sponsorship, and the establishment of a government-owned network. All three present formidable problems. Many congressmen feel that it would be undignified, not to say dangerous, for a government to have its official activities selected and brought to the television audience as a commercial venture. There is a legal aspect to the question, too. As experienced a lawyer as Morris Ernst feels that witnesses compelled by subpoena to perform, as it were, for a private sponsor’s benefit may well be justified in bringing suit — especially in the case of those who, like teetotalers and vegetarians, may find themselves helping sell products to which they object on principle. Yet economy-minded congressmen take a chilly view of adding TV costs to the national budget. And they think even less of setting up a government- owned network, a notion that to some legislators, as Senator Karl Mundt of South Dakota has indicated, smacks of Socialism. The difficulty of using the TV camera fairly, possible injustice to witnesses, encouragement of demagogues, and the tricky question of financing — these, then, are the substance of the case against televising Congress. It is an im¬ pressive case, and advocates of the pro¬ posal do not minimize it, but they are confident that in the end they will win. Basically, their confidence rests on the belief that people want to see their Congress in action, that for the sake of good government they should see it, that it is mechanically possible for them to do so — and that any difficulties in the way should and will be eliminated. One such difficulty, the Rayburn rul¬ ing, was disposed of when the voter* returned the Republicans to control of the House. Representative Joseph W. Martin, Jr., of Massachusetts, who has just relieved Rayburn of the Speaker's gavel, is noncommittal on allowing TV cameras in the House chamber itself, but he will let committees decide for themselves whether to permit their hearings to be televised. Does he him¬ self favor such a course? “Yes, with discretion,” he told me. “You're going to have it, more or less. It's a way of dis¬ seminating news and must be given proper recognition.” This wary approach to the question, a feeling that TV will eventually and inevitably dig in on Capitol Hill, is fairly common among members, but those who want to hasten the day know that the valid arguments against it must first be met and the necessary standards laid down. They are planning the bat¬ tle now, with Javits scheduled to take the lead in the House and probably Ke- fauver in the Senate. To deal first with the thorny question of financing, the forces of TV admit that they have no final answer. They are for starting slowly and feeling their way as they go. Javits is willing to give the commercial networks a chance to operate as a public service. If this cov¬ erage doesn’t prove adequate, “govern¬ ment-operated facilities might be set up to do the job.” No Undignified Commercials The Senate Crime Investigating Committee approved private sponsor¬ ship, but it proposed certain checks. A committee would have the right, for example, to pass upon the sponsor se¬ cured by the network, keeping in mind the dignity of the business at hand. No commercial announcements would be permitted from the hearing room or while testimony was in progress. Only austere and dignified announcements would be allowed, such as, “These hear¬ ings are brought to you as a public service by the X Company in co-opera¬ tion with the Y Television Network.” Some members of Congress, frankly uncertain, want a commission to be appointed to make a thorough study of the whole question of facilities, costs and sponsorship. Other suggestions range all the way to the demand of the United Automo¬ bile Workers' union for federally owned and operated networks that would cover much of the Congressional scene, COLLIER’S ‘All right, all right. What'9 the bad news for today?’ GEORGE RECKA8 1 ’ V I f 1 c 1 j F I Collier”* for January 17, 1953

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65 ecps the Itnemakcrs on their toes , too coming as close as possible to providing the “air equivalent of the Congressional Record.” The Javits bill, to be reintroduced in the present session, does not call tor anything like continuous coverage of House sessions, l ike nearly all other sponsors of the plan, the New York congressman opposes the televising of routine sessions as neither practical nor of value. What he wants to see beamed to the voters arc the “really critical and vital” debates, and these, he thinks, can be scheduled and tightened up to a greater degree than many Senators and Representatives are willing to concede. In the House, the decision on what to televise would rest with the Speaker, who presumably would follow the sense of the chamber as a whole. On the other side of the Capitol, the burden would fall similarly on the presiding officer, or the Senate itself would vote its pleasure. The regular give-and-take of Congressional practice and the pos¬ sibility of future retaliation for gross partiality arc counted on to assure fair play. Major debates, Javits suggests, might be held at night, with time equally di¬ vided between the parties and limits fixed for each speaker. Would this fly in the face of Senate rules? “Then it is in the public interest that the Senate rules shall be changed.” It is at this point that old hands on Capitol Hill look for rough weather, for the Senate will not easily be pried loose from its vulnerable and cherished tradition of unlimited debate. Javits, Kcfauver, Wiley and many other members of Congress are acutely aware of the danger that witnesses may be victimized by the television camera, but they feel this need not be the case. Technicians can, and have, minimized the glare, noise and heat. Actually, many public figures find TV less dis¬ tracting than newsreel apparatus and the flashing of the press photographer's bulbs. Kcfauver has proposed fixing up a large caucus room for televised hear¬ ings, with glass compartments such as the United Nations provides for TV crews and equipment. A Code to Ensure Fairness On the more complex question of giving witnesses fair treatment, the TV forces are quick to point out that if procedures arc unjust, they should be corrected whether or not the camera is trained on them. To this end, several members are pressing for the adoption of a fair code to be followed by all Congressional investigating committees. Kcfauver would give all persons whose reputations have been jeopardized an opportunity for immediate rebuttal and he would also allow a limited cross- examination of witnesses, among other guarantees. The argument that television would aggravate the injustice of unfair attack on private citizens from the floor of Congress is a bit harder to overcome. Members would, of course, continue to enjoy their constitutional immunity from libel action. But Javits would al¬ low the injured citizen to sue the gov¬ ernment, thus giving him a chance for possible vindication in a court of law and at the same time discouraging reck¬ lessness on Capitol Hill. He makes the further point that should a congress¬ man get careless in his charges, quick Collier’s for January 17, 1953 refutation by his colleagues would be more elTectivc on television than in the press, where only those readers who go beyond the headlines and the first para¬ graph would ever encounter it. As for the hamming that some pre¬ dict, TV advocates think there would be less of it before the camera than there is now. There is now more incentive for such sensationalism, they say, since in large sections of the country Congress gets scant attention in the press and it takes something of a stunt to put a law¬ maker on the front page. Besides, they say, the more demagogues expose them¬ selves to public observation, the less the public will stand for them. At worst, says Republican Representative Don¬ ald l . Jackson of California, “since time immemorial, men in all walks of life have succeeded in making fools of themselves, and television is not going to speed or deter the process.” Reports from ’‘Down Under-’ On this score, as on others, the pro- television forces point to experience. An authoritative observer of the cfl'eets of radio broadcasts from New Zealand's House of Representatives is quoted to show that citizens of that country have responded “very quickly and very crit¬ ically to conduct which does not con¬ form to accepted ideas of parliament as a dignified and very serious institution.” A rather critical commentator on Aus¬ tralia’s similar experiment concedes that in spite of sonic disagreement as to whether the tone of debate has been improved, “some members . . . might still be in parliament if the microphone had not so mercilessly exposed their shortcomings.” Paul Harkcy, a member of the Okla¬ homa House of Representatives, reports a definite improvement in decorum when the TV lights are trained on that chamber. There is no caucusing in the aisles, newspaper reading stops, and feet come down from the desk tops. Authors of controversial bills are al¬ lowed to save them for TV time, routine matters arc disposed of before the cam¬ eras grind away, and the chief clerk of the House sits with the tclccastcr to help him untangle parliamentary snarls for the benefit of the audience. What heartens TV’s champions on Capitol Hill is that the arguments of their opponents in Washington are the same arguments that were once heard in Canberra, Wellington and Oklahoma City. Yet regular radio broadcasts of their national legislatures have become a popular fixture in the lives of Austral¬ ians and New Zealanders, easily sur¬ viving changes of government in both countries. Nor is there any indication that Oklahomans regret the introduc¬ tion of the TV camera into their legis¬ lative halls. Writing in the publication State Government, some months after the scheme was put in operation, Harkey reported that “few of the dis¬ advantages predicted for it material¬ ized.” It did burden the legislature with the problem of scheduling debate fairly and adequately, and perhaps issues were at times oversimplified. But, the lawmaker concluded, “most of us are convinced that solid values fully justify legislative television — that it is a genuine tool of democracy, for keeping government close to the peo¬ ple.” And that, advocates of the plan feel, is argument enough. AAA " I studied ART at home ... so can you!" says ALBERT DORNE ONE OF AMERICAS H GMlST-PA 0 UUST'AT ‘ • "Most of the big- name arti-ds you hear about today starlet! their art careers tin; hard way. You don’t have lo! Because \meriraN Id Most f amous Artists have perfected a unique, revolutionary method ol leaching vou art that eliminates the heartaches. 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Page 214

! AFRICAN SAFARI Ruark Shoots Hit in the heart In the sliurpshooliu" columnist , the 500-pound animal treat up in the air six Jed' WHLN you arc out in the hush for any con¬ siderable length of time, you do not re¬ member davs bv date or week or weather. > ou reler backward to the dav of the bulfalo or the dav ol the lion or the da> the jeep busted her ankle. 1 he duv of the waterbuek was quite a day. We headed out ol camp while the dew was still bright on the grasses, looking for nothing. It is a gorgeous wav to hunt, looking lor nothing. You spin along in the jeep and just look. The breakfast is still warm inside vou and the second cigarette is tast¬ ing almost as good as the first. The sun is just be- g lining to take a touch of chill olf vour face, and the woods and plain are alive, vibrant, with tenta- tivelv stirring animals. 1 he birds, just woken, are beginning to scratch and fiv around and complain. You drive along bv the wood or the river or out along the veld anti you almost hope you will see nothing worth working tor that day because it is more lun to watch it than to chase it. 1 hiit morning Harry Selby, my professional hunter, said, “1 think we’ll check down by the river and see about that waterbuek. The ones we have seen have been fairish, but 1 seem to re¬ member an old gentleman from the last trip who’s got more horns than he needs. They must be making his head ache. He used to live over here,” Harry said, driving through some reeds and com¬ ing out atop a small grassy hill with trees and shrubs that looked considerably more like wood¬ cock country than waterbuek country. As we drove up to the summit of the little hill a herd of perhaps a dozen waterbuek broke from the rushes and loped leisurely up the hill and across a small pastury-looking field and stopped just short of a wood. “ I hat's the gentleman I had in mind,” Harry said, pointing to a magnificent creature. ”1 believe he's the best I've ever seen, but I've never yet had a good close look at those horns. Suppose we walk a bit and investigate this fellow at close range.” We climbed out of the jeep. I took the Rem¬ ington and Harry started a stalk, in that half crouch which looks so easy at first and then forci¬ bly reminds you of age and girth as it continues. I was puffing when Harry held his hand, palm down and pushing backward, in the stop sign. We were in a small copse of trees and thick lianas, as big as your wrist, wath the dew still heavy on the grass underfoot and on the leaves that brushed your face. Harry reached around, grabbed my gun arm, and pointed with my arm. The herd of buck was in the pasture, feeding straight at us. You could feel the fresh brisk wind blowing directly into your face, curling back your eyelashes and caus¬ ing a constant rustle in the trees — which is always fortunate if you are the kind of man who steps on dry sticks and goes through bush like a bull buffalo in a hurry. The bull waterbuek will weigh 500 pounds. He has a thick, tufted neck, a noble face, and a com¬ pact body covered with long, coarse hair. He is beautifully marked in black and white and grayish- fawn, and his horns are slim parentheses that are heavily gnarled at the base and which finish off in four inches of clean point. | My target was walking steadily toward me. My breath had come back, a little. The Remington was braced in the crotch of a small scrubby tree. The gun was shaking, again, and the limber limb was moving gently to match my shakes. The buck kept coming. 1 put the post of the telescopic sight on his chest, sucked in my breath and started what 1 hoped would be a squeeze. The squeeze was two thirds complete when Harry’s hand came back and closed over my trig¬ ger hand. “Watch,'’ he said. “Wait.” The Cow Moved in the Nick of Time The magnificent bull separated into two animals. What 1 had been aiming at suddenly became a cow, who sidled off to the left. My bull had been standing so directly behind one of his wives that his horns had appeared to be growing from her head. In a hundredth of a second I would have shot the cow. When they separated, it was exactly like watching two images merge and move apart in the sighting machinery of a camera. The cow sidled off. The bull looked me straight in the eye at 30 yards and snorted irritably. His horns ap¬ peared to be the size and length of two evenly warped baseball bats. Harry’s hand came away from my gun hand. The post went back to the old gentleman’s chest and the unseen force which fires guns operated. There was a whunk like a boxer hitting the heavy ^ bag. The waterbuek went straight up in the air, and turned at the top of his leap. He must have gone a good six feet off the ground. The herd of cows and yearlings went off with a snort and a crash. There was nothing to be seen. “1 hit him,” 1 said to Selby. “I hit him where I was holding. 1 was holding just to the right of his breastbone. If this boy ain’t dead 1 am going back to Nairobi. This is the first time since I’ve been here that 1 felt confident about anything.” “You hit him, all right,” Harry said. “I heard the bullet smack. But where you hit him remains to be seen. Wasn’t he something to see, standing Ruark writes: “This was quite a creature, this buck. His big bulks neck was thick. It was all the four of us could do to sweat him into the jeep . . . He smelled like helP Collier's for January 17, 1953

Page 215

i Waterbuck *7 Bv ROBERT C. RUARK (i l spun at the top of his leap there with that head thrown back? Let’s go see what happened to him.” We followed the blight slashes of blood for 50 yards or so, turned a sharp L around the patch of bush and almost stumbled over my fellow. He was completely dead. I had taken him through the heart squarely as he stood with his head up and his chest thrown out. Harry took one look at him and let out a yell. He threw himself at the animal, seized it around the neck with both arms, and kissed it full in the face. Both gunbearers fell on their knees. Kidogo picked up the great noble head by the ears, and he kissed the buck. Adam ran his fingers up and down the chestnut-colored horns, rubbing his fingers over the tips, and said a short prayer in Wakamba. Selby hit me a punch in the chest that nearly floored me, and both boys grabbed me by the arms and danced me around the waterbuck. A Professional Hunter's Enthusiasm “I don’t suppose you know what you’ve got here, old boy,” Harry said. “Unless 1 am mad or drunk you have just walloped the best waterbuck that anybody ever brought out of Tanganyika. If this one isn’t 36 inches I will carry him back to camp on my back. This one you can hang on your wall, chum. Very nice shooting, lad. For one dreadful split second I thought you were going to loose off at that bloody cow. I would have sworn she was the bull. Those horns of his were sticking right out over her ears, and it wasn’t until she moved just a fraction of an inch that 1 realized she was standing square in front of him. If she hadn’t moved you'd have shot her, the bull would’ve spooked, and would have been halfway across the Serengeti by now. You’re a lucky lad.” This was quite a creature, this buck. You couldn’t close your hands around his horns at the base. They were serrated and very clean, and they curved inward at each other in a nearly perfect ellipse. His big bull’s neck was thick and shaggy with a chest-mane. He had a big deer’s face, al¬ though he was an antelope, and his hairy hide was gray-fawn like a good tweed suit. He was very heavy. It was all the four of us could handle to sweat him into the back of the jeep. He smelled like hell, with the musk coming out of his glands and making sweat splotches on his hide. “We’ll take this baby back whole. I want bet¬ ter pictures of him than we can get here. We’ll go back to camp and let Mrs. Ruark do her stufT with the color box.” Harry patted the buck on his poll. “You beauty,” he said. “You lovely, lovely hunk of horn.” He wheeled the jeep around and we headed back to camp. We were driving slowly across the blue- and white-flowered plain, full of self-con¬ gratulation and the yearning for a celebration drink, an afternoon off to gloat, an afternoon free of hunting, for no man likes to cheapen his achievement by doing something competitively else that same day. A miss on a good head can spoil the hit on the other. This waterbuck was all I wanted from that day. I was a little drunk already, with the wine of the fine fresh morning. I was warmed by the sun and by excitement and by the approval of the boys. They grinned when I turned my head and offered cigarettes. Like Charlie MacArthur, when he of¬ fered Helen Hayes a bag of peanuts, I was sorry that my cigarettes were not emeralds. Like most hunters, I’m not above a little boast¬ ing once in a while, but I’m not going to pretend I PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY JERRY COOKE

Page 216

68 >\ huge rhino charged lluark’s jeep, hut its horn didn’t look like a good souveni got every animal 1 went after. I got the lion, all light, and the buffalo and the waterhuck, but, though 1 did my damnedest, I never could nail a rhinoceros. One day 1 stacked the deck in my favor, and went hunting in a part of Tanganyika that Harry had said was loaded with rhino. W here Rhinos Caine Down to Graze "Always was,1 Harry said. ‘They come down out of the hills for a little sunshine and to graze. One time 1 saw 14 the first afternoon out. Can’t tell, though, whether we find them in the mornings or in the afternoons. Never could ligure it out, myself. Last time, nothing whatsoever in the mornings, but the afternoons would find them fairly swarming. Around four o’clock you'd have to beat a path through them.” We decided to try a morning, and we were up early and excited; at least, 1 was excited. My wife, Virginia, decided to come along, and we also had, of course, the natives who helped us. It was still gray when we got into the jeep and headed across the bridge on the River of Mosquitos, a bridge which shook and shivered frighteningly under the wheels. I he forest, dripping thick and green, with knobby roots like cypress knees threading across the track, lasted for about three miles until we hit marsh, which was sopping .still and impossible to cross in anything but a light four-wheel drive con- vevancc such as our jeep. You could see the deeply bitten tracks where the last safari's hunting car had gone just so far and then no farther. We shot a reedbuck and some sort of hog before we finished with the marsh and headed back into another patch of jungle — real jungle, this time, like Congo jungle in the movies. 1 his bush was not cheerful at all. Jt was sticky, butterfly-clogged, creeper-twisted, humid bush, with immense trees rearing out of the practically impassable underbrush. You could see the raw stump, occasional!) , where the elephants had broken the top of! a tree. The trail was very nar¬ row, crossed and recrossed with streams, and at ever) stream we had to unload and push. We burst out of the jungle suddenly, curved toward the lake, and passed through a sea of saw- edged grass that towered over our car by half a dozen feet. I he showers of seeds added to gen¬ eral irritation of last night's bites. The sun was coming up now, and while it was still cool, the tsetses had relieved the mosquitoes of their watch, and were working lustily. It does no good to try to swat them. They're too fast. We came out of the grass as suddenly as we had come out of the jungle. We rounded a point where some fishermen had erected a small palm- thatched lean-to, waved at the two scrawny locals who got up to stare at us. and passed through a point that looked exactly like the cedar and live- oak groves that grow, gnarled by the wind, along the Carolina coast line where I was raised. As we drove along, a dozen ostrich, including two albinos, broke out of the bush and ran fool¬ ishly ahead of us, splashing through the water, slapping along knee-deep in the lake on their big splavfeet. They were joined by a small herd of wildebeeste, who bucked up and down, meeting other herds, reversing their courses to run back at us, snorting and plunging and acting exactly like wildebeeste. A few zebra, 50 or more, hooked up with the wildebeeste, and our escort was joined. Clouds of waterfowl were raising along the oozy edges of Manyara now . The black-and-white Gyp- pie geese were squawking. The curlews and snipe and plovers were screaming. The secretary birds were sailing up and down, trying to make up their minds to leave permanently. The ducks wore set¬ ting up a hell of a clamor, and occasionally a flock of guinea fowl would run out, look indignantly around, cackle, and scuttle back. A hippo grunted Ruark admits he was frightened when he walked toward his first rhinoceros, “a ton of antediluvian armor plating.” His guide warned: “Go for the bottom of his neck*’ offshore. A flock of flamingos rose, and went dipping over the lake in an indescribable, improb¬ able pink cloud. Up on the sides of the hills there was a crashing in the bush and a small herd of ele¬ phant squealed in displeasure. “Hell!” Selby said. ‘‘What with one thing and another, any rhino worth shooting will be clean over the mountain by now, heading for Yaida Swamp. Look at those damned ostrich. They’ll run the whole 15 miles ahead of us, picking up new chums as they go. I don’t remember it like this from before.” We spun along, back wheels slipping and sliding through little rivers, wheels spinning in the sandy dongas, and rounded the first headland. Cutting back, following the heavy, scored wheel tracks of another, earlier, vehicle, we ran around the rim of the hills in a crescent course, and came out to the point of the second headland before Majimoto. Harry stopped the jeep and pointed. It Looked Like an “Easy” Quarry There was a shapeless lump, a thousand yards away. It looked like a big gray anthill. Harry said, "Ton .470. loci .450,” as he asked the boys for the rifles. To me: “Well, you’ve prob¬ ably got your rhino. There he is, feeding down on the shore. Wind’s right too. Blighter’s almost blind, and we can walk up close enough to take his pulse. This one's easy enough so I'm asking Virginia along. Virginia? Care to go and collect a faro ?" “Yes, Harry,” Virginia said. ”1 will go along to shoot the rhino.” We walked along over the muck, not crouching yet. Harry and 1 were still letting the bearers carry the big double rifles. “This is very simple,” Harry said. “We’ll stalk up as close as we can. If you take him head on, go for that little sore spot at the bottom of his neck. You'll sec it. All faros have ’em where the armor plating rubs. If he’s lying down, and this one seems to be, you can go for the brain. Other shots, take'm in the shoulder, about a quarter the way up. Heart’s a little lower on these blokes than on some others. Nothing to it, really.” You may be a very brave man, and perhaps your breath does not begin to hurry in your chest when you walk up for the first time on a ton of antediluvian armor plating, but 1 am not a par¬ ticularly brave man and 1 was beginning to breathe jerkily although the going was fairly easy on the rough, fissured mud. The rhino had its head down. You couldn't see whether the horn was worth it or not. Harry Selby had taken his .450 No. 2 from A neighbor of Ruark and his wife during the safari. The sketches which illustrate this series are the first that writer Ruark has done one gunbearer, and the other handed me the .470. Virginia was just behind the gunbearers, carry¬ ing the camera. She looked a little pinched in the face. I noticed I was breathing with my mouth open. The rhino raised its head. The horn wras nothing. Then a small gray blob of putty detached itself from the rhino’s side. It was a calf, no more than six months old, if that. Ordinarily you don’t mind shooting a rhino cow if the horn is good, and quite often the horn is better on the female than on the bull, apt to be longer and more symmetrical and less splintered from brawling. But this lady was too new-come to motherhood for us to leave a baby loose in the bush, even if her horn had been a marvel. Selby i ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR

Page 217

69 he did not fire. A suitable rhino proved the most elusive quarry Ituarlc hunted handed his gun back to Adam and took the camera from Virginia. ‘Too bad,” he whispered. “But the baby’s young enough so she won’t charge and leave it. Let's go and take some snaps. You can cover me, if you will. Don't shoot her unless it's absolutely neces¬ sary.” The cow raised her head wonderingly. The tickbirds were quiet on her back. The calf nuzzled irritably at her udders. The big stupid face swung back and forth, testing the wind, which was blow¬ ing directly at us. Her little pig's eyes blinked weakly. She walked slowly toward us, still quest¬ ing with her nostrils. There was a shallow pool of water in a half- formed donga between us and the cow. Harry had walked up to the edge of the water, and the camera was whirring. The rhino didn't like the noise. But she couldn’t see us and she couldn’t smell us. Harry kept taking pictures. 1 glanced baek at Virginia and she was following closely, frightened to ap¬ proach but seareder still to stay behind. We had come to within 30 feet of the old girl, now, and she was visibly upset. Waiting for the Mother to Charge All of a sudden the tickbirds hopped straight up in the air. The old girl stuck out her nose and started a gallop, heading directly at us. Her tail was still up. She eouldn't smell, but she was 15 feet from Harry now, and she could make us out dimly with her poor weak eyes. Harry whirred through the film in the magazine, and pushed the palm of his hand gently backward. I had the bead of the .470 resting on the sore spot, and was won¬ dering less than idly if the famous rhino ill-temper would conquer the mother-concern long enough to take her across that 12-foot strip of shallow water, in which case 1 should certainly have to make an orphan of the child. She made another half-pass at a charge, and stopped with her feet in the water. Harry was walking backward now, and out to his left; so was I. The old girl muttered, tossed her head, checked her child, slued oil in a half turn and stood rigidly, looking at us. We walked backward an¬ other 20 feet or so, and then turned, walking away but half faeing her. Too Close for Virginia's Comfort After we’d covered a hundred yards, we handed our guns to the boys. Virginia was white. A lady rhino looms very large at 30 feet when you are on the ground. “I knew she wouldn’t cross that wrater,” Selby said. “Not and leave Junior unattended. A half- grown ealf, yes indeed. But not the baby. Never the baby. Shame it wasn't a good bull.” We picked up a wildebeeste-ost rich-zebra convoy again, and meandered down the shore line, and finally came dowm under the lee of Majimoto. There was a broad green valley tucked under the mountain’s steep side, angling backward out of sight into heavy bush, a mile or more in length from w'hat we eould see, and a half mile wide. It was rolling, lovely green, cool and invit¬ ing, like a park. Harry stopped the ear and stood up w'ith the glasses. He sw’ept the valley, from hike to unde¬ termined end. “Rather a busy plot,” he said casually. “1 spv a small herd ot buffalo just past that copse of trees, down by the water’s edge. There is a cow rhino just there, in the center, with a three-quarter-grown calf. There are two bull rhinos having a hell of a set-to over there to the left, in the high grass. There’s at least one other rhino over to the right, under the trees at the bottom of the big hill. Seems a likely enough choice for a spot of amusement ’ He started the ear, and drove toward the general melee. We had eome close to the two bull rhinos, who were making all sorts of ugly noises in the grasses. You could hear them grunt when they met under full steam. They made sounds 1 have never heard before. It was somewhere between a roar and a growl and a snarl and a gurgle and a grunt and a squeal. You could follow them through the grasses. They w'ould square otT, turn, run in opposite directions, and then come together with a smaek like a couple of heavy trucks colliding. One of the bulls backed out into the open, bleed¬ ing a little, but not seriously wounded, and the other followed him. Harry grunted disgustedly. “Neither worth a damn.” he said. “Young fel¬ lows. Neither one’ll go belter than 14 inches. Waste of time to fuss w ith them. Especiallv in this high grass. Better horn, I’d either drive them out of the grass or risk going in after them. But you don’t w'ant either of those fellows.” The young rhino bulls were clashing and bang¬ ing heartily. 'The bulTalo streamed past us, like maverick freight ears, low and bulkv and long, their legs too short for the lengthy barrel of their bodies. They were a touch smaller than the Grum- metti buff, and a peculiar reddish-black in color. They came past us, flirting froth, walling their eves, pounding through the grass with their sentinel egrets Hying fighter eover over them and screaming profanely. One bull passed within a few feet. 1 could al¬ most have poked him with the gun. “Awful,” Selby said scornfully. “Not a decent head amongst ’em.” Jeep Splits \\ ildebecste Stampede We looked at the fresh herd. Approximately 1,500 wildly head-tossing vvildebeeste bore down on us in the trail that the buffalo had left in the high grass. Snorting and pawing when they saw the jeep, they split around us and hightailed after the bulfalo into the narrow end of the valley. The tw'o male rhinos continued to baiter each other a hundred yards away. “Hell!” said Virginia. “Let’s go and pay a call on the lady rhino in the valley,” Harry said brightly, and spun the jeep toward the cow with the calf as big as she was. The other rhino — the one at the edge of the hill- had climbed upward and had disappeared. The lady with the large child was obviously in a surly mood. She took one look at the jeep and charged. Baby, about two and one half toils of Baby, took us on a quartering shot. Harry hit the accelerator and we passed between them. Cow slopped. Babv stopped. Harry said, “No good, either. Got a horn like a banana.” So 1 didn’t shoot. We saw other rhinos, on this and other days. But 1 never did get a crack at one One time, Harry got close enough to a good one to shoot if he had wanted to. But Harry leaves rhino shooting for his clients. At the time, his client was silling in the jeep, reading a mystery story. This is the third of three articles hr Robert C. Ruark. They tv ill he part of a hook to he pub¬ lished by Doubleday A: Company in the spring Kudu, which abound where Kmirk limited* ait* shy, wary animals, which spend the brightest hours of the day in the thicket. The kudu has the longest horns of any African antelope Collier’s for January 17, 1933

Page 218

Collier's Editorials ,0=1 JOHN FISCHETTI And Here’s Why Not I 111 PL F LX iE to cut spending and reduce taxes is one ol the oldest and most appealing promises that a politician can make, and it was never more appealing than in the 1952 campaign. ! he Republican office seekers made that promise, ukl it helped them win Now we feel certain that the new President and the new Congress intend to keep their promise, and we hope they do. We also hope that they will approach the task with intelligence as well as zeal. I here are indications that some congressmen are already sharpening their hatchets and that they intend, if thev have their wav, to make large and indiscriminate cuts as soon as possi¬ ble. And even though we’re just as anxious for a little tax relief as the next person, we believe that the hatchet men should look and choose careful]) before they start cutting. It is a familiar fact, of course, that certain items of the budget can't be cut much, if at all. 1 he government must pay interest on the na¬ tional debt, respect its military commitments in Korea, Western Europe and elsewhere, care for or compensate its disabled veterans, and so on. Hut that doesn’t mean that there aren't areas in which spending can be curtailed. One place is undoubtedly in the held of militarv procure¬ ment. Another is certainly in the operation of the government itself. I he machinery of gov¬ ernment should be streamlined for greater etti- 70 ciency. And the number of people operating that machinery should be reduced. Mr. Eisenhower has already appointed a com¬ mittee, headed by Nelson Rockefeller, to look into the matter of greater elliciency. And as re¬ gards the matter of cutting down on government personnel, there is a plan now in existence — submitted by a Democrat, incidentally, and first published by Collier's about three years ago. In February of 1950 we carried an article by Senator Paul Douglas which told why the federal payroll is steadily growing, and suggested a way in which this wasteful, extravagant trend could be reversed. 1 he cause, Mr. Douglas said, is simply that the heads of departments or bu¬ reaus are constantly asking for more employees, and getting them. “ I heir prestige, but not their money is involved," he noted. “And these pow¬ erful forces working toward expanding the pub¬ lic payrolls are multiplicative in nature." I he senator's cure was equally simple: Don't fire recklessly, just don't till the vacancies. “’The turnover rate in the federal government." he ex¬ plained, “is sufficient in the course of a year to bring payrolls down to what they should be — if enough of these vacancies are left unfilled. I es¬ timate that simply by tilling only half the job openings that occur, a reduction in force of approximately 8 to tO per cent could be accom¬ plished within a year. 1 doubt that public serv¬ ices would suffer from a 9 per cent loss of personnel, or even a greater loss . . . And at least a half billion dollars would be saved." We thought in 1950, and we still think, that this is a fair, reasonable and workable plan. We don't like the overblown bureaucracy that has grown up in the government, but we haven't any grudge against the many thousands of people whom the government has hired to make up that bureaucracy. We think it would be a personal cruelty and an economic mistake to throw sev¬ eral of those thousands out of work all at once, even for the laudable and necessary purpose of saving money for all of us. So we hope that Senator Douglas will intro¬ duce his practically painless plan in the form of legislation, and that it will be adopted. In the meantime we would respectfully make this recommendation to the members of the Eighty- third Congress: When you start reducing the government payroll — weed, don't chop. Skip the Commercial A REUTER DISPATCH that we came across the other day leads us to believe that the re¬ sourceful Soviet propagandists have finally run out of fresh ideas and are reduced to borrowing techniques from the decadent Americans. The propagandists, according to this news story, “are mixing a little sex appeal with their Marx¬ ism in an attempt to woo the Arabic-speaking world to Communism." Seems that a Moscow disc jockey, on his nightly program to the Middle East, uses record¬ ings by a Miss Om Kalsum, a sultry-voiced Egyptian damsel who is one of the favorite pin¬ up girls in that part of the world. After a couple of her ballads have put the listeners in a recep¬ tive mood, an announcer comes on with a spiel about the glories of Communism. This is obviously similar to the American platter-and-commercial radio programs. But it reminds us even more of another, older, phe¬ nomenon of our native culture. We refer to burlesque, an art form which once upon a time intrigued our youthful, inquiring mind — only for its interesting sociological aspects, of course. We recall that, between burley performances, there was always an address by a silver-tongued salesman who came down the aisle to the front of the house, laden with a box full of assorted wonders. For the sum of ten cents (or a quar¬ ter, or whatever it was), he assured his listeners, they would receive not only a delicious confec¬ tion but a prize in each and every package. Gold watches, silk hosiery for the ladies, volumes of esoterica and erotica; these were only a few of the promised dividends. The boxes, needless to say, contained some cheap, stale candy and an uninteresting, useless penny gewgaw . Nobody ever got the gold watch or the hosiery. And only the most trusting yokel was ever bitten more than once. You quickly learned to go out and smoke until time for the comics and the stripeuses to reappear. We sincerely hope that the majority of the Kremlin's listeners in the Middle East realize that the wonders of Communism are as decep¬ tively oversold as the burlesque barker’s prizes. And we trust that they are learning to go feed the cat, have a cup of coffee or take a few putt’s on the hookah until the Soviet huckster has fin¬ ished his pitch about the promised land, and Miss Om Kalsum is back on the air. Collier's for January 17, 1953

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THERE MUST BE A REASON WHY MORE PEOPLE SMOKE CAMELS! L ^ When I f tied N Camels -for 30 days and compared - 'them with other brands , y hr ,■ / knew they were ) * -forme! , — > H J He>noMs Tobacco Cr 10 days. See how you keep enjoying Camel’s rich, full flavor and cool, c(. i mildness — pack after pack, week after week. See how much more smoking plei sure you get from Camels than from any other cigarette! There is a reason why — MORE PEOPLE SMOKE CAMELS

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JA ib '5j Collier’s JANUARY 24, 1953 • FIFTEEN CENTS flUHUNGAM/- PUBLIC IHK RY Bishop Sheen Answers His SKIN DIVERS Between the Devilfish And the Deep Blue Sea

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n ri |J5|ationai. H’afli y Council THK nn.l. i'KI.KI'liOM- COMP WIKS THIS AWARD OF HONOR FOR AN OUTSTANDING SAFETY PERFORMANCE i v- Ned H. Dearborn ( left )> president of the National Safety Council , presenting the Award of Honor to Clco F. Craig , president of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company. Bell telephone companies receive HIGHEST AWARD OF NATIONAL SAFETY COUNCIL V bell telephone men and women arc proud of the Award of Honor presented to them recently by the National Safety Council. The award was in recognition of an outstanding record for two years. It is no accident that the communications industry leads in safety. Telephone equipment and buildings are designed for safety. And on the wall of every Bell telephone building are these words — “No job is so important and no service is so urgent that we cannot take time to perform our work safely.” The lineman on the pole, the driver on the high¬ way, the operator at the switchboard, the men and women in the business offices — all have tried hard to live up to this safety creed. We’re grateful for this award and we’re going to keep on trying to make the record even better. BELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM " A Good Place to Work"

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\ ex t Week I Go Back to IRELAND By JOHN STEINBECK Everyone with a drop of Irish blood dreams of making a trip to the land of his ancestors. Follow the renowned author on his recent pilgrimage to Eire Why Not Let the PEOPLE Elect Our President? By U.S. Senator ESTES KEFAUVER The senator who captured the Democratic primaries but lost the nomination offers a plan to ensure the public’s choice always will get to the White House. It makes vital reading ALBERT E. WINGER CLARENCE E. STOUCII Chairman of the Board PreiLdent Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CHAPLIN, Atslttant Publisher GORDON MANNING, Managing Editor DAVID MANESS, Assistant Managing Editor MACLENNAN FARRELL, Fiction Editor WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director ALLEN CLEATON. .Senior Associate Editor GURNEY WILLIAMS, Cartoon Editor JAMES TUUASHER, Editorials JAMES A. QUIGNEY, Photo Editor Associate Editors • JEROME BEATTY, JR. • WARREN BROWN • GERTRUDE BUCKMAN JEAN B. CAMPBELL • SEY CIIASSLER • HOWARD COI1N • WALTER DAVENPORT bill Davidson • Helen worden erskine • evelyts harvey • diana iiirsh HOMER JENKS • CHARLOTTE KNIGHT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED M. LANSING JOHN LEAR • FRANKLIN C. LOR ANGER • TOM MEANY ♦ BUCKLIN MOON JOHN C. PELLEW • ROGER PIPPETT • ELEANOR PORTER • CORNELIUS RYAN JANET SIIEPS • FRANCIS WALLACE • WILLIAM WEAVER MARTHA WEINMAN • ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research • ROSANNE McVAY, Chief • MADEL1N ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS • ALAN M. LEVENSOIIN • JANICE MOSES • JOHN NEWnOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON: JAMES C. DERIEUX, Chief ; TODD WRIGHT WEST COAST (Los Angeles): THEODORE STRAUSS, Chief; ROBERT CAIIN, JOHN FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR FREIDIN. WILLIAM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): PETER KALISCIIER J unitary 24 , 1953 ARTICLES The Most Difficult Door To Open in Washington . Alfred toombs 9 Beaucoup Dreamy — American Teen-Agers Abroad . JEAN LIB MAN BLOCK 14 King Kaye in the Palace . 18 Bishop Sheen Answers His Fan Mail . HOWARD COHN 22 Big Drop in Alaska . ALFRED M. LANSINC 26 Between the Devilfish and the Deep Blue Sea . RICHARD G. HUBLER 40 The Cubs Had Me Scouted . henry crecor felsen 52 Scratching an Itch . collier's COLOR camera 54 What You Read Here May Save Your Life . PHILIP WYLIE 66 FICTION The Lovebird . FRANCIS T. FIELD 12 Strictly from Hollywood . STEVE APRIL 20 (THE SHORT SHORT STORY) The Fortune Hunter . ISABELLE HOLLAND 32 The Moment of Truth . JOHN F. WALLACE 44 Honorable Death of a Rogue . SALLY carkighar 60 48 States of Mind . WALTER davenport 7 Maternity Ward . HENRY BOLTINOFF 25 Hats of Iron . 69 Editorials . 70 Cover . BILL RANDALL The characters in all stories and serials In this magazine are porcly imaginary. IS o reference or allosion to any living person Is Intended. Subscription Department, 204 W. High Slreet, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Executive Offices, 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19, N, Y. The Cover If someone will please figure out how to drape a blanket over a motorcyclist, patrolman Garwood Whaley, of Bronx- ville, N. Y., will be grateful. Mean¬ while, says artist Bill Randall, it’s fun to ride in a one-horsepower open sleigh and give the 55-horsepower speed cop the business — or, rather, no business. Week’s Mail Fresh-Laid Currency Editor: May I make a contribution to the recent discussion of the town of Two Egg, Florida, in 48 States of Mind? While driving through the town re¬ cently, I asked friends in the car if they, being long-time residents of this state, knew the origin of the name. One woman said that she had heard that early settlers used to do business with the Indians on a basis of trade in commodities, and that the standard rate of currency exchange then was two eggs in the hand of the Indian who wished to make a purchase. Could be. Eleanor F. Lewis, Panama City, Fla. Video Clinkers Editor: In Philip Minoffs article, Television Boners (Dec. 13th), I gar¬ nered more laughs than one can possi¬ bly get elsewhere in so little time. I happen to be one of these “sadistic TV fans,” referred to by Mr. Minoff,v who wriggles in fiendish glee when wit¬ nessing or hearing about TV miscues! Nuts to TV Utopia — I’ll take the bon¬ ers! Harry Peterson, Jr., Lexington, Ky. . . . Enjoyed the article about TV bon¬ ers. However, Mr. Minoff made one himself. In the Suspense show where he says the Communist soldier was sup¬ posed to bayonet a fellow member of the cast, he was actually supposed to pummel him with the butt of his rifle. Thomas Mitchell was the star of the show. Crime Syndicated pulled another boo- boo when the kid with a gun aimed it at the wrong man just before the sound- effects man pulled the trigger. It was okay. The correct party fell down dead. There was also a guy in uniform earlier this year who had overseas stripes on both sleeves, took off on a mission in a Thunderbolt fighter and returned in a Mustang. H. E. Swinney, Ridgefield, N.J. ... Re Television Boners, the biggest boners in TV are the stupid commer¬ cials, ancient films in ,bad condition and programs without value with which viewers are bombarded. A. A. Boon Hartsinck, Menlo Park, Cal. Caveat Emptor COLLIER'S Tub National Wf.kklt. Vol. 131. No. 4. PUBLISHED WEEKLY by The Crow oll-Colbcr Pub- fishing Company, Kprmgfinld. Ohio, U.^.A., Publishers of ColherN. Woman's Home Compitmon, Thu American M sg- Arine. Executive and Editorial Offices. 640 Fifth Ave,, New York 19. N.Y. Albert L. Winger. Chairman of the Board; Clarence E. Stouch, President. E. A. Sehtriner. Executive Vico- President. T. I,. Br.mtb, Peter J. Dermerlein. Edward Anthony. Hubert T. M easier, E. P. Seymour. Knlph G. bm h, John W. MePhurnn, W m. A Sittig. Vice-Presidents; Dems O'Sui ’van. Secretary . C. K Nor* worthy. Treasurer. SUBSCRIPTION PRICES: United States and Posses¬ sion*. Canada and Philippine islands, 1 year $5.00. 2 years. $8. 00; 21 years (130 issues) $9.00; 3 years $10.00; 4 years $12 00. Pan-Aiperican countries in the Postal Union. I year $6.00. All other countries. 1 year $0.00. Payments from foreign countries, except Canada, must be m United .States funds, and addressed to The Crow ell -Collier Publishing Company, Springfield. Ohio. ENTERED as scrond-elaes matter at the Post Office, Springfield. Ohio, under Act of March 3, 1879. Authorized a* zecond-ciass mail. Post Office Department. Ottawa. Canada. MANUSCRIPTS or art submitted to Collier's The National Weekly, should be accompanied by addressed envelopes and return postage The Publisher assumes nn responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts nr art. Editor: I really get quite a kick out of Corey Ford’s article, For Sale: Advt. (Dec. 20th). Three houses we lived in within the past ten years were sold — * and what fun! The first one in which we had lived for 14 years had various and sundry folks wandering through, even on New Year’s Eve when we were preparing to 4 entertain guests. The bedroom floors sagged, the casement windows leaked. ^ CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reach us five weeks in advance a ^ of the next issue date. Give both the old and new addresses. " COPYRIGHT, 1 9„»3, BY THE CROW ELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY (All rights reserved) Publishers of Collier’s, The American Magazine, Woman's Home Companion

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1 <1 WED WED THE m pffSflW / tawro Thompson THE WED THE WOOD GlEN more's wV. OLD Z WED Ilmtak Wkistay , PROOF • 4/5 QUART EM WED-IN THE-WOOD instead of being bottled immediately after blending, Old Thompson is put back into barrels to assure uniformity. WED n •IH-THE- WOOD MADE BY GLENMORE WHl WHISKIES IN THIS PRODUCT ARE FOUR YEARS OR MORE Straight whiskies, 62*% grain neutral spirits ' the famous distillery that has made more Kentucky Bour¬ bon than any other distillery. There is no substitute for experience. BLENDED IN KENTUCKY by Kentuckians whose “touch-of-quality” has been a GLENMORE DISTILLERIES COMPANY LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY The straight whiskies in this product are four years or more old. 37Vi% straiaht whiskies — 62Vi<7o arain neutral spirits.

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6 Week’s Mail CONTINUED WHAT a FRAUD x ^ YOU ARE ! YOU don't y'- KNOW ANY MORE ThAN J Oh YES I DO, SUE! BUT I DO ABOUT The WAY v BAD BREATH STUMPS TO FRANKiFShEART! I EVEN ME! THE EXPERT , p0R YOU TO SEE IS (^YOUR DENTIST. HONEY! TO STOP BAD BREATH, I RECOMMEND ' " COLGATE DENTALCREAM.BRUSHINGTEETH RiGhT S AFTER EATING WITH COLGATE^ MAKES YOUR < MOUTH FEEL CLEANER LONGER-GlVES YOU , V A CLEAN, FRESH MOUTH ALL DAY LONG! ' AND COLGATE'S HAS PROVED CONClUS'VELY THAT BRUSHING TEE"H R CHT AFTER EATiNG STOPS 1 TOOTH DECAY BEST) IN FACT, THE COLGATE WAY ' STOPPED MORE DECAY FOR MORE PEOPLE THAN x EVER BEFORE REPORTED IN DENT1FR1CE HISTORY! C LATER — Thanks to Colgate Dental Cream COLGATE DENTAL CREAM WORKED FINE FOR FRANKIE'S NOW MY VALENTINE! mu& Brushing Teeth Right After Eating with COLGATE DENTAL CREAM STOPS BAD BREATH * STOPS TOOTH DECAY! Colgate Dental Cream in¬ stantly stops bad breath in 7 out of 10 cases that origi¬ nate in the mouth! And the Colgate way of brushing teeth right after eating is the best home method known to help stop tooth decay! PURE, WHITE , SAfE COLGATE'S WILL NOT STAIN OR DISCOLOR • but I believe our New Year’s pros¬ pects were more interested in our hors d’oeuvres, etc. In the second house, our twelve-year-old escorted the buyers through at nine one night. They looked the place over in less than twenty min¬ utes and bought it. Mrs. Bernard Donnelly, Altoona, Pa. More Comment on Gun-Shy GIs Editor: In commenting on Why Half Our Combat Soldiers Fail to Shoot (Week’s Mail, Dec. 20th), Joseph M. McDonald states that “an Air Force gunner fires weapons of all kinds ap¬ proximately 25,000 times.” Such a statement could be made only through unfounded supposition and is drastically incorrect. Our crew’s gunners have experienced the most modern and complete gunnery training given any aircraft gunner now in active service. We have fired — bar¬ ring jams, which are not made up — only a maximum of 1,500 rounds in cal. .50 machine guns, 25 rounds of 12- gauge shotguns, and 50 rounds of cal. .30 carbine. We have not, in a military capacity, ever been exposed to any other weapon. Even firing the cal. .50 machine gun is not “second nature” to us, because firing only rarely and by remote control, wc never get the “feel” of the gun; thus, upon completed train¬ ing, the Air Force gunner is not an iota more proficient in firing “all kind of weapons” than the infantryman. A/2c W. D. Grogan, A/2c J. L. R. Thompson, Travis Air Force Base, Cal. . . . It came not only as a surprise and shock to us that Bill Davidson would write such an article as Why Half Our Combat Soldiers Fail to Shoot, but that your magazine would print it. The majority of us here are Korean vets with at least 1 1 months of front¬ line duty with different rifle companies. Our research was not done after or before battles were fought, nor did we get secondhand reports from rear eche¬ lon and we did not believe such reports unless we saw them. Our facts came from living through fire-fights where every man fired his weapon to protect his life and the life of his buddy fight¬ ing next to him. By comparing notes, we have found that the main reasons a Marine doesn’t fire his weapons are due to a malfunc¬ tion of the weapon, fear of hitting a fellow Marine, or lack of arms. We entirely disagree with the article and everything it implies. Sgt. N. R. Nichols, Sgt. K. M. Vermillion, S/Sgt. C. G. Pye, Sgt. G. J. LeBlanc, Sgt. H. L. Stephens, Camp Pendleton, Oceanside, Cal. Bill Davidson’® article was based on Brigadier General S. L. A. Marshall's official findings for the Operations Re¬ search Office. General Marshall has facts to pro\e that Marine Corps outfits are heroic or have nonfirers, the same as Arnij units. All-Time All-America Editor: The fellow who designed the cover for Dec. 6th Collier’s was guilty of an egregious error of omission. When Jim Thorpe of Carlisle Indian fame appeared on Red Barber’s televi¬ sion show, Barber asked him to name the greatest football player, professional or collegiate, he had ever seen. With¬ out hesitation, Thorpe answered: “Ed¬ die Mahan of Harvard. He could do everything superbly on the gridiron.” Thorpe publicly made this statement on at least four other occasions. And competent football experts agree with him. Eddie Mahan, now in the National Football Hall of Fame at Rutgers Uni¬ versity, was the original triple-threat mentioned by Grantland Rice. Eddie Mahan was All-Amcrica half¬ back in 1913-1914-1915 — three years in a row. Hutson, Baugh and Nagurski made it once only. And yet you gave them a place of honor on your cover. Theodore Fairchild, Worcester, Mass. Mahan, Harvard Hall-of-Famer Inside Information Editor: Evidently your answer to the inquiry addressed to you by Mr. Dan¬ iel Lynch, Babylon, New York, and the accompanying picture, all published in your December 20th Week’s Mail, was done with some levity. Whether kilt drawers are worn or not depends upon the wearer’s preference. If they are worn they should be made of a thin ma¬ terial in a color to tone with the kilt. I hope that this information will serve to correct any mistaken impression | which might have been formed by your “joke.” John Osgood Newell, III, Colebrook, Conn. Finnish Steamer Editor: I enjoyed Hollywood’s Favor¬ ite Sweat Shop by Arthur Marx (Dec. if 13th). As I am a Finn (and proud of it), the part about Finnish rock-steam baths especially interested me. For many years my parents have had a special bathhouse (sauna to us Finns) which is heated every Saturday after¬ noon. It is divided into two compart¬ ments: the steam room and a dressing room. Steam is produced by pouring cold water over heated rocks. Dad built it all himself — including the stove which is made out of two oil barrels. My Swedish husband, however, can see no sense to it. The next time he belittles our sauna , I can tell him, thanks to your article, that someone else recommends Finnish rock-steam ^ baths besides us Finns. Mrs. Donald Peterson, Sandstone, Minn. Collier’s for January 24, 1953

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7 4i IJI STATES Of J//V/J L By WALTER DAVENPORT Coed in Stanford University tells us the average girl would rather be beau¬ tiful than brainy. That's because (she says) the average man can sec better than he can think. ★ ★ ★ Saw Eben Greenlegg, of Danbury Quarter, Connecticut, coming out of the forgotten Prince and there was noth¬ ing aboard for him. Whereat, the citi¬ zens of Nome and Fairbanks began whooping it up on a Save-Our-Prince Campaign. Cold hands and warm hearts responded. Chartered planes loaded with oats and hay lor Prince came from the States. Arrived, we're glad to report, in time for Christmas. HOPE CHEST bank. Mr. Greenlegg said he’d “left a little money with them because maybe someday it may be worth something.” ★ ★ ★ If we were running one of those quiz-cash broadcasts, we’d stump some¬ body by giving him 15 seconds to tell us exactly how long it's been since the beginning of the Korean truce negotia¬ tions. Make it 15 minutes, if you want. And he could have all the help from the audience he could get. ★ ★ ★ Mr. Bill Potter, of Stcphenville, Texas, thinks he has proof that no mat¬ ter how goofy our beloved country gets, some other government is swift to trump us. He points to Egypt’s ban on the movie Samson and Delilah, which is barred there because the portrayed characters are Jewish, and Egypt does not recognize Israel. ★ ★ ★ Hardly worth while to remind you that the Old Farmers’ Almanac for 1953 is right as usual. It prophesied we were in for a “swinkful and heavy-timed win¬ ter.” And it bids you expect a “whop¬ per” during the week of March 20th-27th, after which Abe Weather- wise, its weather prophet, says, “It will storm some more.” Swinkful means laborious, toilsome, wearisome. Heavy- timed needs no defining. As Abe warned, this weather swinks. ★ ★ ★ Only other weather note we have at the moment comes to us in Oren Ar¬ nold’s Arizona Brags, courtesy of vaca¬ tioning Mr. J. A. O'Reilly, of New York. Sandstorm got so thick down near Scottsdale that a prairie dog was seen digging a hole fifty feet in the air. ★ ★ ★ His name is Prince and he’s a horse. Moreover, he’s the only horse in the Norton Sound area of Alaska. When the season’s last ship arrived in Nome, friends of Prince went down to fetch his winter feed. But somebody had Collier’s for January 24, 1953 ★ ★ ★ And over the entrance to a uscd-car lot in Columbus, Ohio, Mr. R. P. Hayes read: “Trade in your old car NOW. Softhearted salesman on duty.” ★ ★ ★ Bald fellow in Topeka, Kansas, who doesn’t want his name mentioned lest someone discover he’s bald, says un¬ thatched men are discriminated against. Adds that a few years ago he paid the barber only one third as much to do three times as much work. ★ ★ ★ Last time Miss Blanche Finucaine went to church in Franklin, New Hamp¬ shire, she heard the preacher make this announcement: “And on Wednesday evening the janitor and I will hold prayer meeting as usual.” ★ ★ ★ In Mississippi, Governor White is re¬ questing the resignation of all honor¬ ary colonels on his honorary staff who voted for General Eisenhower. One of these, the Honorary Oliver Emmerich of McComb, goes down fighting — in an honorary way of course. Says: “A colonel on the governor’s staff serves without military status, without com¬ pensation, without authority. Any chit¬ chat about resigning such a position is like subtracting nothing from noth¬ ing, which leaves nothing, and hence is nothing short of nonsense.” ★ ★ ★ If it weren’t for Mr. Jack Lowe in Sidney, Nebraska, we wouldn’t have known that a psychologist is a guy who uses twelve-dollar words to explain a failure due to laziness. ★ ★ ★ The Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago has fetched in a flock of old-fashioned rocking chairs. Doctors have discovered IRWIN CAPLAN — or rediscovered — it is very good for fretful infants to be held in the arms of nurses rocking gently to and fro. Good for nurses' feet, too. ^ ^ ^ vC°°o OH, BROTH ERlTHlS GOY \A/OULD REAUV BE HANDSOME. IF HE'D TAKE CAPE OF THAT OR/ SCALR WONDER WHETHER. I COULD GET TOM TO TIP HIM OFF TO Vasejjns'hairtdnic.. ;sask./:_ R£. TOM DID! What an improvement a few drops a day can make! Check Dry Scalp and you check dull, lifeless-looking hair . . . itchy scalp and loose dandruff. ‘Vaseline’ Hair Tonic is double care for scalp and hair . . . contains no alcohol or other drying Hair looks better... 5calp -feds better. . . ^ ^ when you check DRY SCALP with Vaseline hair tonic TRADE MARK @ VASELINE is the registered trade mark of the Chewebrough Mfg. Co.. Cons’d

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You don’t always travel alone when you go Kate mollis had a strange feeling that she had lived this day before. It was going to a pattern that was sharply familiar, sharply reminiscent of something that had happened once before. She jabbed a paring knife into the potato she was peel¬ ing and held it up and looked at it for a moment. Somehow, the potato had something to do with it. She heard steps coming down the stairs and across the center hall and then a voice behind her. “Do I look all right, Mother?” Kate turned and looked at her daughter as she came into the kitchen — tall and trim in a neat gray suit and checkered blouse — and then it all came back to her. Suddenly Kate had the feeling that this was not today . . . this was not her daughter coming into the kitchen, but she herself. Yes, for an instant it seemed as if this were that day, more than twenty- five years before, when Kate had walked into the kitchen at home and said, “Do I look all right, Mother?” — because that was the day Fred Hollis was coming to dinner for a very special reason, too. Kate Hollis forced her thoughts to return from that instant of reverie. “You look lovely, Ann. What time did you say Jim would be here?” “In about an hour. Mother. Guess I’d better start getting things ready in the dining room, don’t you think?” There was one important difference, Kate thought after Ann had left. On that day, her own father was still alive and had spoken with Fred Hollis as any prospective father-in-law might. But today she’d have to handle this alone .... Alone? Well, not entirely. She recalled how help¬ less she had felt, at first. wfhen her husband died eight years before. But then she found how care¬ fully Fred had worked things out to help her make decisions such as this as the years went by. The insurance program that he and Cliff Walters had worked out together had come to serve as a year-to-year guide. When Ann reached college age, the question had not been whether she could go, but simply where — because Fred had left a sep¬ arate New York Life policy to take care of the expense. And now this new decision would be easy, too. With Ann through college, there was no reason for her not to marry Jim and start a home of her own. He was a fine, sensible boy and should do well as time went on. And Kate knew that she would never be a financial burden to them, because she had her regular checks from New York Life to take care of her. This young couple could live with the same feeling of independence that she and Fred had had — and she knew that that was what Fred would have wanted. Kate Hollis picked up another potato and began to peel it methodically. Yes, she thought, she had traveled full circle. And somehow it seemed to Kate that a good part of the circle had been care¬ fully drawn a long, long time ago. NEW YORK LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY 51 Madison Avenue, New York 10, N. Y. Naturally, names used in this story are fictitious. *

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9 The Most Difficult Door To Open in Washington The 1925 F Street Club is so exclusive that not even its members know exactly who else belongs. It's where VIPs eat, drink, make merry — and help chart the nation's course Bv ALFRED TOOMBS THE stolid yellow house which stands on an ivy-covered terrace at 1925 F Street NVV in down¬ town Washington attracts hardly a glance from the hurrying thousands who pass it daily. But this building has a particular meaning to those who know their way around the capital's high-altitude social life. Its door is perhaps the hardest in Washington to open from the outside. For located here is Washington’s swankiest club (and here we pause to duck plush brickbats from Washing¬ ton’s exclusive Sulgrave Club). It’s called, simply, the 1925 F Street Club. To belong to it is the mark of having arrived. Over the years, it has been the scene of gay parties where socialites and statesmen relax. Though prima¬ rily a social club, members of Congress and other politicos belong to it, and it has been, from time to time, the cen¬ tral origin of violent political upheav¬ als, In all of the world, possibly there’s no other place exactly like it, A widely accepted Washington ax¬ iom says that great events hre set in motion when the right people meet at the right time at the right place. The 1925 F Street Club is regarded as just about the Tightest place in Washington. Here, over cofTee and brandy, sena¬ torial candidacies have been launched, political feuds begun and diplomatic bargains sealed. Its social importance was pointed up a few years ago by a remark by the late Mrs. Eleanor Medill (Cissy) Patterson, then publisher of the Washington Times-Herald. Mrs. Patterson was asked: “What must one do in Washington to get on the society pages?” Mrs. Patterson replied: “Get into the F Street Club.” In its 20 years of existence, 1925 F Street NW has probably seen more tears and more laughter than any other house in the capital. Power and glory in Washington are fleeting. Most who come to the city to take important jobs regard themselves as transients, and they often live in hotels, small apartments or frosty official resi¬ dences unsuited for the intimate social life favored in Washington. Most of the few old-fashioned town houses which once supported elegant political salons have disappeared. When someone in the upper echelon wants to hold an intimate social gathering, where perhaps a few powerful men can put their heads together, the 1925 F Street Club is likely to be the choice. Friendliness prevails at the club. The visitor who is ushered through the front door by a butler feels as if he has walked into the home of a family whose social position is unassailable and whose wealth is uncounted. Everyone is put at ease and made to feel important. The politician is given the Club used to be tbe home of its founder. Mrs. John M. Gros heady illusion that he is a statesman; the newspa¬ perman becomes a journalist; the legation attache, a diplomat: and the soldier, a commanding general. A first visit to the club sometimes has a dizzying clTect upon poor-boy Congressmen or up-from- thc-lathe businessmen. The wonder of it all was expressed succinctly by a small girl, who had been invited to the club for a children’s birthday party. “Gosh, [hey must be rich,” she reported breath¬ lessly to her mother. “They passed the scrambled eggs three times.” No membership list in the 1 Street Club has evtr been made available and even members can omy gltcss about w ho else belongs. All Presidents oi the United .States and their wives are invited to become honorary members of the club, and by now the Eisenhowers probably have received their invitation. The Trumans have visited the club four or five times. A dozen sena¬ tors arc believed to belong, as well as hall a dozen members of the House and two Supreme Court justices \ icc- Prcsident Barkley and his wife began frequenting the club after they were married, and Representative Sam Ray¬ burn, though “not much for going out," drops in fairly often because, he says, “they set a mighty good table.” Everyone seems to agree with that statement. Mr. Truman always seems pleased that the staff remembers he likes near his plate a vinegar cruet w ith which to douse his vegetables. Chief Justice Vinson raises his ample e\c- brows in delight when he finds that the cook has been thoughtful enough to serve his favorite Dclmonico potatoes. Membership hovers around 400. with only slightly over half the number resident in Washington. The list is rigidly controlled. “Of course, old boy, the club just isn’t open to five percent¬ ers,” one member explained, and added wryly: “You’ve got to be at least a 50 percenter, and of something big — like steel or oil.” Membership is not obtained by ap¬ plication. New members arc invited to join — after investigations which might excite the envy ol tbe FBI Re¬ spectable members of prominent fam¬ ilies or new government officials whose suitability is apparent may be accepted promptly into the membership. But even members of the Cabinet have been required to furnish references, which are checked. It is literally true that you can’t tell whom sou will bump into at the club. One night, a well-known Washington hostess came tripping down the stairs from the F Street Club’s second floor and bounced into a man who was standing in the hall. “Oops, sons." she said casually, and started to hurry on. Then she did a double-take. “Ob. Mr. President.” she groaned, backing away. “I'm so sorry. 1 didn’t realize . . .” “What's the matter?” grinned Mr. Truman. “You used to call me Harry.” Washington society reporters noted with awe recently that a pioblem ol protocol, without prece¬ dent in the memory of observers, had been pre¬ sented at the club. At a dinner given by Mrs. A. Mitchell Palmer, the guests included the President, Vice-President, Chief Justice, and Speaker of the House. Where to scat whom is often a knotty problem in the capi¬ tal, but no hostess recently had laced the delicious dilemma involved in arranging places for ti.e four highest ollieials of the land. Mrs. Palmer put President Truman in th*' place of honor, and on her other side \ ice- President Barkley. Speaker Sam Rayburn and Chief Justice Collier’s , January 24, 195.7

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Despite a blind drawn on tloings at publicity than have the Russian secret police. It refuses to give news to society editors. Newsmen and newswomen may come only as guests of the members, and photographers not at all. Those who live in the glare of Washington publicity are some¬ times delighted to find a place where the Iron Venetian Blind can be lowered. She Wields Power Without Publicity The Laura M. Curtis who founded and still owns the F Street Club is now Mrs. John M. Gross, wife of a Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, retired steel execu¬ tive. Mrs. Gross has been called one of the 10 most powerful women in Washington, but the de¬ tails of the exercise of this power are carefully obscured from public view. She is the daughter of the late William Rush Merriam, onetime governor of Minnesota. Her first husband was James F. Curtis, New York law¬ yer and once Assistant Secretary of the Treasury. In 1924, when she was Laura Curtis, she was walk¬ ing along F Street and saw a “For Rent” sign on the 125-year-old federal-style house at 1925. It was in poor condition, and when she heard how much rent the agent wanted, she expressed herself with vehemence. She named her own rental, took the place on a long-term lease and spent an estimated $50,000 to refurbish the establishment. During the late 1920s, the Curtis home was the outstanding salon in Washington. Speaker Nicholas Longworth, who wielded great political power, was a good friend of Mrs. Curtis, and he came to her house often. Laura Curtis’ round table was always filled, and at endless dinner parties she entertained the Re¬ publicans who were to make her good friend Herbert Hoover President. Because of her close as¬ sociation with the ruling political powers, Laura Curtis was referred to in 1928 as the uncrowned head of the Republican convention. When the stock market crashed, Laura Curtis dropped a large sum. She rented her home to Mrs. John T. Pratt, Republican member of Congress from New York, and moved to a house next door. But Mrs. Pratt gave up the lease after she was de¬ feated for re-election in the Democratic landslide of 1932. Some of Mrs. Curtis’ intimates suggested that she turn the house into a club, with her favorite Ike and Mamie are sure to receive invitations from the F Street Club, if they haven’t already. Presidents and their wives are always asked to join Fred Vinson were seated at the heads of separate tables. Once, two of the guests at a dinner were men who had been engaged in a headline-making feud. It was the first time the President and Drew' Pear¬ son had been in the same ring since Mr. Truman had publicly called the columnist a name normally not used in polite society. While the other guests watched in fascination, the two warily avoided each other all evening. But when the hostess presented Mrs. Pearson to the President, Mr. Truman remarked to her pleasant!) : “1 really don't blame Drew for the stufT he writes. He’s got to make a living, just like 1 do.” The I Street Club looks like a privately inhab¬ ited town house because that is exactly what it was until the day it became an incorporated club on April 6, 1933, when the club’s certifi¬ cate of incorporation was filed in the District of Columbia. The business and object of the cor¬ poration was stated to be the “mutual improve¬ ment of its members.” Named as president and manager was Mrs. Laura M. Curtis, who for years had presided over an exclusive Washington political salon in the F Street house which had been her home for years. It was some time before the worldlings in Wash¬ ington were able to pierce the shroud of mystery which surrounded the abrupt metamorphosis of the house from free-loading to pay-as-you-go. No one, of course, was rude enough to inquire too deeply until a woman reporter, finding Mrs. Curtis in a warm good humor, asked, “How did you happen to turn your home into a club?” “T here w;as a depression, dear,” the lady was quoted as replying. The club has evinced slightly less interest in The summer evening Chinese Ambassador W ellington Koo and his w ife attended a dinner at the club, they saved the party from wilting to death: they pulled out a pair of small Chinese fans and passed them down the table, giving each guest a breezy turn ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY DEVLIN

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1 1 ]he club, news leaks out. Like the story of the feudiny President and columnist . . . guests as paying members. Mrs. Curtis liked the idea. She sent out invitations to about 400 friends, and most accepted. During these early days, a score or so of friends put up sums ranging from $1,000 to $5,000 in bonds to finance the venture. The money was repaid out of earnings, with 5 per cent interest added. “It will be run like no other club," Mrs. Curtis promised. The promise has been kept, from the time the first party was given on April 15, 1933. Guests arrived to find the Curtis servants, furniture, china and silver just as they had always been. Today, the motif remains almost exactly the same, The furniture is predominantly Chippendale and Queen Anne, with a number of richly upholstered overstuffed chairs and sofas added. In one of the drawing rooms, over an eighteenth-century pine mantel, hangs a portrait of Chippendale, attributed to Sir Joshua Reynolds. Two Waterford crystal chandeliers in the house are said to he among the most valuable in the country. Every piece of brass and glass sparkles. Linen, silver and china are the costliest obtaina¬ ble. The towels in the ladies’ room, I am told, are embossed not with the name of the club, but with the hostess' initials. Chinese Fans for Sweltering Guests The club is not air-conditioned, and it is a com¬ pliment of some magnitude that it is crowded during Washington’s summers. One humid eve¬ ning, Chinese Ambassador K. Wellington Koo and his wife were guests at a dinner party. Two small electric fans did little to stir the air. Both the ambassador and Mrs. Koo carry small Chi¬ nese fans against such an emergency. Ceremoni¬ ously, they passed the fans around the table and allowed all the backward Westerners to have a turn with them. The story was told around Washington the next day, and perspiring guests who arrived for a din¬ ner given by Mrs. William Randolph Hearst, Jr,, that night noted happily that there was a small folding fan at each place. A large dining room accommodates 48 people. One of the small downstairs rooms has been fitted with a portable bar, while two others have been converted into sitting rooms where cocktails or after-dinner hrandy are served. Large French doors open from the dining room onto an en¬ closed garden, where tables can be set up during warm weather. There are soft-colored lights, mag¬ nolias and blooming flowers. Money in evidence would disturh the illusion that the club is a home. Bills arc not presented at the time. The servants know each memher. They keep a record of food and drinks consumed, and bills are mailed to members monthly, F.D.R/s Henchmen Invade Washington The pro- 1933 climate of the establishment had heen Republican. Members felt some trepidation when they saw Democrats begin to pour into Washington, on Roosevelt’s coattails. The first party given under the new regime con¬ firmed the worst fears. Among the guests were two or three lusty characters from the White House press room. Carried away hy the sight of unlimited quan¬ tities of free liquor, the reporters tried to demon¬ strate how a party should be conducted in true Front Page style. The Sunday-morning quiet was disturbed by hoarse shouts and the sound of flower¬ pots bouncing of! the walls of a church which ad¬ joins the club garden. As a result, the pastor of the church paid a call on the distressed chatelaine of F Street. “You’ve been giving parties here for years,” he said sadly, “and nothing like this has ever hap¬ pened before.” “But you see, Fve never entertained Democrats before,” she explained. But in Chip Robert and Evie Walker — who was to become Mrs. Robert — the club had a couple whose standing as Democrats and wealthy social figures was beyond cavil; and they led many socially prominent and powerful New Dealers into the club. President Roosevelt looked on the F Street Club with suspicion. One day, he said to Arthur Krock of the New York Times: “1 hear you spend your evenings over at that place on F Street, where all my enemies sit around and talk about me.” “Yes.” replied Krock, “and 1 would spend more evenings there, too, if your children weren’t always taking the club over for their parties.” In 1938, Laura Curtis was di¬ vorced from James F. Curtis and before long became Mrs. Gross. She moved to Bethlehem and left the day-to-day management of the club in the hands of her extraordi¬ nary housekeeper, Mary Cummins. Members called her Miss Mary and her gentle County Roscommon ac¬ cent charmed the VIPs. It was Miss Mary’s chosen mission to protect the interests of Eire in the Ameri¬ can capital, and she would laugh¬ ingly greet lawmakers with: “Now, what have you been doing for the Irish?” I he night after the last party given at the cluh hetore its regular August closing last year. Miss Mary died in her sleep. Club members, flying out of Washington to all parts of the world that day, carried the sad news to Miss Mary’s friends in Paris or Manila. Her wake was held at the club, and the flowers sent hy Supreme Court justices and other club mem¬ bers filled the place. No one has officially succeeded Miss Mary, but the traditions of the cluh have been maintained since her death. Its cuisine remains pre¬ dominantly American, with the rec- jfirTnhii — -22N Justice Vinson likes the way they serve potatoes, and Rep. Sam Rayburn says: “They set a mighty good table’ Collier’s for January 24, 1953 When the lady said: “Mr. President. I am so sorry!*' he waved, grinned and answered: k,You used to call me Harry* ipcs being taken out of the cookbooks found in any American home. There arc many who descrihc it with fervor as the hest food in the world. No menu is presented, so everyone is served the same meal at lunch or at dinner, except that on Fridays there is a choice of meat or fish. Dinner may hegin with cream of crah soup and progress through rare roast beef with hroiled mushrooms and broiled to¬ matoes. French green beans, mixed green salad, cheese and vanilla souffle to coffee and liqueur. Luncheons of cream corn soup, fried oysters, mixed green salad with cold turkey, dessert of little thin pancakes with melted hutter and maple sirup continue to hring unsubdued sighs of ecstasy from diplomats and Cabinet officers alike. Reservations in advance are required, even for lunch, and the entire club may be taken over for dinner parties, debutante dances or wedding re¬ ceptions. The lunch costs $3.50, and the dinner $4.50. without drinks. Customarily, after mixed dinner parties the ladies withdraw and leave the men to have colfee and brandy in the drawing room, In this intimate atmosphere, the shoptalk of Washington flows freely. The shape of policy to come may be outlined, intrigue may he spun — or political knives may flash in the firelight. They are flashing brighter than ever, now that administrations are changing and the competition for federal jobs becomes a free-for-all. But the F Street Club survived the Democratic victory of 1932, and no one who knows his W ashington ex¬ pects there will be any changes now — except for

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12 Bv FRANCIS T. FIELD J Don ami Laurel were a delightful couple — so charming, so rich, and always doin'* such refreshing things. You simply had to envy them MRS. \ AIDE YO is a plain, fuss> and forth¬ right widow who has gone sentimental since passing fifty. She runs a pet shop on one of New York’s smarter avenues, and in the high st vie of her neighborhood, deals only in birds, ani¬ mals and fish of ‘ proved'* bloodlines. in spite of this concession to her trade, Mrs. Valdevo has no patience with anything merely showy. The late Mr. Valdevo had been one of those dandies who diet, anoint and polish them¬ selves to a lean, hard glitter — and he had come to an early and violent end. after a series of escapades with women other than Mrs. Valdeyo. “Heart'” Mrs. Valdevo believes there is no sub¬ stitute for “old-fashioned human heart.” Some months ago, after dusting the shelves of canned foods, medicines, harnesses and fish bowls, she had gone to the rear of the shop to feed Soldier, a monkey who had grown old there because she had not yet found the right people to entrust him to. She had just given him a nippled bottle filled with his favorite drink, a warm concoction of milk, water and Pernod, and he had turned himself over, square red bottom in air, and was gurgling con- ten tedlv, when the doorbell sounded. A voting man and woman, tall, slim, suave and handsomely dressed, stepped in, looked at the ex¬ pectant tox terriers, and moved over to the cocka¬ too Cage, where they took root in surprise and admiration. Under her dyed-black bangs, Mrs. Valdeyo studied her young customers. They were in their middle twenties, he just over and she just under six teei; both were blond, he very light red, she darker, the color of tarnished brass. They seemed enveloped in brilliance, a brilliance that was not nurelv ot complexion or manner but as much a p- rt of them as their skins. They looked as though thev would glow in the dark. In every sense, they appeared to be possessed of a fair share of money, health, breeding and all the modem virtues. Hut for all that, Mrs. Valdeyo was inclined to give them the cool treatment. Kind calls to kind, she thought acidly. And at first glance, they were much like the cockatoos they admired gaily plumed, aloof, knowing and faintly irked by the squawk and tlurry around them. Mrs Valdeyo despised the plumed cockatoos. ‘‘Pretty, pretty, pretty,” the young woman said in a drawl that intimated she didn’t really care whether the birds responded or not, which was a good thing, because they sat side by side, brilliant, indifferent, unruffled and ironic, “Oh, Donny, did you ever see such a resemblance to Aunt Liz? And wouldn’t they look gorgeous in the living room?” Mrs. Valdeyo bestowed a hasty pat on Soldier’s woolly chest and walked over to the young couple. “Gorgeous, yes,” she said, ‘‘but what good are they? All they can do is sit and preen.” Her customers turned to her and smiled. They had bright, appreciative smiles, and Mrs. Valdeyo felt that perhaps she had been too hard on them, “You look like nice young people,” she said. “Let me show you a real pet.” “You don’t mean that monkey the young woman s'aid. “That would be more trouble than it’s worth,” her husband said. Once more Mrs. Valdeyo revised her opinion. “I was thinking of the parakeets,” she said stifily, ON THE main counter w;as a large, glass-and- wirc aviary in which about fifteen small birds were chattering and doing stunts on a variety of sw ings, slides and bars. They had the look, in min¬ iature. of parrots. Mrs. Valdeyo thrust her hand inside, boldly caught up one of the birds, and drew it out, scolding and struggling to get free. “Now this,” she said, “will not only talk and do tricks till the day he dies, he will also love you as you’ve never been loved before.” The young couple smiled politely. So much emotion — this pet-shop lady was evidently a char¬ acter. Mrs. Valdeyo set the bird on the counter. From the hooked beak to the long, trim tail, it was less than four inches. The breast was as green and tender as moss; the wing feathers were edged with black; the face was yellow, with a blue ink dot on each cheek and a row of black dots along the throat. For a second it stood quietly, “making eyes” at the voting couple, then it thrust its beak under a wing and scratched. Then, shaking itself, it lifted a foot which resembled an animated twig, and began to trot hack and forth along the counter, not in the cautious, (Continued on pa^e 56) MeC.orkle was almost frightening in his demands for love. As long as lie was at liberty, lie would not let them out of his sight. W hen Laurel bathed, he sat on her shoulder. Hi king at drops of water that were clinging to her hack §

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14 Beaucmvp Dreamy -American JKAiN L1BMAN BLOCK It’s an exciting old world for the 2,000 dependents of U.S. personnel who are attending high school in Europe. Everything is just the way it was back home — with a difference Paris VIVACIOUS Sydney Gill, a sixteen-year-old bundle of energy from San Antonio, Texas, led the four other girl cheerleaders of Wies¬ baden American High School into a frenzy of leaps and whirls. And the students cheered: W as ist das? Was is! das? Das ist Wiesbaden , Das nt was! Ihe roof of Blozis Hall in Frankfurt, Germany, shook with teen-age enthusiasm. After silence set¬ tled and the judges huddled, Wiesbaden High was awarded for the second straight year the cheer¬ leaders’ championship of all the American de¬ pendents high schools in Europe. The cheerleading trophy was only minor conso¬ lation to Wiesbaden; the school lost every basket¬ ball game on its schedule. But as redheaded Ted Wilson, seventeen, of Santa Monica, California, center on the Wiesbaden quintet, puts it, “Hcck, we're a small school — just 100 kids. And because we’re Air Force, our families move around so much we can’t hold onto a team. The American High School at Heidelberg is more than twice as big as we are, and Frankfurt is three times as big. And at Heidelberg, which wins everything, some of the basketball players have been at the one school all four years!” For a teen-age dependent of a member of the American armed forces in Europe to attend the same high school in unbroken continuity for four \ears is a minor miracle. A different school each year is about par for the course. Some youngsters have been to a dozen schools from Tokyo to Rome as their lathers shifted from post to post. Jim McMillan, of Detroit, president of the American Teen-Age Club in London, may have set some¬ thing of a record. Jim has covered 28 schools since the first grade and attended four different high schools in his senior year alone. John Landerdahl, seventeen, a chaplain’s son now at Frankfurt High, told me, ‘Tve only been to school here and at Munich and back home in Bat¬ tle Creek, Michigan.” Then he added almost as an afterthought, “Except for the time I lived in the Aleutian Islands. There were just 18 of us in the school there.” Mariann Walton, a sixteen-year-old senior at Bushy Park High School for Americans in the Lon¬ don area, has trouble remembering how many schools she’s attended. “A funny thing happened the other day,” Mariann recalled. “A new boy walked into our home room and was introduced as Robert Lynn. I knew right off that his nickname was Budge, and that I’d known him somewhere. Budge and 1 sat down to figure it out. It wasn’t back home in Columbus, Ohio, or Arkansas or Osaka, Japan, where I lived for two years. He’d been to school in a whole bunch of other places. We finally got it — Mississippi in the tenth grade. We felt like old friends.” The Girl Who Felt She Was Left Out Anne Jones, a quiet fifteen-year-old, had been listening. “I’ve only gone to one other school, Hunter High in New York. I thought that was nor¬ mal until 1 came to England last year. Now I feel left out w'hen the others talk about all the places they've been. I'll have to travel fast to catch up.” Anyone will have to travel fast to catch up with the teen-age dependents of American Army, Navy, Air Force, economic assistance and State Depart¬ ment personnel who have taken up residence in postwar Europe. Heads of families have been drawing assignments with occupation forces in Germany and as participants in North Atlantic de¬ fense efforts elsewhere, and so tens of thousands of American families have set up housekeeping over¬ seas. In trailers, tents, thatched huts, Quonsets, apartments, housing projects and castles, they live in degrees of comfort ranging from rugged to princely. The U.S. government, as part of its commit¬ ment to universal public education, feels it owes free schooling to the children of its defenders in distant lands. Accordingly, Europe (as well as the Far East and the Caribbean) is today dotted with overseas versions of the little red schoolhouse with American teachers, American textbooks and Amer¬ ican chalk squeaking on American blackboards. For teen-agers there are faithful copies of state¬ side high schools stretching from the Scottish • border to Turkey. The American high-school pop¬ ulation in Europe numbers 2,000, with the largest concentration (1,189 boys and girls) in eight schools in the American zone of Germany. A very few American teen-agers are enrolled in English, French and Swiss schools, both public and private. These students in foreign schools take on the local protective coloration of language, school uniforms and dormitory living, making themselves as much as possible like the home¬ grown product. They do not become part of the large and colorful American teen-age colony that reproduces the curricular and after-class life of good old West Side High, U.S.A., in Munich, Nur¬ emberg, Paris or Bushy Park, England. CHRIS WAHt American teen-agers in their ^Sloppy Joes" and jeans wait for class at the Bushy Park High StdiooL England. Enrollment runs about 200 MUNICH AMERICAN PHOTO Star of the champion Munich Military Post small-bore rifle team is Eileen Elliot, 18 (center). Her proud Army dad is second from left Collier’s for January 24, 1953 u

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Teen-Agers Abroad The central fact of life lor the American teen¬ ager in Europe is the absence of ears. Youngsters under eighteen are not permitted to drive either their own cars or the family car, if there is one. And by the time they reach driving age, most boys and girls return to the States for college or the boys enter military service. For the H t teen- through seventeen-year-old contingent, then, transportation is provided only by bicycle, motor scooter, bus, trolley, subway or that nearly forgotten agent of locomotion, the human leg. They Go by Bum to Movies and Dances “I’ve never in my life been on a Saturday-night date with a boy in a car,1' Beverly Williams, a sev¬ enteen-year-old senior at Heidelberg High, ob¬ serves with just a trace of wistfulness. Blonde, blue-eyed Beverly is from San Antonio: she’s very pretty and her father is a major general. Nonethe¬ less, in Heidelberg, Beverly and all her friends go by bus to the movies, to a dance or on a date. While the absence of cars is considered a nui¬ sance by the youngsters, their parents, school au¬ thorities and those concerned with community relations see advantages in the situation. “Since the boys and girls don't drive over here,” says Mildred Linek, principal of the Wiesbaden High School, “we’re spared all the anxieties of hot rods, reckless driving, driving while drinking. It eases the eurfew problem — they have to get home before the last bus — and it has a fine effect on morals because couples aren’t roaring around the countryside unsupervised.” “As a rule, rearing a child in Frankfurt is not nearly so much of a problem as it is in the U.S.,” confides Mrs. E. D. Hart, mother of Susan, twelve, and Sara, sixteen, and chairman of the Frankfurt Teen-Age Club advisory committee. The Harts, from Glendale, California, consider the ban on cars for youngsters a happy boon for parents. Without ears, all teen-age life is more stationary, centering primarily around the school, the local version of the corner drugstore, the athletic field and the home. Drive-in movies, television and leisurely shop¬ ping trips for the girls are other stateside pleasures that the European colony must forgo. But you hear almost no regret for lost Edens in the substi¬ tute drugstores and sugar bowls that spring up wherever American youth congregates. Germany, where the Americans originally ar¬ rived as conquerors and were able to requisition and reconstruct in the image of home, boasts the most exact facsimiles ol stateside Coke joints. Frankfurt actually gives its 338 U.S. teen-agers a choice of hangout facilities. The Teen-Age Club, probably the most active nonmilitary organization in the city — with orthodox decor provided in part by the Coca-Cola Export Corporation of Germany — features Ping-pong, pool, square dancing and just plain meeting room. The Circle Grill next to the huge main PX on WAC Circle attracts a large after-school teen clien¬ tele. Adjoining the cafeteria in the airy, modern Frankfurt Dependents High School on the far out¬ skirts of town, Der Kozy Keller offers seuff-proof booths and genuine American banana splits. Over the sundaes and the maltcds, the small talk is often spiked with fragments of French and Ger¬ man. “Hi, kids, comment {a va?" “ Schr gut, was cooks?” “ Nichts new.” Someone mentions a new' girl who has just transferred into the school. “A schonc chick,” is one opinion. "Ties cute,” another boy seconds. "Ganz gone.” For those who have spent time in France, beaucoap is now English — beaucoup hot, beuucoup cold, beaucoup dreamy. -C'cst la vie with a shrug of the shoulders, covers all letdowns. “But, natiirlich . . .” “ Quelle snafu . . .” “ Longtemps no see ...” A fractured English has emerged from literal translation of French and German. “My watch doesn’t march.” “Don’t derange yourself.” “The addition was rugged.” (Restaurant check, not arithmetic test.) “Make fast, Joe.” (Hurry up.) “ Auf Wieder- selieu,” they call at parting. “ Gate unit” to show there are no boundaries. “See you domain, same time, same bus.” Paris, after the first glamor has rubbed off, is rough going for American teeners. American forces in France (and England) are there as guests, not occupiers. That means they must tread softly CLAUDE J A COB T Enthusiastic cheerleaders and fans from Dependents High School in Frankfurt, Germany, spur oil their team during basketball game with Bremerhaven. Gym is in Army compound Collier’s for January 24, 1953 Strolling through famous Louvre mu-eiim. I students in Paris study statue of Winged \ ictorv DENNIS STOCK -TED CASTLE Group of teen-agers from various parts of l .S. rehearse at Dependents School theater in Paris American art class meets in downtown Frankfurt. In background is the 600-year-old Bonier Building CLAUDE JACOBY

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16 Teen-ayers have kept their American-style school spirit. Not only do the athletes wear CHRIS WARE Temporarily transplanted Americans George Bayer of New York; Jean Motte, South Carolina; and Charles London, W ashington, D.C. (1. to r.), work during art class at Bushy Bark School and keep their children from making really boister¬ ous noises. Paris has always had about 80 Ameri¬ can teen-agers attending high-school classes of the American C'ommumt) School, which is supported In the American colony in Paris. These are chil¬ dren ol business, embassy and film people and they lead a hall -French, half-American existence, usu¬ al l> in the upper financial brackets. Now lor the first time there is a second separate American high school in Paris serv ing 98 sons and daughters of Army personnel, from sergeants to geneials. and Mutual Securitv officials. The boys and girls come to school on a network of 16 mili¬ tary busses that crisscross Paris in every direction and haul man> pupils from SHAPE Village. 15 miles to the west the international housing devel¬ opment tor General Matthew Ridgway s Supreme Allied Headquarters, and from the Allied Army and Air Force headquarters at Fontainebleau, 39 miles to the south. From Fontainebleau the bus ride takes an hour and 15 minutes each way “Don t ask me what ! do after school," cautions Bill Murphy, of San Bruno, California, the six¬ teen-year-old president of the student council, who lives in Fontainebleau. “1 get up at six to catch the school bus. The bus doesn’t get me home un¬ til nearly six at night. 1 can’t stop ofF to visit in Paris after school because then I’ll miss the bus and have a two-hour train ride. Week ends are a little better, but I usually have to stay in Fon¬ tainebleau because it’s hard to get anywhere else.” The Paris Dependents High School meets in the town house of a former opera singer. The singer’s private circular recital hall, equipped with peeling damask walls and gold seats, serves as auditorium. A chemistry lab occupies a once elegant salon . But there is no gym and no athletic field, no room even to throw a ball against a wall. Murphy was elected student council president in a tensely fought cam¬ paign on his promise to install a coffee-vending machine in the students’ lounge. He has already w'anglcd a machine from the PX. For American youngsters living in Paris proper, the aftcr-school gathering of the clan takes place in the Snack Bar of the American Embassy Annex on the Place dc la Concorde. Any afternoon you can see them, well to the back of the large dining room, trying to put distance between themselves and the adult embassy personnel taking a coffee break. They are dressed in the international uni¬ form of American teens. The boys wear jeans or slacks, heavy sweaters, flapping plaid shirts, white socks and loafers. The girls arc in bright wool skirts or corduroy jumpers, sweaters with sleeves pushed up or cotton shirts, white socks and loafers — all bought at the PX or on mail order from the States. (No slacks or jeans arc permitted for the girls ex¬ cept in the privacy of home.) They pile their books on the floor or on empty chairs. They dive into a malted for 70 francs (20c4) , a Coke for 25 francs (7^) or a plate of chili con carne for 110 francs (31tf). They talk about school and dates and what they would do if they had a football team, about the dance to be held next week and the dance that was held last week and what Jim, who’s gone back to El Paso, wrote in his last letter to Bill. And they keep their voices down because, after all, they’re in the American Embassy and not Ye Greasy Spoon. Most dating among American teen-agers in Eu¬ rope is between classmates in the same school, and there seems, on the whole, to be less steady pairing off than at home. In Paris, where first-run movies, cafes and night clubs are beyond the average allow¬ ance, dates run to Saturday-night parties at private homes and dances at Teen-Age Clubs in Fontaine¬ bleau and SHAPE Village. French Date Had Too Many Chaperones Few, if any, of the young American girls in Paris go out with GIs, and none at all date French boys. The boys, in turn, hardly ever take out French girls. “I once had a date with a French girl,” says Tony Smith, of Arlington, Virginia, a blue-eyed sixteen-year-old with a brush of blond hair, “but she brought her mother and her grand¬ mother along, so I never tried that again.” In Germany, dating habits vary from city to city. Americans in Heidelberg, headquarters of the United States Army in Europe, consider it quite beyond the pale for the high-school girls, who are mostly daughters of officers, to go out with enlisted men or Germans. Since girls in Heidelberg High have the bad luck to outnumber boys three to one, there is a great deal of all-female bridge playing evenings and week ends. Among the boys and girls themselves, at Heidelberg and elsewhere, no dis¬ tinction is ever made between classmates, whether father is an officer or an enlisted man. Just 50 miles away in Wiesbaden, headquarters of U.S. Air Forces in Europe, the girls have a won¬ derful whirl. By a peculiar shift of mores, Wies¬ baden allows its high-school coeds to date enlisted men. After a heated wrangle, and over the violent protests of the boy students, the young airmen were even invited to the high-school proms. High-school athletics, nearly dormant in France and not very vigorous in England, are all-absorb¬ ing in Germany. Tourists are often astounded by "Beat Munich” or "Beat Heidelberg” signs painted on buildings, until told that the reference is not to civil war but to an impending American high- school football or basketball game. High-school teams wear the same colors as the American mili¬ tary team in each town: and high-school players arc usually outfitted with elaborate uniforms and equipment, both new and hand-me-down. One extraordinary aspect of teen-age life in Eu¬ rope is the high-school dormitory. High-school- age dependents of servicemen stationed at isolated bases throughout France live in dormitories in Frankfurt and attend the same school as Frankfurt day students. (Eventually there probably will be American high schools at Bordeaux and Orleans.) Boys and girls from scattered American air bases in southern England use the dormitory at Bushy Park High, which also serves day students from London. Youngsters from Stuttgart are housed in the Heidelberg dorms and those from the Bavaria region in Munich dorms. Most dorm students go home week ends, those from France only for long holidays. Collier’s for January 24, 1953

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17 aney uniforms , font students paint victory siyns on (ierman buildinys before a biy yanie Although dormitory rules arc strict — at Frank¬ furt dates are permitted only on Wednesday, Fri¬ day and Saturday, and then parental approval is needed; Wednesday curfew is at ten, Friday and Saturday at eleven — most of the girls find dormi¬ tory living a prolonged adolescent dream of heaven. The boys aren’t that enthusiastic, but they’re rea¬ sonably cheerful. “I never want to leave here,” exclaims Marjorie Fry, sixteen, of Princeton, New Jersey, a junior at Frankfurt, who is entranced with the taffy-pull at¬ mosphere of dormitory housekeeping. “It’s like the books you read about teen-age girls at boarding school, only you never think it’ll happen to you.” Marjorie, who has brown hair and loves to talk, shares a large, homey room with Maryanne Pozaro, a sophomore from Charleston, South Carolina. The girls’ dorm occupies two former private resi¬ dences not far from the huge I. G. Farben building and down the block from an impressive pile of rubble. It houses 40 girls. Sixty-three boys live in the green stucco boys’ dorm a few streets away, flanked by its pile of rubble. Marjorie’s roommate has found the separation from her family much harder to take. Just four¬ teen and an only child, Maryanne was ready to call it quits after the first six weeks. Her parents are an entire country distant, 500 miles away on the At¬ lantic coast of France. “Then my father came to see me and 1 cheered up enough to stick it out to Thanksgiving. Now the kids are working so hard to keep me happy I think it's going to be all right.” Like Maryanne, who is desperately trying to be brave in the face of an intense emotional strain, nearly all American teen-agers in Europe have de¬ veloped a special brand of self-reliance. They’ve adjusted to many new schools in strange cities, crossed borders alone, endured long separations from their families and acquired a vivid awareness of the fact that they are constantly on parade as the most astonishing and suspect of all species — the teen-age American. Accordingly, they behave with less abandon than at home. Minister Sums Up Morals Situation “We don’t have any delinquency among the teen¬ agers over here,” Dr. Clayton T. Williams, minister of the American Church in Paris, assured me, “and we don’t have any serious moral problems, either. Our youngsters are mature beyond their years. They’ll make their mark in the world.” Between 60 per cent and 85 per cent of the grad¬ uates of American high schools in Europe go on to college — a really remarkable showing. “In Battle Creek, Michigan, where 1 used to teach,” Miss Linck, the Wiesbaden principal told me, “we were satisfied if 15 per cent of our graduates went to college. Here, they all try for college, except a few girls who marry and some boys who enlist.” (Boys overseas must register, but they cannot be drafted while abroad,) Several of last June's Wiesbaden graduates joined the Air Force, were trained in England and are now stationed in Wiesbaden, side by side with their fathers. To what extent do these boys and girls get to know the young people of the lands in which they are growing up? Are they truly profiting from their opportunity in international living? Or is the well- meant effort to provide them with a genuine Ameri¬ can education walling them off completely from their European contemporaries? Explanations and apologies fly thick and fast. “Away from native shores, the great American tendency is to congeal together,” says Roy Diduk, of New York, principal of the Paris Dependents School. “Even when we branch out among peoples of other countries, sooner or later we are reab¬ sorbed back in our own group, unless we want to become total expatriates. So far as the children are concerned, our primary duty is to prepare them for American citizenship and this we are doing to the best of our ability.” Collier’s for January 24, 1933 The fact remains, however, that there is far less American teen-age participation in the life of the countries of sojourn than most educators and ob¬ servers would like to see. By and large, on a day- to-day basis, the junior American colony goes its all-American way with just a passing glance at native customs, almost no concern whatsoever for political and social problems and a shocking dis¬ interest in languages. Yet the fault is not all on the American side. Part of the difficulty springs from a basic divergence of cultures. American Girl Leads a Double Life A scventeen-ycar-old New York girl attending a school for well-brought-up French girls in Paris explained to me that, in spite of her immersion in an all-French atmosphere, she must lead a double life. She cannot let her classmates know that on week ends she goes out on dates with American boys. The French girls, instilled since the cradle with an all-or-nothing approach to sex, cannot comprehend the casual companionship of a date. “They’d think 1 was having an affair and ask me all sorts of terrible questions if 1 admitted spend¬ ing a whole evening unehaperoned with a boy,” this scventeen-ycar-old said a little sadly. “We talk about boys all the time, but J just pretend that my folks keep me under lock and key, too. It’s the only way to get along with them,” With subtle psychological barriers added to the obvious ones of language and history, it is not sur¬ prising that most young Americans prefer the ease of one another’s company. Still, the urge for better understanding is strong. The joint yearbook entitled Erinnerungen (Memories), published by the American high schools in Europe, opens with these words*: “To the young people of the world who are pre¬ vented by oppression from expressing their own ideas freely and creatively, we dedicate this record of our schools in Europe, an example of the foun¬ dation of our democratic philosophy,” “We can only hope that the enrichment of liv¬ ing over here will pay oil in the long run,” Sid¬ ney M. Crowder, of Henderson, North Carolina, the principal at Frankfurt, told me. “1 personally think it will — in directions and attitudes that none of us can predict at this time.” Meanwhile, the teen-agers themselves, indiffer¬ ent to future rewards, are busy making the present enjoyable. They do so by duplicating the life they knew at home — with differences. The duplication, with dilTerenccs, showed up with special clarity this fall when Sergeant Richard E, Brandt, a former Air Force MP, now director of the Fontainebleau Tccnic Club, set about organizing the first hay ride in the history of Paris, A resourceful type, Brandt, who hails from Pasadena, had a French hostess in a service club make contact with a stable catering to a French cavalry unit and through her ordered a large wagon, two horses and a suitable quantity of hay. The afternoon of the ride Brandt began to get cold feet. Maybe the wagon wouldn't be big enough or the hay sufficient. Brandt took off for the sta¬ ble to check and there his worst fears were real¬ ized. The only wagon available was a mere four feet wide and nine feet long, and the high-spirited horses designated for the expedition were obvi¬ ously biding their time for a galloping getaway. Brandt hurried back to the Air Force motor pool, where he had friends. There he comman¬ deered a large truck with low side walls and dis¬ patched the truck and two drivers to the stable to pick up the load of hay. Warmly wrapped against the autumn cold, 15 couples, four stags and two chaperons burrowed down in the alien hay and happily bumped over the cobblestones of Fon¬ tainebleau and Barbizon. They crossed the Seine in the moonlight, singing all the way, in a mo¬ torized hay ride that was just like home — only different. DENNIS ST0CK-TE0 CASTLE Pupils plan graduation exercises in Paris. Over 60 per cent of students abroad go on to college CLAUDE JACOBY Snaek bar at military post exchange is a favorite after-school meeting place for Frankfurt students

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18 Singing comedian hits articulate high with tongue-twisting Dinah KING KAYE In the Palace In a 00-minulr loulli^lil Irolic Itanm ratlin - I r< 1 1 1 1 r;i i nlm m l imi^ lo romaii'ic With unbridled instinct for clowning, Danny Kaye adds surprise hits of business to every performance. Here, for no reason, he peers owlishly over handkerchief SHOWMLN are finding it as hard as bookmak¬ ers to clear a dollar nowadays. Emphasizing talent instead of trimmings, however, produc¬ ers have found one solution to their profit problem — Broadways latest version of the one-man show. The trend toward productions built around a single personality, launched when Judy Garland played New York’s fabled Palace Theater last season, got a iurthcr boost from the current comedy hit. An Evening with Beatrice Lillie. Now the Palace is cxpcetanth polishing up its stage for an eight-week run with the git-gat-gittlc man, Danny Kaye. On Januarv 1 Nth, Kaye will subject a willing public to one and a half hours of articulate panto¬ mime- the same sort of show with which he first wowed London six seasons ago, and in reecnt months San Francisco and Dallas. His material stems Irom 22 years of kudo-copping clowning on stage and in films. Seat songs — such tongue-twist¬ ing classics as Dinah and Minnie the Moocher — will alternate with wistful melodies from his movie and Deeea record success, Hans Christian Andersen; a tap dance and a Harry Lauder bit with a crushing take-olf on Continental concert singers. Kaye spares no muscle or emotion in establish¬ ing rapport with his public, as these pictures taken in San Francisco will show. They do not indicate, however, the working agreement he had with fate during one performance there. Midway through the show Danny dropped down to the footlights for a breather. Puffing on a eigarette he had filehed from the audienec, Kaye chatted of inconsequen¬ tial things. “You people,” he said, “arc too sensi¬ tive. Whenever anyone refers to your city as Frisco, it upsets you. Now, why should you resent that? 1 think it’s because you’re insecure.” Whereupon, with masterful timing, the whole theater shuddered and the giant candelabra swayed as the city was struck by one of its worst quakes in years. Taking another puff, Danny finished: “I guess we’re all insecure. And now that I’m rested, let’s get back to work.” A. A. A. His git-gat-gittlc songs give way to a gentler mood as Danny sings version of hillbilly ballad* Candy Kisses Part way through each show, Kaye interrupts act and moves toward stage riin for a smoke and chat with audience

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Kaye's hands are eloquent as his face. In Thuinbelina, one of the songs he sings in the current film hit Hans Christian Andersen, lie narrows antics down to one expressive thumb Hands alone get the spotlight in mid-show as Danny, after dismissing orchestra, does off-heat duet with accompanist Sammy Prager. Kaye pantomimes to melody of Prager's piano Rowdy rhythms of typical seat classic Minnie the Moodier bring audience and Kaye together in chorus of Hi-de-hos PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY ZINN ARTHUR As windup to an hour and a half of magnetic showmanship, Danny Kaye, in usual stage costume of brown sport jacket and dark string tie, settles down for an intimate session of songs from Hans Christian Andersen. Kaye's dehut at the Palace, eoincidentally, falls on his fortieth birthday 19

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LOUIS S. GLANZMAN A* I dresMMl, he in a chair and said, “You can't he doing so hot. This is a fleabag49 Strictly from Hollywood Bv STEVE APRIL THIS beefy joker was busy shaking me awake. I looked at his ugly face and thought it was all a nightmare. The guy flashed a badge and growled, “Get your clothes on, Bogart.” He really grow led. “What is this?” I said, sitting up and looking at my wrist watch. It was almost two in the morning. “Got some business for you,” the cop said. “Ain’t that something, a real cop bringing business to a crummy private eye like you? On your feet, Cagney.” “ I ake it slow. What’s — ?” “You Charlie Dalis, a private detective?” “Yeah. So what?” “A certain friend of mine has work for you — — so get dressed and stop beating your gums. 1 ain't got much use for you private bloodhounds.” I was wide awake, but 1 still didn’t know what it was all about. Buster had a badge — a good one, obviously official — and he looked far too big and stupid to argue with. As 1 dressed, he sat in a chair and said, “You can’t be doing so hot. This hotel is a fleabag.” "I’m from Iowa,” I said. “Don’t even have a license to work in New York. I just got in from Europe.” “Don’t worry about a license; nobody’ll bother you. On a case in Europe?” “Yeah,” 1 said. “All the way to Europe — you must of got big dough.” “Just my expenses.” Bull> boy shook his potato-head. “So what you get out of the deal?” “Trip to Europe, chance to travel,” 1 said. He grinned, or maybe it was a sneer. “You private eves! Strictly for the comic books.” He had a prowl car waiting. When we got into the car, I asked where we were going, and he grunted, “See your client; he’s in jail. Why he wants to bother with a yokel like you beats me, but that’s how he wants it.” “Who is ‘he’?” “George Walker — Mr. Big.” 20 I suppose my mouth dropped open, or should have. Walker was a well-known gambler, a big wheel in a lot of machines. It had been whispered that he was on the boat, but I'd never seen him. He was traveling first class. Walker wasn’t in a cell. He was in the office of the precinct captain, sitting in the captain's chair, his feet up on an open drawer. He was a large man, plump, everything about him smooth and expensive except his voice. That was brittle. “You come in on the Corsair yesterday?” he asked me. “Yeah,” I said. I almost said, “Yes, sir.” “Remembered seeing your name and occupation in the ship’s paper. Here’s the pitch: Another pas¬ senger, a Franklin Allen, was killed in his apart¬ ment here in New York a few hours after we all left the boat yesterday afternoon. The cops think somebody on the ship did it, and they’re holding me because they got a crazy idea I may have had a motive: we gambled, and he welshed. I’m hir¬ ing you because you know most of the people on the ship and that gives you a start over any other dick.” “Did you play cards with him?” “Sure, but not for real dough. Forget me, I don’t murder people. That’s for punks. I got to get out of this fast. I’m coming up before one of those Senate committees in a couple days; don’t want no had publicity. That's why this has to be cleaned up fast.” He took out his wallet and carefully placed ten hundrcd-dollar bills on the desk. “There’s your retainer. Give me speed, and you get a couple grand more.” I picked up the long green slowly. “What makes the cops think one of the ship’s passengers did the killing?” “Because Allen was a retired professor, the quiet type,” my buddy, the copper, put in. “And he’d been out of the country for over three years, Bo¬ gart.” He was watching the money in my hand with greedy eyes. Walker said, “Show me fast action and — I won’t forget you.” “Ed like to see Allen's apartment,” I said. The cop cut me ofT with a harsh laugh. “Thought you’d solve it without getting out of your chair.” Turning to Walker, he said, “He’s a movie dick. All these private eyes think they are. He — ” Walker glanced at him, and the copper stopped talking abruptly. Walker said, “Get going.” I followed the fat copper out the door. I didn’t have the smallest idea of what I was going to do. Falling into this deal cold was rough enough; I was way over my head. I was just a small-town detective, never handled anything bigger than di¬ vorce or skip-tracing before. Walker was big; Walker meant an office in New York — if I could solve this. In the car, the cop started needling me again. My buddy didn’t like me because if I made it. I’d be one more joker Walker would be carrying. There’d be less gravy for the others, and I’d be playing it legitimate, too. If I made it . . . Still, at the moment, I was Walker’s boy with his grand hot in my pocket, so I tried an experiment: I turned to the copper and said, “You got a noisy mouth.” It worked. I didn’t collect a faceful of fist. Franklin Allen’s apartment was in one of those modest apartment hotels off Central Park West. From the desk clerk I learned that Allen had cabled from Paris the month before for a two- room apartment. The rooms were neat and con¬ servatively furnished. The detective on duty stared at me and growled, “Who’s this?” These boys could really growl. “Don't you recognize Hump Bogart?” my cop¬ per said with a false smile. “He’s a private dick working for Mr. Walker.” The body had been removed, but the detective told me Allen had been beaten to death with two blows of a blunt instrument, probably a hunk of pipe. The killer had cleaned himself up in the bath¬ room; there were traces of blood in the washbasin. The murder had taken place in the bedroom, as Allen was unpacking, and since he’d let the killer in, it meant Allen had known him, or her. I nodded and looked around, trying to make like a big-time dick. Something about the bathroom bothered me, but I didn’t know what. “Can I see another bathroom on this floor?” I asked my cop. “What for, Sherlock? Same maid does them all. Okay, come on, well look.” When we returned to Allen’s apartment I said, “Find out if the guys at customs were expecting a shipment of diamonds, or maybe dope, coming in on the boat. Oh, and arrest Allen's cabin steward; he did the murder.” I said it all very calmly. My buddy stared at me with hard eyes. “Just like that? You kidding?” “What's the steward’s name?” the detective asked. “How the devil should I know?” I asked, head¬ ing for the door. “But arrest him. Walker — Mr. Walker — doesn’t seem to like jails.” IT WAS starting to get light, about seven o’clock, when Walker shook my eager hands, pressed into them a lot of hundred-buck bills, and told me, “Charlie, forget about leaving New York. After I get some sleep, we’ll have a long talk. What an angle that steward had, slipping a package of dope in Allen's bag, the old gent taking it through cus¬ toms, without even knowing he was in the act, the steward in the clear all the way.” “He didn't have to be a genius. It was a small package, and remember he had access to Allen’s luggage all the way over,” I said. Walker shrugged. “Only mistake he made was Allen's catching him going through the bag in the apartment. How did you figure it out so fast?” I should have told them then that it was a lucky guess, remembering that stewards on the ship are sent to school where they learn to clean all cabins just so. When I saw the hand towels in Allen’s bathroom folded and hung diagonally, they re¬ minded me of the ship. Force of habit made the steward fold the towels like that after washing his bloody hands. But I simply couldn’t help looking my beefy pal, the cop, straight in the eye and saying softly, “It was a cinch. Merely figured what Bogart would do in a spot like that — and I did it!” A A A Colliei *’s SHOUT snoitT

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Only STEEL can do so n ianv jobs so well mm III 1 Bbb Wm§ mm ^m 1 1 mm mm mm 1 B ■ m ■ m w j mm mm mm mm mm v w mm ■ ■ Sugar . . . Coining Up! To increase farm pro¬ ductivity while saving time and labor is the aim of most American farmers. Farm machin¬ ery made of steel, like this sugar cane harvester in Louisiana, helps greatly in achieving this end. Photo — Standard Oil Co. ( N.J .) Now . . . Shaving A La Mode! Just push the button, and out spurts a creamy mound of lather for fast, pleasurable shaving! Pressure cans like this, made of U‘S S Tin Plate, are common these days — convenient dispensers for everything from whipped cream and shaving cream to insecticides and deodorants. UNITED Lucky Steel Can Float! Modern fighting ships are almost all steel, starting with the steel plates that form the hull and ending with the stainless steel radar Bcope aloft. Steel propulsion shafts, steel engine parts, steel guns, steel pipe and tubes, Bteel wiring, steel ropes. . .certainly a naval vessel is living proof that only steel can do so many jobs so well. It’s lucky that steel can float — and that United States Steel and the nation’s other steel companies can turn out such huge quantities of this vital metal ! STATES STEEL Far Cry from the school houses of yester¬ day are the beautiful, functional school buildings of today, many of them, like this one, utilizing U*S*S Stainless Steel for good looks and durability. Better schools build a stronger America . . and steel builds stronger, safer schools. What Material Costs Least? The pictogram above shows approximately how the price of steel in semi-finished form compares with the prices of other familiar materials in primary form (ingots, pig or slab) . Steel costs less per pound than any other metal, though the capital investment needed to produce a pound of steel is fantastically high. STEEL € 3 1 Price per Pound Figures Based on Oct. 23, 1952 Market Prices ZINC OOI 12VK ALUMINUM OOOO 20« MAGNESIUM OOOOO 24VM 5000000 500! 51.21 w COPPER 00006 24 'M TIN 0000000 00000004 Listen to . The Theatre Guild On the Air. presented every Sunday evening by United States Steel. National Broadcasting Company, coast-to coast network. Consult your newspaper for time and station. This trade-mark is your guide to quality steel AMERICAN BRIDGE . . . AMERICAN STEEL & WIRE o nd CYCLONE FENCE . . . COLUMBIA GENEVA STEEI _ CONSOLIDATED WESTERN STEEL . . GERRARD STEEL STRAPPING NATIONAL TUBE OIL WELL SUPPLY . . . TENNESSEE COAL & IRON . . . UNITED STATES STEEL PRODUCTS . . . UNITED STATES STEEL SUPPLY . . DMtioat of UNITED STATES STEEL CORPORATION, PITTSBURGH GUNNISON HOMES. INC. • UNION SUPPLY COMPANY • UNITED STATES STEEL EXPORT COMPANY • UN IVERSAL ATLAS CEMENT COMPANY

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Bishop concentrates as lie dictates letter He smiles broadly over a passage in his mail He ponders over answer to a serious problem BISHOP SHEETS Answers His Fan Mail The e ear-old bishop's many activities in the past quite compares in volume to the tremendous and continuing number of letters he receives as a direct result ol his vvceklv television show. Life Is Worth 1 iving. Everv television show can expect a certain amount of mail. But lew— even with contests. Iree oilers and direct appeals for mail approach lhe up to N.OlH) letters a week Bishop Sheen draws regularly . lhe mail figure is most remarkable in the light ol the t>pe ol program he conducts. I here are no lancv props, musical interludes or even interviews on his show. Each 1 uesdav evening he stands on the stage ol Manhattan’s Adelphi Theater in a rep¬ lica ol a studs . and lor approximately 25 minutes talks without interruption on such subjects as the existence ol God. the Ameri¬ can C onstitution and whether or not lile is monotonous. (It is, he answered, only tor those persons whose lives have no purpose.) lhe slim, graving prelate speaks without a manuscript, prompter or notes of anv kind to an in-person audience of about 1.100. and to almost 7.000.000 outside viewers, including those who see the show on film at a later time. The bishop’s extraordinary ability to hold and inspire people is indicated by the program’s amazing growth. His first telecast, presented on Lincoln’s Birthday in 1952, had no sponsor and was carried by only three stations, in New York, Washington and Chicago. Now well into its second season (a 26-wcek series on the Du Mont network which got under way in November), the show has become so popular it is sponsored by the Admiral Cor¬ poration over a still-expanding chain of 40-odd stations on the U.S. mainland and Hawaii. I he bishop receives no fee. Instead, the sponsor makes a donation to Mission Humanity, Inc., a char¬ ity sponsored by the society, which last year gave aid to more than 50,000.000 needy all over the world without regard to race, creed or color. An avalanche of telegrams began pouring in before the bishop even concluded his first program a year ago; the letters followed as snappily as modern mail service permits. They came — and still come— from the old and the young; from viewers of every religious faith and all economic levels. At least half deal with problems of a deep and serious nature. Bishop Sheen once gave two reasons for selecting '’life is worth living” as the theme of his program. “First,” he said, “to appeal to many who are despairing because of their anxieties and frus¬ trations. and second to suggest the words of Our Lord: ‘1 have come that you may have life more abundantly.' ” The troubled and perplexed in the bishop's huge, widely scat¬ tered audience pose problems of marriage, religion, illness and politics. Yerv olten the questions do not even touch on matters brought up in the telecasts. They seek counsel from a man who, Bishop Sheen relaxes with young gues Su»un (1.) ami Barbara Elson, daughter I of Chicago sports announcer Boh Else PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY ED FEINGERSH

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24 Many letters request help , hut some viewers offer a little guidance of their own In office, the bishop discusses the day's work with his close aide. Monsignor Charles McBride in the new medium of television, has impressed them with his broad wisdom. All of the many hundreds of letters which come in each day are delivered to the bishop’s offices at the Society lor the Propagation of the Taith in New York. Since it would be physically impossible for any one person to read each letter and card, the mail is sorted and examined first by an experienced clerical stall of about 35 women. They acknowl¬ edge the compliments and complaints, and answer routine requests for information. 1 he bishop gives his personal attention to all letters requesting advice on serious subjects. Mans ot the problems, of course, tall into wide, general categories, with only the personal details really different 1 he bishop's letters to specific in¬ dividuals. therefore, often possess a universal ap¬ peal. While he obviously would not permit the senders of such letters to be identified, he has con¬ sented to the publication ol lour of his recent replies to problems that frequently arc brought to his attention by viewers. * * * In a letter he considers applicable to any wife who has lost a husband, or husband who has lost a wile, he wrote a short time ago: "In true married love it is not so much that two hearts walk side by side through life. Rather the two hearts become one heart. That is why death is not the separation ot two hearts, but rather the tearing apart ol one heart. It is this that makes the bitterness of grid. “But be consoled. Your love in the beginning came from God. As liie mounts upward, so now part of your flesh is alreadv at the Source of I ove. I he love you enjoyed was but the spark of which Ciod Himscll is the Maine. I hunk God for the trusteeship ol such love during a long companion¬ ship, and now so live that you may be worthy to mount upward to that Divine Hearth where love is without satiety or hate but an endless ecstasy to¬ ward which every marriage aspires." The bishop offered this encouragement to a de¬ spairing sinner: "When you begin to be infinitely wicked, and God ceases to be infinitely merciful, then you can begin to despair. There are barren spots in the spiritual file of everyone, even of the saints, and such a spot is olten the prelude to a closer com¬ munion with Christ. Do not feel discouraged but continue to pray and trust in God’s Infinite Love for you. A greater sin than any you have com¬ mitted would be to despair of the Mercy of God. Remember, if you had never sinned, you could never call Jesus ‘Saviour.’ ” * * * Bishop Sheen advised a wife who has an alco¬ holic husband: “Your letter tells me that you plan to leave your husband because he is an alcoholic. May I humbly beg you to reconsider your decision. If your hus¬ band had some serious illness such as pneumonia, you would not desert him but would lavish him with tender and affectionate care. Now that your husband has a moral illness, why abandon him? He is flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. If your left hand were wounded, would not your right hand minister unto the healing? Does not St. Paul tell us: The believing wife sanetifieth the unbeliev¬ ing husband’? “Remain then with your husband, knowing that before God you are saved with him and through him. I know he is a trial to you, but let us not for¬ get we are a trial to God. If He can put up with us for sixty years, we ought to be able to put up with our problems for an equal amount of time. It may well be. too, that your fidelity to him can be the condition of his cure.’’ And to the anguished parents of a seriously ill child, he wrote: "I have just received your letter in which you tell me of the distress of your soul occasioned by the medical report that your daughter is suffering from an incurable disease and that death is hover¬ ing over her. "It is lor such trials that God has given us the benefit of Faith, and for your consolation I bid you to go to another Mother, who when her Child was 40 days old was told that He was marked for death. His leukemia would he the Crucifixion. The sword that would pierce her own heart would be the sen¬ tence of Death pronounced on her Divine Son. “1 here is not much difference between an old man like Simeon telling a mother of imminent death and a doctor telling you, for in both cases the warnings have come through human agencies. "Be assured that as there is not a hair that falls from our heads but that the Heav enly Father know- eth it, and that as the angels of the children always sec the face of their Father so your little child al¬ ready falls under a very special Providence. Per¬ haps you would have been very happy if the child had a religious vocation. It has! Its vocation is to be offered on the paten of your own will as a clean oblation to the Heavenly Father. “This child came from God through you, and you must be sure that it goes back through you ; that is, through your sweet surrender of will to that of the Father’s Will. “Sometimes it is the parents who go to prepare the way for their children, but your child is like the Divine Child Who first prepared the way for His parents. As Jesus made His own Mother and Father and then made their mansions in Heaven, so your child is the architect of your mansions in the Father’s House.” * * * Of course, not all of Bishop Sheen’s television mail is serious. Dozens of avowed fan letters come with each delivery. In a fairly typical note, one Chicago housewife wrote: “Like so many thou¬ sands of others I w'ould, if restricted to one tele¬ vision show per week, select Life Is Worth Living. In my humble opinion each program leaves the viewer with a better understanding of himself and his fellow^ man.” And a non-Catholic college pro¬ fessor from New York, wrote admiringly: “Your manner is above praise. You are not merely a won¬ derful teacher, but >ou seem to understand the new medium. 1 advise all my students who con¬ sider becoming teachers to watch how you do it.” Other viewers are not above sending a little criti¬ cism or guidance of their own to the learned cleric. “For goodness’ sakes don’t put poetry out on that precious half hour of yours,” pleaded an Ohio man good-naturedly. And in almost direct opposition, a Detroiter urged a program devoted to Shakespeare because “you can do it with such feel¬ ing . . . many people will want to read him.” When Bishop Sheen first decided to go on tele¬ vision. many of the industry’s experts predicted a quick end to the program. “No single individual,” said one skeptical execu¬ tive, “can possibly hang on to a TV audience's at¬ tention lor a full half hour.” The bishop’s subsequent resounding success may have stumped the experts, but millions of devoted viewers could explain that there never has been a substitute for faith. Collier’s for January 21, 1933

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25 . _ BUY ONE BOTTLE-GET ANOTHER Maternity Ward ^ Bv 1 1 i :\KV BOI/l'I NOI T OF EXTRA COST Special Offer to introduce VITALIS with “V-7”-new greaseless grooming discovery- keeps your hair neat all day Here's a no-risk, bargain opportunity to try new finer Vitalis Hair Tonic. It now contains “V-7” — the remarkable new grooming discovery that outdates messy oils and greases. Not an animal, vegetable or mineral oil, “V-7” is a new kind of greaseless groom¬ ing agent. It keeps your hair in place all day long without gummy film or matted- down look. What's more, laboratory tests ♦ACCEPT THIS OFFER Use the trial bottle of Vitalis with “V-7.” If you don’t get the clean¬ est. longest - lasting hair groom ever, return 49r bottle empty with your name and address to Dept. 60. Bristol-Myers, 630 Fifth Ave., New York 20, N. Y. for full refund. (Offer good only in continental U S A and Alaska.) A Product of Bristol M yers prove new Vitalis kills, on contact, germs that many doctors associate with infec¬ tious dandruff. So get a trial bottle of new finer Vitalis — FRrt of extra cost. You pay for only one bottle. And you'll discover the finest hair tonic you ever used or get your money back in full on the bottle you paid for. Collier's for January 24, 1953

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Pinkish arctic dawn backlights jump by sonic of 600 paratroopers flown to Alaska from U.S. to reinforce defending troops in Exercise Warmwind Big Drop in ALASKA By ALFRED M. LANSING The \ht.xkan defense timelahle l .S. will lx* alerte: On r garrison will keep the ei ajiuressor with an airborne eounter targets elsewhere. Its spraw'ling airfields (some of the largest in the world ) are the prize. From them an enemy could easily make round-trip bombing missions against a dozen major American and Canadian cities. Those airfields are located in the heartland. It is there, then, that the enemy must strike if he is to gain a worth-while objective. The heartland itself is an area of about 100,000 square miles, extending, in the shape of an egg, roughly from southwest Alaska almost halfway to the Arctic Ocean. The weather there is more temperate and the terrain less formidable than in the remainder of the territory’s 586,000 square miles. Even if an enemy were foolish enough to attack outside the heartland, the mountains and the frozen swamps and the leaden cold would be on our side to help defeat him. An overland attack would wear itself out simply trying to get over the terrain. Thus, strategically, geographically and ‘in y at hay . . . troops in the ow. Arrival time: 72 hours climatically, Alaska’s heartland becomes the only sensible target of aggression — and, therefore, the obvious area that we must hold, or suffer the con¬ sequences of having Alaska turned against us. The possibility of an amphibious invasion can¬ not be ruled out, but very likely an invasion of Alaska would strike directly at the heartland. Enemy paratroopers would be dropped in an air¬ borne invasion. I he primary task assigned to our small garrison in Alaska is to contain the enemy if possible — to fight a delaying action Until reinforce¬ ments, fully equipped with tanks and artillery, can be flown in from the continental United States. If the enemy is to be stopped before he can exploit his position, the reinforcements should be in action on the firing line within 72 hours after the invasion. Can we do it? Our strategists say we can indeed. The Department of Defense recently staged Ex¬ ercise Warmwind to prove it. The primary purpose PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARVIN KONER AND LEW MERRIM

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27 of the maneuver was first to test our ability to re¬ inforce Alaska by air rapidly under realistically simulated conditions, and also to train troops sta¬ tioned in the area in a mock combat situation. In the eyes of our military commanders, Warmvvind was successful on both counts. The exercise was carried out in six stages. In each, the make-believe aggressor, played by the 4th and 196th Regimental Combat learns — two Alaskan-based outfits — was considered to have made a successful air drop or amphibious landing and to be holding different key positions from which he had to be dislodged and the positions retaken. Airborne Troops Do Bulk of Task The Navy and the Marine Corps, in two phases of the exercise, joined w'ith the Army and t lie Air Force to drive out the would-be invaders. But, as it would in an actual invasion, the bulk ol the task of driving out the invader fell to troops flown to Alaska’s rescue from bases in the United States. A typical, but by far the most dramatic, phase of the exercise occurred at Eielson Air Force Base, about 30 miles south of Fairbanks. There the enemy was presumed to have pulled oil a successful air drop. The hostile forces had captured the air¬ field and the Alaskan Highway south almost to Big Delta, a small town on the Tanana River which runs alongside the highway. The enemy had tried to push into Big Delta. But defending forces there had mustered all available men — armed cooks, mechanics and other “house¬ keeping personnel” — and stopped the southward advance of the so-called enemy. The defending forces had even begun to advance again toward the north and Eielson, pushing the aggressor back. On the morning of November 1 1th, the incred¬ ibly slow arctic sunrise began as a pinkish peep of light in the east. The enemy, in tanks and jeeps and on foot, was stretched out in a thin defensive line along the Alaskan Highway. The defending forces were worrying him in the south. Machine guns and rifles firing blanks spat occasionally as patrol units from both sides crept along, seeking out the strength of the opposing force. The temper¬ ature was just about zero. At 7:01 a.m., a single transport plane droned over the mountains fringing the highway. Slowly, it flew parallel to the road, looking over the situ¬ ation, scouting the area prior to the air drop. Satisfied with what it found, the plane banked to one side and pulled away. Then there came the noise of more planes, lots more. They came from over the same mountain and they flew along like a stairway, each one be¬ hind and higher than the one in front of it. When they were in position, their doors opened and men poured out. From the ground, the parachutes looked like handfuls of seed pods floating on the breeze. But each seed pod carried a lethal punch. Each was a skilled fighter. Five minutes after the first man jumped. 600 men of the 503d Regimental Combat Team — flow n to Alaska from Camp Campbell. Kentucky — were on the ground. Minutes later they were exchang¬ ing fire with the enemy. The actual drop of paratroopers had given the maneuver a distinct touch of realism and the troops of the make-believe enemy were tense and appre¬ hensive. They withdrew toward Eielson, trying to throw a defensive ring around it. But the paratroopers of the 503d would not be stopped. They teamed up with the friendly forces on the ground. Heavy mortars were brought up and blank ammunition roared in the direction of the enemy-held area. Jet fighter planes whooshed across the icy valley, strafing the enemy. The high¬ way was gained, and medium tanks, their exhausts forming a thick vapor in the frigid air, lumbered along the road to the north. The enemy withdrew tighter and tighter around Eielson, fighting desperately to hold it. But still the paratroopers came. The battle continued all that day. Shortly after dawn the next morning, the 503d — an outfit fresh out of Kentucky, more than 3,000 miles away — moved into Alaska’s largest air base. Collier’s for January 24, 1953 Lt. Henry Clay, Coeburn, Va. (above), bolts down can of rations during breather in assault oil Eielson AFB. Most troops, like Pfc Robert Edwards, Brooklyn, IVY. (below), had no previous arctic fighting experience Et. Gen* \V. E. Kepuer (al>o\e). director of \\ armwiud. warned: *\Mueli Mill must be done.” A/3c Frank Merger. Bloom¬ ington, Illinois (below), guarded planes Col. L. A. Walsh, of Washington. I).( .. heads 503d RC Team that made jump Typical of hard-hitting paratroopers who retook vast Eielson AEB from mock foe is CpI. Henry Almonte, Jr.

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28 (Pur best hopes to dim the Alashan yleatn in Stalin’s eye are pinned on the men who wear Mock enemy troop.* on Vki>kan Highway gird armed jee p for action us paratroops advance CORPORAL HENRY A1 MONTE, JR., of ( lanston, Rhode Island, is a paratrooper. Be¬ fore last November he had never seen Alaska. He was stationed at C amp Campbell, Kentucky, as leader of the 1 irst Squad, Second Platoon, 1 Com¬ pany, 503d Regimental Combat l eam. Early on the morning of November 1 1th, he and his squad leaped Irom a C-l 19 into Alaska’s Tanana River Valley. \ heir assignment was to recapture Eielson Air Eorce Base lrom a mock enemy. The success of Almonte's squad — and the 50-odd other squads of the 503d was a part of the test of our basic strategy for the defense of Alaska. If they failed, our plans to reinforce the territory with airborne troops from the U.S. might need basic revision. W ithin minutes after Almonte's squad hit the ground, he rounded them up, then led them eight miles to a position on the enemy’s Bank. Tacti¬ cally, Almonte’s “impossible” move proved as ef¬ fective— on a tiny scale — as Hannibal's historic crossing of the Alps. They cut off a battalion and captured its commander. Twenty-six hours after they jumped, they stood — cold and tired, but vic¬ torious — on the king-size runways at Eielson. Strange arctic sunset casts yellowish tinge over men of 503d moving forward on highway Collier’s for January 21, 1953 A v

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29 •‘Airborne” on their sleeves. Exercise Warntwind more than proved it is a ii isc decision Machine-gun burst spit yellow flame as friendly troops of CpI. Almonte's squad move lip through forest. Paratroopers retook Eielsoit m 26 hours Cold-weather equipment failures were few, but some occurred. Men replace a gun barrel Collier's for January 24, 1953 Almonte's men ereep forward past aid station. Squad later eut oif an entire enemy battalion Big 105-tntu. howitzer, dropped along with the troops, softened up enemy. Gun fired blanks

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30 The first to hnow—and fight — will be the jets Tanana River V alley is part of Alaskan heartland, the area we must defend — or risk having enemy use Alaska against us TO MOST of the troops regularly sta¬ tioned in Alaska, Exercise Warmwind was a welcome interlude in the humdrum duty of guarding arctic outposts. Simi¬ larly, the paratroopers of the 503d Regi¬ mental Combat Team, who were flown from Kentucky to wrest Eielson Air Force Base from the enemy's grip, also had a stimulating taste of arctic fighting — some¬ thing they hadn’t experienced before. But to the young pilots of the 449th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, who fly the F-94 jets out of Ladd Air Force Base, Fairbanks, Warmwind was old hat. During the maneuver, they made simu¬ lated strafing runs on the enemy. They flew close support for friendly troops ad¬ vancing on the ground. They fought off B-29s playing the part of hostile bombers. But it was only slightly more demanding than the job they do every day of the year. Outfits like the 449th form, in fact, our first line of defense against any invasion from Asia. The squadron is the northern¬ most-based interceptor outfit on the North American continent. It is never off duty. Its round-the-clock job is to roar aloft to investigate every unidentified blip that ap¬ pears on a searching radar. The interval between the time that something suspi¬ cious is spotted and planes of the 449th are in the air is exactly three minutes. Thus, they would very likely be the first to know of — and the first to fight in — any at¬ tempted airborne invasion of Alaska — the real-life equivalent of Exercise Warm- wind. At any time, they may have to live up to the insigne painted on each of their planes. It is a shiny iak (Eskimo for gyrfal- con), an arctic bird that will rush in to at¬ tack other birds twice its size. AAA Capt. George F. Allen, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma (left), and Lt. Monty Duncan, Elkhart, Indiana, race across Ladd Air Force Base, Fairbanks, to man je

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31 lets of 449 tli Interceptor S<pia<lron after suspicious aircraft are detected. Assigned pilots always stand by, can be in air three minutes after an alert

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The Fortune Hunter By ISABELLE HOLLAND L mil v know that lirr lrirmls and rrlati\ rs. tuilir \va> heintr a look Slie also knew that pride would he cold comfort if she lost her love I'ANHI \ MAUI AM) finished the last of her A pas king and sal down wearily on the un- ^ lom i ♦ 'table straight chair by the window', lheie was another chair on the other side of the 100m laiee. ove stuffed and must\. But it was shut olf tniir c n\ hice/e h\ the wardrobe on one side and ths door on the other, and she was too tired to drag it across the room and too miserable to ^ars iH‘iit the hard wood against her shoulders and lees I he slatted blinds were half shut, *,s she had left th-TU th t morning to keep out the heat of the sun, w|ush in Pans in September still tell baking on the streets l hat afternoon, when she had returned to the loom from the interview at her uncle's house, she had been aware ol nothing except a sense of frantis haste to pack and leave. It was now' seven o'clock. Outside, the trees rustled as the air moved through them. The streets, lit by the dim yellow of lamps, were noisy and cheerful. The cafe opposite, throwing a bright wash of lighl out onto the sidewalk, rallied with conversation and a thriving business. Scraps of conversation rose to her balcony above the steady clatter of feet and voices. How expressive they are, Emily thought wearily, with their quick contrasts of pitch, but half the pleasure was gone when you couldn't watch the gesticulations. She thought of the clothes tossed into her suit¬ cases, of the hath she had persuaded the fat con¬ cierge to let her have in the middle of the afternoon. She turned her mind to anything idle and inconsequential that would keep at bay the ILLUSTRATED BY EARL CORDREY memory of that morning. But the picture kept re¬ curring: the long, high-ceilinged room; her uncle fingering his gold watch chain as he talked with painful, humiliating tact; the eighteenth-century clock that ticked through the silences before Andrc-Paul arrived. Undoubtedly, Emily had thought, it had ticked with the same dispassionate regularity when the Bastille fell, when a queen of France swayed and clutched the wooden cart that carried her to the guillotine. It was not really her uncle’s fault. He had done what he thought was right. In a sudden spasm of haired she tried to remember that. Sitting there in the seniidark, her packing done, the rest of the evening a vacuum before the midnight train, she wished for the first time that she smoked. It would give her something to do momentarily: cross the .lion* frankly* but liU eves were guarded. It was then that Emily felt her first chill

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33 << TT I t looked like a long cold spell I for the Fergusons. That's JL what they told me when they phoned that their furnace had let go. “It did look that way. And there's no doubt it would have been pretty serious in the Nine¬ teen Thirties. But things are different now. “I'm an old time welder, and in those days we had good reason to hate any repair job on cast iron. In fact, I’d have told the Fergusons to order a new boiler and move out until it arrived. “We used to think cast iron was much too brittle to weld. No matter how careful we were to heat it and cool it slowly, ten chances to one the metal would crack or pull apart. make the kind of electrode we old timers needed. They called it Ni-Rod ‘55.’ “With Ni-Rod '55/ I was able to mend the Fergusons’ boiler easily, right as it stood and without tearing it apart. You can see how much this meant to the Fergusons. Of course, I had to be sure I used the right welding procedure.” You probably would be surprised to learn how many repairs welders make today on cast iron, with Ni-Rod “55.” As a result of this one International Nickel research discovery, many thousands of dollars worth of cast iron machinery has been saved from the junk pile. International Nickel’s research is responsi¬ ble for scores of discoveries in other fields, too. Only when you see them, you probably do not But it is “Your Unseen Friend,” Inco Nickel, that helps make them possible— Nickel in some form, some alloy, some mixture of metals that came out of a crucible after months and years of research in one of the Inco laboratories. Inco research enables Nickel to serve you more efficiently, to make your life more com¬ fortable and more secure. How deep is a mine? How large is a mill? How many thousands of electric cells are needed to refine pounds of Nickel from tons of ore? Ore brought up from a mile down? In all International Nickel operations— mining, milling, refining-production is at a high. And back of that production is an amazing story. Read it: read The Romance of Xickel. Free. Write to The International Nickel Company, Inc., Dept, lib, New York 5, N. Y. ~ 1953 T1 N Co It was 5° below when the boiler let go... But because of a discovery by Inco Research, the radiators were soon hot again recognize them as miracles based on metal. You identify them as jet planes, or modern wonder drugs — or even the living image in your television set. “I used to ask myself, 'Why doesn’t some¬ one make a welding rod that can really weld cast iron?’ “Then International Nickel research engi¬ neers learned how. They discovered that with just the right amount of Nickel, they could Inco Nickel . . Your Unseen Friend The INTERNATIONAL NICKEL COMPANY, Inc.

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34 loom, grope in a pocket for a cigarette, and then light it. Her unc e smoked thin, brown cigars. Andre-Paul smoked cigarettes, one alter the other on some days; at other nmes. haidh at all. pulling one from a crumpled package m his coat onl\ alter lunch oi dinner, savoring it to the last. She had vvondeied about that and had put it down to a change in mood that was too deep to show in other ways. Now, of course, she knew the reason: lack ot monev Ml he had was sunk into that arid farm ol his near Beaulac, and still, it wasn t enough. Joshua Maitland had explained that caretulh during the morning interview, clipping oil the end ot his atter-break- tast cigar with the gold knife that dan- jled 1mm his watch chain. “You see, m> dear.” he said, “most of us Ameri¬ cans don't realize just how' poor even former 1\ wealths Frenchmen are just now. At least, those of us who haven't been m Europe since the war.” he went on. gracefully and inaccurately includ¬ ing himself. ‘ 1 he war itself, the occu¬ pation. and then the strikes . . His voice trailed oil. “It's hard for us really to understand ” IN 1HI midst of her awakening to what was coming, Emily found time to feel sorry for her uncle. He was so obviouslv caught between two loyalties: one to his beloved, adopted country, France, which normally he could not bear to hear criticized, and an older ob¬ ligation to his niece from the same small tarming town in Vermont from which he had come. It required some juggling in time He had to throw aside the tenderly cultivated love ol forty years and speak in a language he had almost forgotten 1 ven his voice was different. When he spoke French, which he did almost always, it was lighter, readier. Now he was fumbling with old phrases and colloquialisms. “Are you trying to tell me that An- dre-Paul is a fortune hunter?” said Emils bluntly, her hands clenched in her lap. A look ol distaste passed quickly over her uncle's face. “Our way of do¬ ing things in America is different,” he said sharply. ’’According to French standards, he is perfectly within his rights to want to marry a girl with monev. He owes it to his family.” He pulled up sharp, as though realiz¬ ing that, without meaning to, he had wandered into the other camp. He had not summoned his niece in order to defend Andre-Paul: on the contrary. He took a deep breath and warmed his words with the glow of a compliment. '‘You're an American girl, Emily, and very much a native product, it was wonder lul, your aunt leaving you that monev, and fine tor you to come over here Everyone should travel. But now it’s time you went home and married some nice American boy. 1 don't think you’re at all suited well to life over here.” His voice taded away again. And Emily, with characteristic in¬ sight, saw herself as she appeared in his eyes: a plain girl with brown hair and eyes, as unspectacular as the brogues and tan linen she was wearing — and, by contrast, Andre-Paul, with his Gallic attractiveness. “Anyway,” he said, obviously glad to return to facts, “Andre-Paul said in his note that he would be here at twelve, and we shall see.” “He is coming,” said Emily defen¬ sively, “to tell you that we want to be married.” “Yes, my dear, 1 know. Very proper.” They waited in silence tor Andre- Paul's arrival. Emily, perched on the edge of her uncle’s gilt-and-damask sola, her body tense, let her mind stray back over the three months since she had met Andre-Paul. Falling in love had been no part of her plan when she came to Paris. Com¬ ing at all had been, for ten years, an impossible dream that suddenly became possible when her aunt in New York died. After six years as a secretary, Emily wouldn't have been able to pay her passage on a freighter. But the astonishingly large legacy made first- class fare on the world’s largest liner of little more moment than a bus trip from one end of town to the other. Even after meeting Andre-Paul at an embassy party, she had kept the even tenor of her dream, seeing with him the Louvre, Versailles, the Tuileries, the Bois de Boulogne, the Champs-Elysees. Love had come slowly, and without trumpets, sometime during the walks they had taken by the river; the dinners in small, inexpensive restaurants; the rides through the green fields that lie around Paris like a skirt. His face, with its blunt features and square chin, had become inextricably mixed with all that she saw' and loved. And when she awoke one morning with an odd, turning sen¬ sation in her stomach at the thought of seeing him in an hour, she was com¬ pletely surprised. Her upbringing had left her strangely unsentimental and untouched by ro¬ mantic fancies. She had never before been in love and was totally unprepared for the radiant colors it threw over the most ordinary word and thought. Whether he loved her, she had no idea. Any vague notions she had had about Frenchmen had been completely re¬ futed. Andre-Paul never made love to her. He never even kissed her. When, on their way back to her pension two nights ago, he had asked her to marry him, she was as astonished as she was happy. He didn’t even kiss her then; just looked at her for a few seconds, smiling a little, and left. And now, this morning, her uncle had told her that it was the simple need for ready cash that had prompted his proposal. The hurt of it would have driven through her body like a spike, if she hadn’t been sure he was wrong. She had sat like a stone until the lit¬ tle clock struck noon and Andre-Paul arrived, his English tweeds looking at charming variance with his Gallic face. EMILY, sitting now in her slip by the window, shivered. It was like seeing a ghost to recall the surge of reassur¬ ance she had felt on seeing the familiar dark face and light gray eyes. It reduced everything for a wonderful moment to sanity. Her uncle's suggestion seemed preposterous. In a few seconds Andre- Paul would laugh suddenly, in the way he had, and they would walk out, leav¬ ing her uncle to the comfort of his fur¬ tive suspicions and analytical ramblings. But it had not worked out like that. Andre-Paul looked surprised, even a little shocked, to see her there at her uncle’s house at all. Evidently she was not abiding by the rules of the game, and he seemed only partly mollified by Joshua Maitland's assertion that in America it was entirely the custom for all three to be present. “After all,” he said, speaking to Andre-Paul, with an obvious effort, in English, “it concerns you equally.” He started off with the usual ques¬ tions. The young Frenchman answered these frankly, hut his eyes, Emily no¬ ticed, were guarded. It was then she felt her first chill. It became plain be¬ fore long that her uncle was leading his victim pitilessly to the admission that his farm, which was his only source of income, was degenerating year by year for lack of equipment; that he was forced to live on it most of the time, coming to Paris only olf and on; that there was no hope, short of a miracle, that he could hold the land beyond a few seasons. It was as pretty a piece of wrork as was ever seen in a court of law, creating line by line a perfectly clear picture. Like a master craftsman, the suave old man waited until the tension of climax had passed to ask his final question, pitching it in such friendly, casual tones as to hide its bald cruelty. “Then if my niece were not inde¬ pendently wealthy, you would not, per¬ haps, be here?” Andre-Paul’s eyes were hard, his face expressionless. “No,” he replied quietly, “I would not.” And he got up and, with a slight bow, left. . . . Emily, aware at last of her numbed legs and back, got up from the chair and went and lay face down on the bed, her mind helpless against revolving cir¬ cles of pain. Deepest was the realiza¬ tion that Andre-Paul didn’t love her, had never loved her; that the world he had unveiled was a fiction. A fiction? No, not that. If it were, it could no longer hurt her. The hurt lay in the fact that the world existed for her, but he didn’t share it. He had created love in her as a means to an end, not a re¬ sponse. She was surprised to find she felt no anger toward him, only a dull, anguished surprise. The anger was reserved for her uncle. She saw again his pouched eyes, bland and murderous as an unsheathed sword; the small, plump hand playing with the chain that fell in an arc down his round little belly. His cruelty had spared nei¬ ther her nor her suitor. Dimly, behind the shadows of pain and humiliation, Emily realized that her uncle had been merciless with Andre-Paul not because he had turned out to be a fortune hunter, but because he had broken the rules in choosing her as a victim. By so doing he had forced Joshua Mait¬ land to return in spirit to the land of his fathers, to expose the weakness of his adopted love for the benefit of an old loyalty. Perhaps, Emily thought, w’ith an odd detachment, her uncle had been the most humiliated of all. But the de¬ tachment did not stop the anger from pounding through her, anger at being cheated and robbed. She sighed and turned her face on her arm, feeling its coolness on her heated forehead. And Andre-Paul? Tomorrow morn¬ ing she would leave for Switzerland, and he would return to his farm, with a sense of apology to the fallow pastures and decrepit house for having failed them. It would, she mused, be the re¬ gret of the lover who had failed to lay the victory laurel at his lady’s feet. Be¬ cause if her uncle’s first love was for a civilization, a way of living, it was now obvious that Andre-Paul’s was for the starving acres of which tradition and heritage had made him steward. SHE had been out to the farm once with him, about two months after they had first met. He had issued the in¬ vitation casually at dinner one evening. She had told him of the farm on which she had grown up, and he, for the first time, had spoken of his home. Emily had heard with quiet amusement the almost indifferent tone in which he had re¬ ferred to the land that had been in his family for three hundred years. She was also touched, because she knew it is the townsman who speaks of the country in terms of glowing enthusiasm. The true countryman, to whom living on the stone floor of a city would spell death, would as soon indulge in elab¬ orate praise of his wife to a total stranger. In each case the tie is both too deep and too taken for granted. “I’d love to go,” she said, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice. His eyes had, surprisingly, gone a lit¬ tle bleak. “It is not.” he commented dryly, in his excellent English, “any¬ thing like an American farm.” The words had a warning in them which she didn’t fully understand until the following Sunday morning, when Collier’s for January 24, 1953 “Another nice thing about a tearoom. collier s You can always eat there in peace!’' Gardner rea

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35 70 to 70 less than others... Y COLLIER'S “Still the same old Freeman! You haven’t changed a bit in thirty years’*' con suozzi J they crossed the border of his property. The three-hour ride from Paris had been beautiful but rough. Andre-Paul’s old open car had spared its occupants nothing. Every ridge and hole in the road had sent its own particular mes¬ sage to Emily’s aching limbs. Her little suitcase, with the breeches Andre- Paul had requested her to bring, jumped around like a frog on a hot skillet. HIS farm lay a few miles outside the village of Beaulac. The lake from which the place and the family derived their name lay serene and gray on the estate. As the car bumped on the dusty road, Emily watched the fields, some gold with wheat, others brown and weed-grown. The low stone walls were in need of repair, and the few cattle she saw grazing in a distant pasture looked, to her experienced eye, dirty and in need of attention. Andre-Paul was silent. His glance roved over the land on either side as though, thought Emily, he were trying to look at them with her eyes. “You have a nice crop of wheat,” she said tentatively. “Yes, there are a few fields that can still take it. But next year they will have to lie fallow, as the others are doing now.” And then, violently, he added, “What they really need is rich fertilizing, and then to be plowed under for a few years.” As if he regretted his spurt of anger he turned and smiled. “They’ll be all right after a year’s rest.” Emily, never one for wishful opti¬ mism, said nothing. She would have liked to reassure him, but felt a cheer¬ ful lie would be the final insult. They turned a corner and the house itself came into view. As houses of that type go it was small, set squarely and sturdily in the ground. Its rose-colored stone was almost invisible behind a thick blanket of vines whose throttling arms parted reluctantly for the win¬ dows. Emily noticed patches in the roof where tiles were missing, and the over¬ grown remains of what must have been once a fine garden. She felt a wave of pity and admiration for the man beside her. The place needed a small army to put it in shape, and the only other hu¬ man being she saw was an old man, wandering slowly through the sparse orchard at the back, carrying a bucket. The house inside was old, beautiful and run down. Dust was not quite visi- Collier’s for January 24, 1953 ble, but lay in the shadowy corners of the spacious rooms and angles of polished wood. She was introduced to the only other member of Andre-Paul’s family, Tantc Monique, arrayed in timeless black and looking at her with eyes that were curi¬ ously like Andre-Paul’s. Her face was small-boned and fragile, and she sat talking to Emily with delicate formality, hiding red, thickened hands under a silk reticule. The day was depressing. Not because of the evident poverty, but because of the queer, proud way in which both Tante Monique and her nephew ig¬ nored it. If it hadn’t been for Andre- Paul’s single revelation of angry pain that morning, Emily could have thought them both totally indifferent to the dy¬ ing land. After lunch she put on her breeches, as Andre-Paul said there were certain areas she might like to sec which they could reach only on horseback. When she came down he glanced at the ex¬ pensive newness of her outfit (which she had run out hastily to buy the day before) and said casually that it would be a dusty ride. He had changed, she noticed, to a pair of corduroy breeches that might well have embarrassed his poorest tenant. THEY rode almost until dark, and by the time they returned Emily understood Andre-Paul’s concerned glance at her clothes. The horses’ hoofs had kicked up clouds of dust, and sev¬ eral times they had splashed across small streams. But it had been an illuminating ride. Once, coming through a small wood, they had emerged beside an old mill. It was desolate, its great wheel still, the upper half dry and threaded by cob¬ webs. Riding on, they had left the es¬ tates for a few miles and passed small farmhouses, with the farmers moving competently about their orchards and their wives scattering handfuls of feed to clattering chickens or setting out, bucket in hand, for the last milking of the day. As they passed one cowshed Emily inhaled deeply. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “people in the office where I used to work thought I was mad because I loved the smell of cows, but it's always struck me as the most basic of country smells.” Andre-Paul gave her one amused new EUREKA RotoMatic SWIVEL- TOP CLEANER really opens your eyes to easy cleaning Hurricane-suction reaches deep into crevices, thick pile— pulls out all the hidden dust. 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38 look nd burst out laughing. 'But of course In I ranee Switzerland also a large pile ot manure is the farmer's proudest possession. He places it in I runt ot his house where all can see and he impressed b> his prosperity. People in town," he added with mock scoin, ' have no real values. . . . Tell me," he went on soothing his mare who had just shied at a rabbit, "what was your t at m like /” "Well." she said dryly, "for one thing it would be lost in one corner ot yours. \tv tathei s parents had a much bigger one which was run bv a manager, but mv lather always wanted one ot his own " She sighed. 4 He wasn t the world's best tanner, but he did love it, I he house was a real tarmhouse — not like v ou is. but small and made of gray stone. I here was a red barn, and we kept Guernsey cows/’ " I he land was rich?” She nodded. "And Father, I will say', was always up on the latest improve¬ ments about rotation and fertilizing.” "What happened to it?” he asked gently . "My parents weren't well, and we’d had a couple of bad years, so they sold it It was the onlv thing they could have done. 1 suppose, but it almost broke Fa¬ ther's heart." She fell then the stirring of an old anger that her wealthy ma¬ ternal grandmother had ret used all help, having disapproved violently of her daughter’s becoming what she called “a tarm hand." The money had gone to another daughter, Emily Vaunt, who had added to it by marrying a rich New Yorker. Ironically, it had come hack to Emily, too late to do her parents any good. "And now,” he said quietly, '‘you live in a town yourself?” She hesitated. "Well, I did. There was my living to earn, and the coun¬ try's a poor place tor that. But I kept thinking ot the tarm, especially in spring and at harvesttime. lt*s tunny. Even more than the way it looked. 1 missed the way it smelled: the hay. the flowers alter lain." She laughed. "Even the cows. Particularly the cows." She glanced around for his responding smile. But his face had gone bleak again. AF I KK he had driven her hack to Paris that night, she lay awake a long nme. Andie Paul's face, with its square chin and stubborn features, seemed to stare back at her through the darkness. She was in love with him. She knew that by now, accepting the fact with a simplicity that would not allow' for pride or argument. She thought ol his home and the land around it that was so deeply a part of him. A little money now, she knew, could save it Her imagination leaped far ahead, bringing a tingling sensa¬ tion to her veins. The whole thing couldn’t be done at once, of course. I he first thing would be to fertilize some ot the fields; then plant halt of those, letting the rest be plowed under for a season. I hen the stock could be improv ed bv bringing in more cows and a couple ot bulls. 1 he dairy would be reopened . , . The fantasy soared on. As fantasies go it was remarkably practical, lo Emily, however, it was a picture of paradise. To marry Andre- Paul any time, anywhere, m a slum even, would be the world, like a golden apple, put into her hand. To be able to work with him and give him back some¬ thing he loved and was losing was like having the sun thrown in as a bonus. At that point cold realism inserted a wedge: Andrc-Paul hadn’t asked her to marry him. Eventually, of course, he did. Two nights ago, a thousand years ago, thought Emily, lying in her slip on the hot bed, watching the lights and shad¬ ows from outside chase one another across the wall. 1 he reason he did was now obvious, thanks to her uncle. She remembered the pudgy little man with his hostile eyes. Why couldn't he have left it alone? she thought with bitter illogic. "And if,” something questioned her mockingly, “your uncle had not inter¬ fered. what then?” She pondered the question. If her uncle had not interfered she would, she supposed, have married Andre-Paul in blind faith. She would have gone to live on the farm, pouring her money, as though she were irri¬ gating a desert, into new equipment for the tired land. Eventually it would have been back on its feet again. And then? Ancient Anglo-Saxon suspicion of French married life rose in her mind. Emily shrank within herself. Andre- PauFs total abstinence from love- making had a new and unpleasant significance. Before, the fact that he had asked her to marry him had erased any doubts she had about how he felt. Now that she knew why he had proposed, she saw the more logical explanation. He didn't make love to her because he didn’t want to. “And yet,'’ thought Emily, holding ofT for a second a wave of recurring misery, "why me? Why not some other wealthy American?” An incident she had forgotten came back. They had attended a cocktail party once, a mixed hag of French and Americans, sponsored by someone in the embassy. Toward the end, an American girl descended on them in a swirl of mink and diamonds, her hand outstretched to Emily, her eyes on Andrc-Paul. Emily had met her casu¬ ally once before and bristled now' under the obvious maneuver. The fact that the girl was young and extremely pretty in no way helped. Yet Andre-Paul had remained as unmoved by her blandish¬ ments as a pyramid. Emily’s inflamed pride eased a little — hut not too much. There was, after all, his self-confessed motive for marrying her. Pride. That was the astringent needed to draw the scar together and make it heal — enough pride to cover the hurt and loneliness. She turned over again on her face, THE cafe outside must have been about to close. A sudden clatter of feet and a hurst of good-natured, loud conversation broke the gathering peace of the night and then died away. It was funny about pride, thought Emily, Most people didn’t need to beat the bushes to rouse its power. It came, washing over their defeats like an avenging army, "Something must be wrong with me,” she muttered. An idea, craven and treacherous, nagged at the back of her conscious¬ ness. "No,” she said loudly, pounding the pillow with her fist. Lying there had become impossible. Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood up. The air was hot and oppressive, and she longed for a bath, but she knew the concierge would suffer shock in every corner of her bulging flesh if she sug¬ gested a second one. The enamel howl and pitcher stood on a marble-topped table. The water w'as cold. Stripping off, Emily poured a bowl full and sponged down the length of her sturdy, well-shaped body. Then she went back to the bed and slid under the sheet. It was madness, she thought, to con¬ sider tossing your life into a gamble as lightly as though it were a marble. But the idea persisted in all its serpent glory. She lay quite still for an hour, examin¬ ing it. There would, she knew, be a price, to be paid over a lifetime in in¬ stallments, minute by guarded minute. But it would be worth it. . . . The road past Rouen and then north to Beaulac was even more unpredicta¬ ble under her driving than under Andre-Paul’s. Hiring a car at seven o’clock in the morning had not been easy and had taxed Emily’s limping French. But she had finally secured a small Simca that looked like a beetle and pufTcd like a bull. Emily was neither happy nor un¬ happy. She knew that her friends and relatives, and even disinterested ob¬ servers, would condemn her for a fool. Only the doughty little woman who had been her father’s mother, hard as the soil she cultivated and just as real, might understand; she who had once grumbled in Emily’s hearing to a co¬ quettish farm girl, "Pride is a poor com¬ fort on a cold night,” Even Emily’s mother, sensible as she was in so many ways, had been shocked at that. Emily had made a fool of herself, but she could not summon sufficient pride to prevent her from going as fast as her straining little car would take her to commit even further folly. On only one thing had she closed the door and locked it, seaming up the cracks so Andre-Paul would never see it. That one thing he must never know. The villages flew past. Eventually, with a tight feeling in her stomach, she turned off the hard surface to the dusty road that would lead her in about fifteen minutes to the front door of the house. SHE stopped the car and looked at the fields on either side, wondering if they would seem the same after all that had happened since the last time she had been there. They did. The soft gray-green land rolled up at the horizon like the edge of a saucer, and, inside, the big squares, divided by hedges, lay alternately brown and gold. But, though they seemed the same, the dead patches had new' meaning. They lay awaiting thirstily a much-needed dowry. For them Andre-Paul had brought humilia¬ tion on himself and Emily, and would, Emily thought, gazing out at them, probably do so again. She had rehearsed what she was go¬ ing to say and how\ because she had to be careful that it was right. She w'as therefore startled to hear his voice be¬ side her. "Good morning,” he said quietly. She turned quickly and found that he had come up on the other side of the car. it put her off, and for something to do until she could remember her opening, she leaned forward, switching off the ignition and pulling the key out. "Good morning,” she said casually. Then she looked up at him and got a shock. His eyes were as hard as pol¬ ished metal. The words she had planned fled. Yet as the silence lengthened she knew he would not help her to begin. She drew a breath. "Two days ago you asked me to marry you. I’ve come to find out if you’ve changed your mind.” She saw a flash of surprise break through his expression. "Because,” she went on doggedly, "if not, my acceptance still stands.” "Why?” he asked evenly. Careful, she thought. This is the difficult part. "When my uncle . . .” She paused, searching the right phrase. “Revealed my motives?” Irony tinged his voice. "Yes. You left before we could talk.” She looked straight ahead. "As it hap¬ pens, I have — motives — too. I’ve come to realize — marriage isn’t always the ro¬ mantic impulse it’s made out to be. I know now I want a home — a foyer , as you call it — and as I’ve told you, I w'ant Collier’s for January 24, 1933 collier s fc*Which one of \ou screwballs is next?’* herbram

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39 THIS - FOB t>M TH " \£W FApV ' MARIE'S wErri/N^ . PICK ALEP Util leaving Till ire U lb rs t5 IHU^. lea \inc: FRI F^^Efs‘5 rnu- \v£pp/Nd? STANLEY STAMATY to live on a farm. It seems a fair bar¬ gain.” “I see.” She looked at him. He was leaning forward, his hands gripping the window ledge of the open car, and something in his eyes made her feel as though she had walked into the cold waters of the lake. He went on. “I am sorry. I should have explained to you before you be¬ gan. I have, as you say, ehanged my mind.” His English, usually so good, had become stilted, like a schoolboy’s. There was a timeless silenee. Then her pride kieked savagely, sending a wave of rage and siekness over her. To leave, get away from him, beeame as urgent as physical pain. Her foot sought desperately for the starter, fumbling be¬ cause she eouldn’t see through the film in front of her eyes. She reaehed out for the choke, yanking it, hating the tears now on her eheeks. “It might be well,” he said dryly, “to use the key.” His arm, brown against the white of rolled sleeves, went out to the little chain hanging from the dash¬ board. But as he leaned forward in front of her, his hand stopped. Her own darted forward, but was eaught and held. “You are crying,” he said in a differ¬ ent voiee. “Let me go.” She wrenehed her arm free and turned on the ignition. THERE was a quiek movement be¬ side her as she pressed the acceler¬ ator. The car jerked forward. But she hadn’t left Andre-Paul. He had vaulted into the ear, elimbing from the baek seat into the front. “Get out!” she screamed at him. “Steady,” Andre-Paul said quietly, easing in beside her. “You will land us in a ditch.” “I hope I do.” “And 1,” he said, pushing her foot off the accelerator with his own and taking hold of the steering wheel, “would much prefer that you didn't.” He stopped the ear. Sobs tore at her, ugly and convulsing. Hours of tension and strain had eaten away her disci¬ pline. An arm went around her, pulling her toward him. She fought it vainly and felt her head eome to rest against his ehest. That she should find it comfort¬ ing after the seventh hell of humiliation she had suffered passed comprehension. But she gave up trying to understand and eried against the counterpoint of Collier’s for January 24, 1953 soft Freneh words flowing above her head. With his other hand he stroked the back of her neck. “And now,” he said when she grew quiet, “we will talk.” The sense of eomfort went abruptly. She felt herself to be drab and obvious, an open book before this suave, worldly Frenchman, so fully in possession of the one vital faet she had tried to keep hidden that he could afford to be kind. “You did not eome, after all, beeause of the home, the foyer.” “No,” she said dully. “Why, then?” AT LEAST, she thought, she could . plant one last splinter of revenge and discomfort. He might be eapable of lying for a fortune, but she knew in¬ stinctively he could also feel shame. The truth could be a weapon. “Beeause I wanted to give you something that would make you happy.” He tipped her faee up. “And now, to pay me baek,” he said, “you hope telling me this will make me feel like a lout, a pig.” It was no use. She had no defense against his astuteness. But she could try to wring one admission from him. She pushed away abruptly and looked up. “And now tell me something. Would you have asked me to marry you if I hadn’t had money?” “No,” he replied ealmly. It was no triumph after all. “Please get out,” she said. “I must go.” But he remained where he was, look¬ ing at her. “Do you think, loving you, I would have asked you to leave your eountry, with its wealth, its opportuni¬ ties, to take over this?” His arm swept out. indieating the dried fields, the tired land. “A Freneh girl, yes; perhaps her lot would probably be something like this anyway. But not you. You do not know what it is like. Your money would help me; but it was for you that it was necessary. Without it you would be¬ come like Tante Monique, who not only does the work of three servants, but works in the soil like a laborer.” The explanation was before her, but Emily heard only the words “loving you . . .” They eut through her like sunlight. There was amused tenderness in his faee as he watehed her. “You really do not understand the French very well, my darling. But” — he reaehed out, drawing her faee to his — “you will learn.” When winter winds come roaring out of the north, the) frequently bring a lot of snow — and a lot of trouble, too. But the railroads are old hands at fighting weather — ready with the equipment and man power it takes to battle emergencies. When big storms come, extra crews are put to work. Chemicals are spread and heaters used to keep switches from freezing. Steel¬ winged plows pushed by powerful locomotives fight to keep tracks clear. The whirling blades of huge rotaries chew their wav through the bigger drifts. Although other forms of transportation contend with the effects of severe winter storms, there is this big difference: The railroads use their own men, equipment and money to “keep ’em rolling” when the weather gets tough. Your local, state and federal tax money is never used to keep vital rail service running. Association of American Railroads WASHINGTON 6, D. C. tg/ You'll enjoy THE RAILROAD HOUR every Monday evening on NBC.

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40 Between the Devilfish and That’s the domain of the skin divers — a rugged breed of underwater swimmers win ,, OR NELSON E MATH ISON Spear fisherman Mel Fisher, of Redondo Beaeh, California, brings 438-pound jcwfish to the surface. Giant fish gave Fisher and liis companion a two-hour battle in Gulf of California Compressed air tanks permit diver to swim underwater hours at a time Diver displays sheepshead fish he caught with spear gun. A watertight rubber suit is used in eold water HAVE you ever eome face to face with a six- foot oetopus, stalked a shark, been nudged by a porpoise, speared a fish or explored the oeean floor? If not, you have yet to experience the thrills of skin diving — America’s newest and fastest-growing sport. It already has sent more than 100,000 Americans plunging into the weird and wonder¬ ful world whieh lies beneath the surfaee of oceans, seas and lakes. And there are nearly 1,000,000 other equally enthusiastic skin divers elsewhere in the world. Skin diving is underwater swimming — with a few added fillips. The basic equipment is a face plate — a disk of glass set in rubber — which fits over the eyes and nose for extra eomfort and vision under water, rubber webfeet for more speed and mobility, a snorkel tube through whieh you ean breathe while swimming face down on or just below the surfaee, and a spear gun. Thus attired and armed, skin divers will tackle — and have tackled — everything from shellfish to sharks. Their adventures have beeomc legends. They have speared and landed not only sharks, but oetopuses, barraeuda, tarpon, jewfish and giant rays weighing hundreds of pounds. Some skin divers have been nudged so sharply by playful porpoises that they have suffered broken ribs. Others, wearing watertight, close-fitting rubber frogmen suits for extra warmth, have been butted by sea lions. At Wake Island, where American air crews in¬ dulge in skin diving between flights, a shark stole a fish right off the spear of a member of a club known as “The Rover Boys under the Sea.” The indignant skin diver punched the startled shark — and speared it. When a hammerhead shark bit another skin diver’s eateh in two off Hikucru Atoll in the South Paeifie, he hit the shark with his spear gun, kieked it, punehed it on the nose and kneed it. But when he tried to grab the shark by its jaw, he lost the tip of his thumb. In New Zealand, another diver eaught a four- foot oetopus — temporarily, and not in the way he had intended. When he eame up for air after stalking the oetopus, he found it had settled on top of his head and wrapped its tentaeles tightly around him; one tentaele clamped shut his jaws so he couldn’t yell for help. The diver fell back into the water and the oetopus, probably as scared as the hunter, let go. Members of the underwater eult also tell of a Mexican skin diver who leaped into the water in a pair of luminous trunks of a particularly vivid shade of cerise. For some reason, a shoal of barracuda took offense, ripped off the trunks and left a few scars to remind the diver of his lapse in good taste. Such adventures arc told, retold and embellished by skin divers. And, even though the sport only now is winning widespread popularity, they ean — and do — boast that skin divers or their aneient equivalent have been encountering sueh adven¬ tures for centuries. Pacific Islanders, for example, have been fish¬ ing under water for generations. Hawaiians used to send down squads of four divers to spear a de¬ lectable octopus. They would take calculated turns at jabbing its eyes and extricating each other from the tentacles until the sea ereature was dead. Sleep¬ ing sharks were a favorite quarry of New Zealand Maoris. They would tickle a somnolent shark’s tail until it lifted, then slip a lasso around the body, surfaee, and haul the shark ashore. Members of Polynesian tribes have been known to jump on the backs of sharks, plunge their fists into the gills and ride the sharks. Collier’s for January 24, 1953 if

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41 the Deep Blue Sea Bn KICI I \KI) <;. Ill BLI.K spear game fish and explore llie ocean depths lor thrills no oilier sport provide.*. Pearl, shell and sponge diving arc historic Ori¬ ental occupations. Oyster diving also is mentioned in ancient Greek literal lire. In Homer’s Iliad, the Greek Patroclus likened the head-first fall ot a soldier from a chariot to the plunge of an oyster diver. The incident referred to occurred more than a thousand years before Christ, and Patroclus' de¬ scription of the charioteer's fall contains the first known reference in literature to diving. In 414 B.C., the Athenians used divers during the siege of Syracuse to remove underwater obstacles which barred the harbor to Athenian war galleys. Cleo¬ patra used an early skin diver to play a prank on Antony. A poor angler, Antony sometimes sent down divers to tic fresh fish onto his line. When Cleopatra learned of his ruse, she sent down her own diver to tie a salted fish onto the line. Diving unencumbered by heavy suits and air hoses first began to catch on as a modern sport in a small way in the 1930s, and World War 11 gave it a big boost. American naval frogmen, wartime version of skin divers, helped assure the success of Pacific and European invasions by removing underwater explosives and obstacles. Today, the growing army of skin divers em¬ braces all ages, all classes, all professions. Most are in the fiftecn-to-fifty age range. But Charles Weeks, a Florida octogenarian, still can spear 200 pounds of edible fish in two hours, and Ed Proctor of Capistrano Beach, California, although seventy plus, descends every day of the year. At the other end of the age scale are some California skin divers only six years old. Movie Actors Are Keen Skin Divers As a matter of fact, California has become the principal American center for this underwater sport. Governor Earl Warren is an enthusiast. So are his daughter Nina and his twenty-two-year- old son Earl, Jr., who claims to have knifed a shark. (Young Earl recently told a skin-diving friend that no one need fear a moray eel, and put his fingers in a captured eel’s mouth to prove it; when his friend did the same, the col bit him.) A number of Hollywood movie actors skin-dive at every opportunity. Among them are Errol Flynn, Johnny Weissmuller, Broderick Crawford, Buster Crabbe, Gary Cooper, Eddie Bracken and Sonny Tufts. Flynn, something of an expert on both sub¬ jects, says, “A woman is only a woman, but going after those devilfish is a real thrill.” But the number one enthusiast in California — * and in the United States — is a Los Angeles fire¬ man named Ralph N. Davis. He has skin-dived for most of his 35 years and has devoted all of his free time during the past 15 years to promoting the sport. It was Davis who founded the International Underwater Spearfishing Association in 1950 in an attempt to standardize skin-diving practices, promote underwater fishing competitions, set com¬ petitive rules, establish a means of recording and confirming skin-diving records, and serve as a clearinghouse for scientific data uncovered by skin divers. “Our purpose,” he says, “is to en¬ courage the sport as recreation and as a potential source of scientific knowledge.” Skin divers also have a magazine of their own called, appropriately enough. The Skin Diver. It is devoted to tall tales and factual reports from clubs and individuals. The vast majority of skin divers do not belong to any organization, but there arc 60 clubs in the United States with a total membership of around 2,000, and 32 clubs in foreign countries. Many of the American clubs have joined, the IUSA, With Collier’s for January 24, 1953 their backing, the association in 1951 persuaded the Southern Pacific Association ol the Amateur Athletic Union to approve underwater spear fish¬ ing as a competitive sport. Sprar-Fisliiii" Contests Held Yearly The IUSA also initiated annual spear-fishing con¬ tests. The third was held last year at Laguna Beach, California, with 20 teams of three men each from various clubs participating. The object was to catch as many fish as possible in four hours within a mile- wide area extending out from the shore line. The competitors were permitted to use snorkel tubes, hut no other artificial breathing apparatus. The prize for the largest individual catch went to Dan LcMay, ol Eos Angeles, for a 28-pound angel shark. The Seadovvners, also of 1 os Angeles, won the team prize with a total catch ol just under 65 pounds. There were no events for women; they have not taken to the rugged sport in such num¬ bers as men. Skin diving has been conducted on an informal basis for so long that the IUSA has not yet been able to compile any confirmed national or world spear-fishing records. Most of the so-called rec¬ ords discussed in skin-diving circles have been relayed by word of mouth or through letters ex¬ changed by enthusiasts. Frequently the name or names of the skin divers involved have been lost in the process. Thus, neither confirmed nor con¬ firmable, most record claims are open to ques¬ tion. In this category arc a Miami diver’s report that he speared and caught a 610-pound jewfish and a claim by a trio of Brazilian divers to have spear-caught a 589-pound jewfish. One of the largest confirmed catches was made recently by two California skin divers olT La Paz, Lower C aliform. i. It was a 4 TS pound gi .nt hi ck sea bass, which also is common)) called a ic '.fv. Mel Fishei, of Redondo Beach, and Di \Jm n 1 Mathison, ol I ong Beach. tinallv hi ought the hsh to the surface alter a two-hour battle, during u| ich they shot three spears into it. Two record deep dives In skin divers also have hcen confirmed. Only a lew months ago. R n- mondo Bucher, of Italy, dived into the sea oil the island ot Capri and 77 seconds later c. me to the surface clutching a cork which marked the 12" 9- foot depth on a cable stretching to the se i bottom That was 13 Icet deeper than any previous known dive without artificial breathing apparatus Bucher wore only rubber fins on his toot, webbed gloves on his hands, a glass plate over his eyes and nose, and clips on his nose. With breathing apparatus and compressed air tanks strapped to his back, a Frenchman named Maurice Largues in 1947 plunged to a depth of VJ7 feet and wrote his name on a slate hung on a rope alongside him then he lost consciousness and drowned. No one since has equaled that feat. Not Anxious to Make Depth Records But skin divers usually are more interested in fishing than in trying to set depth records. I he av¬ erage dive without artificial breathing apparatus is short — only about nine seconds -although a lair diver can stay down a minute and some, with practice, for more than two minutes. Skin divers seldom go deeper than 40 teet. and the most pop¬ ular depth is between 18 and 24 teet. In recounting their experiences, skin divers use a language all their own. You might hear one of them say: ''Had to horse out a snook. A cuda came, zip

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THE SKIN DIVER Skin diver Gustav Dalla Valle spears a shark with spring-type gun off Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Divers also catch barracuda and octopuses JACOUES-YVES COUSTEAU Underwater cameraman found these bream, crab and grunts at the base of an Atlantic reef H. BROUSSARD Photographer Dimitri Rebikoff aims camera with lighting unit deep in the Mediterranean SERGE DE SAZO Women skin-dive, too. This Mediterranean tourist explores wrecked ship off the Riviera Collier’s for January 24, 1933

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with the rubber band. Snorkel got sniflles, had to 11 ip up.” “Give you kicks, aqua-man?” his companion might ask. “A four-way thrill, kelptomaniae!” Roughly translated, the skin drivers were saying: “1 pulled my fish out from under a reef. A bar¬ racuda swam by and I fired my spear gun. My breathing tube clogged and 1 had to surface.” “Quite an experience, eh?” “Not bad. 1 nearly drowned.” The hazards of skin diving are numerous. Rip currents and tides, kelp entanglement, predatory fish and accidental spear discharges have killed at least 20 skin divers during the past 15 years. No accurate records of casualties have been kept, however, and the toll undoubtedly is higher. Detonating Head Makes Spear Deadlier A spear gun discharges a stainless steel or alumi¬ num alloy shaft two to live feet long. Powered by springs, rubber strips, carbon dioxide, blank car¬ tridges or compressed air, the guns give a spear an impetus of 60 miles an hour lor 50 feet under water. Even that often is not enough, and a detonating head is sometimes used; on contact with the fish it fires the barb on through. Some divers seeking even more lethal weapons are experimenting with poison-tipped spears. Mel Fisher plans a hypo-spear, the needle of which would be filled with a strong sedative. With it, he hopes to capture a devilfish, a giant ray weighing up to two tons. Supplying weapons and other equipment to skin divers is becoming a big business, even though the divers themselves still make about 30 per cent of their own accessories. Manufacturers sold more than $10,000,000 worth of equipment in the United States alone in 1951, and the total should be even higher for 1952 when the final figures arc in. A beginner's kit, consisting of face plate, feet fins and a hand spear, costs about $25. But other accessories arc available which can quickly run the equipment bill up above $250. These dc luxe items include primarily a thin rubber suit, close fitting and watertight, which with heavy underwear will permit a skin diver to stay out hall a day in water as eold as 45 degrees, and eompressed air tanks with breathing apparatus and mouthpiece which will enable him to stay beneath the surface two or three hours at a time. The artificial lung was invented by a French engineer, Emile Gagnan, and a fabulous French skin diver. Captain Jacques- Yves Cousteau, author of the forthcoming book. The Silent World (Har¬ per & Brothers). Cousteau has used the lung while killing fish with weapons ranging from har¬ poons to knitting needles, removing live torpedoes from a sunken German submarine, classifying ma¬ rine flora and fauna, and bringing up trophies from a sunken Roman galley 130 feet down in the Mediterranean off Tunisia. Artificial breathing equipment has proved a boon to underwater photographers and scientists. New information about fish and other marine life is being supplied to scientists by skin divers every month. One diver compiled a report on the life eycle of a tube fish. Another is studying the blood serum of surf perches. Still others have added considerably to our knowledge of the feed¬ ing and migratory habits of coastal fish. In the Red Sea, Dr. Eugenie Clark, a pretty thirty-year-old research associate from the De¬ partment of Animal Behavior in the American Museum of Natural History, recently discovered three new species of fish while amassing the largest collection of Red Sea fish ever obtained by a single person. Skin diving in the Red Sea also was the subjeet of a recent RKO Radio picture, Under the Red Sea. But whether you're interested in spear fishing, exploration or scientific research, skin-diving en¬ thusiasts say you will bceome a convert after only one dive. A new world, luminescent and filled with amazing color and life, awaits you beneath Collier’s for January 24, 1953 JACCLES-TVr •£*. French diver Frederic Dumas searches a reef 90 feet down in .Mediterranean off tile KNicra. Another Frenchman with breathing device wrote name on Mate 397 feet down — but drowned Skin diver brings up an ancient urn found off the inland of Corsica, Other divers have recovered valuable war trophies from sunken Roman war galleys on bottom of Mediterranean SER&E ' E SA7C

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I hen the la«*l corner, the ripping acceleration along the crowd-lined street* where somewhere Ellen was watching hiiv9( THE MOMENT OF HI MO HI \ 1C 111 OKI) had always been l’ ad 'hat he d h id the side porch added to 1 1 is ( oi i cokiii house. Alter the spruces that he h'd pi lined neai the dn\e\\a\ had taken t?ood root ,u d mte locked their branches, there was a pie w. n v ;h sion here that was dnorced Irom the >cM ol the house. Nobody dv r uv i. mils used the porch much. Henry suspected »*i> oj-ighter ol finding it handy lor saying got d u ‘hi u» her beaus. He had. in tact, caught 1ki . t . . I though caught was perhaps not the word. Henry had s '-oh l> v n enjoying a nightcap, theie in the dai* i ,ss . u. .in he said at tens ai d. he thought it was d- vc spoiling ol him to haye lighted that match .. .wen lair warning. Hut after her first outbu st. \1 gieente h. d been barely and icily polite to h.m. .. I somehow her mother had taken olfense too. 44 “My God!” Henry exclaimed. "Hasn't anybody around lie re a sense of humor?” “ I here's nothing funny about being spied on,” Ellen said. "No\y, Ellen.” Henry said, l‘l yvusn’t spying!” “Well, it looked like it.” Ellen's eyes darted around, \vhich showed that she had already aban¬ doned the argument. Argument with Henry was I utile, her manner said: already her active mind y\as elsewhere. Ellen alwavs seemed in a rush to catch up with her own thoughts. “Anyway.” she said, and Henry had the dis¬ tinct impression that she was calling hack to him trom some great distance, although she was still standing right there yyith him: “anyway,” Ellen said, "you spend too much time out on that porch by yourself. It's morbid.” And perhaps it was, Henry thought on this sunny Saturday afternoon. He was sitting w ith his feet propped on a hassock that had lost favor with his w i f c . Ma\bc I'm getting old, thought Henry, who had nearly all of his forty-first year ahead of him; and it seemed to him that his own house yvas a yvhirl of vigor and activity that had thrust him outward. Eike debris, Henry thought, toying, ex¬ perimenting mildly , with self-pity. His mood lightened when he heard the sound of his son's jalopy coming up the street. Young Hank lived by an esoteric credo of speed; and Henry smiled, touching the yellow telegram in the pocket of his shirt. He belonged to a staid firm of Diesel consultants, but recently he had designed a neyv cylinder head for the sport car of a racing enthusiast. THIRD STRAIGHT WIN YOUR HEAD, YOU WONDER¬ FUL GUY, SEE YOU NEXT WEEK. JAKE BELTER, the yyiresaid. Henry smiled again. In the world of the grand prix, Jake Belter w?as a famous name. ILLUSTRATED BY TRAN MAWjCKE

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Tlu*s>e racing men lived richly. They >vcrc cnmniiltcd to hazard and to competition, in their high-powered cars, they found the thrill that daily life denied them By JOHN F. WALLACE Young Hank would get a kick out of this, Henry thought. He stood up, draining the last of his high¬ ball, stretching the stillness out of his legs. Henry could still go down the steps at a loose-jointed run, but he was becoming conscious of this ability. Young Hank had just churned up the drive, his exhaust a little louder than the law eared for. “Hi,” Henry said. He hooked his thumbs into the front of his belt and strolled up to the car. Hank’s straw-colored hair was standing straight up, from wind or excitement. His bright gaze en¬ countered Henry’s, and slipped past, “Hi,” he said. ‘‘Hi, Pops.” He looked a little trapped. “Well,” Henry said, “what’ve you been spend¬ ing your money on today?” Collier’s for January 24, 1953 “Spending?” Hank said. “You have the spending look,” Henry said. “Oh,” Hank said. Then the enthusiasm came bubbling out of him. “Look,” he said. He lilted the jalopy’s hood. “L.ooka this!” The flat-headed engine had had one more gim¬ mick added, or, rather, two. Each cylinder bank was now crowned in gleaming chromium and alu minum. “High-comp heads,” Hank said, with a note of awe. “She’s getting more stuff on her than a fancy woman,” Henry said. “She is my fancy woman,” Hank said inno¬ cently. and then colored abruptly. Henry felt a little warmth in his own cheeks. Kids were so prissy! And they hit you with their prissiness when you tried to reach them. “How’s she run?” he asked, trying now for an air of interest, leaning over the engine, giving it expert appraisal. “Like a bomb, Pops. Like a bomb. Here, I'll start her up.” The motor cracked into noisy life, revving high. Henry reached inside and screwed down the idler, and the whole ear started to shake violentlv . Hank switched the motor off. “She’s a little rough.” he said, l ike Ellen, young Hank had the habit of suddenly looking as though he were urgent!} needed elsewhere. ■Rough!” Henry, who had two engineering de¬ grees. was offended by the understatement. “Why, that engine is tearing itself apart.” “Listen, she’s smooth as honey when 1 let her out. She's strictly jet. These are the cars of tomor¬ row we re building. Pops. It’s not vour kind of engineering.” You're damn’ right about that, Henry thought; 45

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46 the telegram in his pocket, the triumph he had been saving to share with Hank, now seemed anticlimactic. In his dis¬ appointment Henry became angry. C an >ou make that engine idle smoothly?” he demanded. ' Well no," Hank said. “Then don't talk to me about engi¬ neering. Engineering is a word you speedsters hide behind. You just buy these gadgets and bolt them on. You call that engineering? You call this a car ol tomorrow?" Hank was Hushing a dull red now. My God, Henry thought, what's the matter with me? He's only a kid. I start off trung to be his pal, and it comes out telling him he's stupid. There was a crunch of gravel, and father and son turned with relief to find Ellen approaching. "Darling,” she said. ‘‘I hope you haven’t been driving too fast." "You get kicked out of the club if you speed,” Hank said. " I hat’s the agreement with the cops. That's why they let us have that old stretch of road for our drags.” "I’m so glad.” Ellen touched her son’s gangling arm. "Darling,” she said, “I wish you’d drink more milk.” She turned to Henry. "There isn’t any ver¬ mouth,” she said. “You’ve forgotten it again. And you know all those people are coming for cocktails.” "What people?” Henry said. “I’ll get it for you, Mother,” Hank said. "Darling,” Ellen said, “they won’t sell it to you.” “1 didn't know there were any peo¬ ple coming,” Henry said. He turned to Hank. "Give me your keys,” he said; "I'll use this jet job of yours for the errand.” Hank looked concerned. “She’s got a lot of gow. Pops. What I mean is, your reflexes . . .” Ellen was darting away again, men¬ tally. "Better take the sedan, dear.” she said. "Hank’s used to his roadster.” "My God,” Henry said, "am I a gray beard? Am I doddering? Maybe,” he said bitterly, "one of you had better drive me down to the liquor store.” IT RANKLED, the way a lot of things had been rankling lately. The way everything was rankling lately, Henry amended morosely. Ellen’s cocktail parts was in lull swing, and Henry was stuck with the man across the street, who sold insurance and was a bore. “Listen Bill,” Henry said, "as soon as they passed that law about extra lia¬ bility tor kids, I got in touch with you, didn't I?” "Henry,” Bill said, “a man ean’t carry too much insurance.” Ellen Hashed by, checked, and elosed in on them. "Bill, darling,” she said, "hosts simply can't have a good time at their own parties. I'm going to have to tear Henry away from you.” Henry followed her happily. Ellen was wearing what is known as a little black dress, and she wore it very well. Any man, Henry thought, would enjoy walking behind Ellen; and when she crossed the porch, now dimly lit, he reached out and held her back. “There are those two Allison women,” she said, "out in front. Be nice to them for a few minutes.” “Ellen,” Henry said, “do you really think I’m getting old? I mean about driving Hank’s jalopy this afternoon?” She laughed. "W ell, we’re none of us getting any younger. Come on. dear, or this thing will go dead on us.” “No, look.” Henry drew her closer to him and patted her, gently, inti- [ mately. “Ellen,” he said, “you’ve got wonderful hips. You feel like a young girl.” "Darling,” Ellen said, “this isn’t the time, or the place — ” “I love you. Ellen,” Henry said. She looked at him with brief curi¬ osity, and then with kindness. “Why, darling,” she said, "of course you love me. Now’ come on. And look in the refrigerator as soon as you ean, will you? We’re going to need more ice.” Of course it hadn't been the time or the place; Ellen was quite right. But then, there never did seem to be a time or a place for him to talk to her. Ellen was always in a hurry, or in a fret about the children, or achingly tired. And even if she had stopped, even if they had found a moment, what did he want to say? The party was over, the eoektail party that had turned into a buffet sup¬ per and dwindled congenially away to the sound of good-bys and the slam¬ ming of car doors. A squally rainstorm had sprung up, presaging October, and Henry put on an old trench eoat and walked out into his driveway. “I love you,” he had told Ellen, and no wonder that she had given him that look of surprised curiosity. It had been a long, long time. And then, I love you could mean so many things. I want you 1 need you, I’m seared, or, where in hell do we go from here? A little of each, maybe, Henry guessed. He walked up to the open garage, thinking to elose the doors, thinking and criticizing himself for his pettishness, that this was Hank’s job. The family sedan gleamed at him, dimly reflecting the house lights, and Henry slid into the front seat. The car was new enough to still have that new-ear smell. It was a smell that had always exeited him vaguely. He was not ear-proud in the sense of always wanting a new' one or of needing to have his car bright and polished. But he always tuned them himself. His engineer’s sense of respect for a pieee of machinery would let him do no less. He turned the switch, and the engine whipped into life. Henry backed the car’s stern elear of the garage so that the exhaust would be carried away. He thought of young Hank. “Whyn’t you put a hot cam in her, Gov?” Hank had said once. He was experimenting with appellations for his father. He had gone through Chief and Boss and Governor, and currently used Pops. “Yeah, plane her head, bore her out, and give her some gow,” Hank had recommended. Well, it was a speed-erazy age. Henry backed the sedan all the way out of the garage into the lashing rain, turned it on the apron, and went quietly down the drive. Kids nowadays wanted to go fast, fast with plenty of noise. Car- erazy, speed-crazy, with their heaps and jalops, their irons and their bombs. Henry couldn’t remember that it had been like that when he was young. THEY’D liked speed, all right. But flying was the thing then. A ear was to get you places, but the thing you dreamed about was getting a joy stick between your knees. You’d drive to the crude flying fields just for the thrill of seeing a plane land, or take off. Henry had got his joy stick, all right; it eame with his first engineering de¬ gree, and it had led eventually to bomb¬ ers over Germany, with the flak coming up and the fighters boring in, and the pieture, always, of Ellen and the kids waiting for him when it was all over. Or of Ellen and the kids proud of him, even though he hadn’t made it back. “What did you do in the war, Daddy?" A man wanted to have a good answer for a question like that, but of course Hank knew what he’d been do¬ ing so he asked very differently: “How many Germans did you kill?” The question had been totally unex¬ pected a long time after he’d come home, and Henry still remembered shouting: “Hundreds of them, thou¬ sands, damn it!” and stumbling from the room. He still remembered Ellen’s white faee and the way he’d wanted to explain to her; the way, suddenly, there’d been an awful lot he’d wanted to tell her; the way he’d realized that they both had a great deal of catching up to do. But Hank was sniveling where Henry had left him; and even in those days Ellen had been very busy, always in a rush about something. Henry grinned wryly now, remembering his disgrace¬ ful behavior, remembering how he’d tried later to stop Ellen in the hall, but she eouldn’t stop. They were having a cocktail party, young Hank was still up¬ set and needed her, there were a thou¬ sand details . . . Henry gunned his sedan violently, as though by speed he could escape from yearning and incompleteness and frus¬ tration. The rain, which had reminded him of October, hissed past the win¬ dows and he wondered why he had thought of October, when June was barely under way. He was wishing his life away. Or risking it away, for now the ear was going very fast. The wet road rushed toward him, and now his mind focused on the mechanics of driving, of control¬ ling a speeding ear. It was not the first time he had vented his feelings, or sought anesthe¬ sia. this way. He knew the road well, knew where to eut his speed for the sweeping turns and when he would reach the top of the long, steep hill. That was where Henry always liked to knock the ear out of gear, when he was alone, and let her plunge down. He did this tonight, his eyes strain¬ ing ahead for the bridge at the bottom of the hill, something in him soaring as the ear’s undercarriage whumped to the slight arch of the bridge and all four wheels almost eleared before she leaped up the slope beyond. He put her in second hauling her around the turn. He grinned with triumph, or relief. In the glow of the dashlights, Henry, who had reached the age of looking a little older than his years, now looked youthful. The ear had begun to lose a little traction on the wet road, and he corrected this skillfully, letting the wheel spin in his hands, feeling for a grip on the road through the accelera¬ tor. The engine boomed softly as the ear jumped into the straight stretch. Speed was like a dope, Henry thought: once you started fooling around with it, you had to keep having more and more. And then he pressed harder on the gas pedal, and stopped thinking. TWO days later Jake Belter eame to see him. Jake was a trim, wiry man of Henry’s age. He looked like a eareer military officer, and he lived for ex¬ citement. Jake was rieh. “Henry!” he shouted. “You old son of a gun. You old genius!” “She was good, huh?” Henry grinned. “Listen,” Jake said, “you’re in the wrong racket.” He waved his arm around Henry’s office, at the pictures of Diesel trucks and tractors and bull¬ dozers. “I’ve got a dozen guys that’ll lay cash on the line for half the motor you made for me.” "Well,” Henry said, “that’s our busi¬ ness here, Jake. But we’re not snobs; we don’t mind branching out into toys.” Jake Belter laughed. “Come on out to the country with me.” he said. “Come on up to the elub. I’ll show you my toy. I’ll give you a ride like you’ve never had before.” “I’ve got a lot of work to clean up.” Collier’s for January 24, 1953 "W hy. of course IT1 go to the dance with you. Only my name isn't Barbara — collier’s Does that make any dillerenee to you?’* kate osann

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47 “Well, put this down to research,” Jake said. “Come on, boy. The open road is calling.” Afterward, Henry realized that that ride with Jake Belter had been a turn¬ ing point in his life. Jake’s car was parked outside of his Manhattan office, attracting curious and envious stares, j It looked like a big cat, sure and light on its feet; and it had something of the bellicose appearance of a tomcat, even to the point of bearing a few scars. It had authority in the New York traffic, the way Jake drove it; and it seemed odd to Henry that the motive power of this savagely eager automobile was of his own creating. He had seen the redesigned engine on a test bed, of course, but there its potentialities were impersonally registered on the instru¬ ment dials. Here, in the nose of this car, it was real. When they got to the open country, Jake gave the car its head. Henry was not nervous, although he usually dis¬ liked driving with anyone else at the controls. He was exhilarated by the speed, by the sure-footedness of the car. At some point, probably at a speed over any he had experienced before, there was a strong shift in his sensa¬ tions. It was as though the car and its occupants had entered another dimen¬ sion: something happened to time, and something happened to velocity. Their progress had a dreamlike, narcotic quality: it w'as the oblivion he had touched briefly in his sedan, and Henry felt himself sighing with regret, or pro¬ test, when Jake slowed the car and turned off to a narrow, rough road. “This is something else she’s good for,” Jake shouted. The car sped over the rough surface, catfooted, goat¬ footed. Henry saw the corner, a right angle; felt the firm grip of the bucket seat and the safety belt, and a straining of the cords of his neck, as the car snapped around it. Then Jake eased up on the gas pedal and laughed, slap¬ ping the wheel w'ith his hands. “What d’you say, Henry old boy? What d’you say?” Jake said. “I think I’d like one of these,” Henry said. “1 think I’d like to try a little rac¬ ing. Are all you guys rich, Jake?” . . . They weren't all rich, Henry found out. Some were men with a good deal less than his own comfortable income. But they all lived richly, committed to hazard and to competition. Henry found that among these men who raced Collier's for January 24, 1933 one another over country roads in high- powered cars the word sport had re¬ verted to its truest meaning. More was sought than the winning. There had been a good deal written about the cultivation of danger, Henry remembered. The Freudians tried to call it a transference of a man’s frus¬ trated love life. Some said it was merely a juvenile defiance; and the Spanish had a philosophy of the bull ring which said that the moment of utter danger to a man w'as also the moment of ultimate truth about him. “It’s fun,” Jake Belter said, and Henry decided that was about it. JAKE taught him to drive a sport car; and there were other men at Jake's club who took Henry out in their cars, proud to show off the individual abili¬ ties of their cars, generous in letting Henry take the wheel. He learned fast; and he learned, too, why many of the things he had tried on his lonely night rides had been impossible in his sedan. “You’ve got the touch,” they told him. “You’ve got the right instincts, Henry.” “Why don’t you buy a car, Henry?” Jake said. “You could be all right in competition.” “Competition? Listen, boy, I’ve got a wife and family.” But it had been at the back of his mind all the time, Henry knew. “Well, you should give it a w'hirl,” Jake said. “I’ve got that little Class F job you could borrow. We could enter you as a novice in that meet next week.” The w'hoie thing had the quality of fate, Henry decided. He drove in the race and placed third, never losing con¬ trol of the car, trying nothing he was not sure of. He beat younger men and men who had better machines. And he beat all the ones who, like himself, were trying competition for the first time, but who, unlike himself, wanted no more of racing after the first experience. Some kind of seal had been set, Henry thought, and he went ahead now, seri¬ ously, and putting all of his engineer's mind to the task of acquiring a com¬ petition car. . . . “Henry,” Ellen said, “you’re looking awfully well. What kind of club is it?” Henry didn’t know why, exactly, it seemed necessary for him to conceal his activity from Ellen He knew she’d be angry with him for doing something Give hash more dash with this livelier catsup. ] DE l MONTE Tomoto Juice delicious woy to *pork up oppetite* for good thing* to come. The re*t of this tomoto fomily ore menu fovorites, too th.sn'l catsup Pineappt® '* *ne9ar |#il clU0 mm iiHrtitw. lh,t "'H' *U To make hash taste even better, you need a catsup with lots of get- up-and-go— Del Monte Catsup. Sparkling Pineapple Vinegar really perks up the flavor of sun- ripened tomatoes and fragrant spices — makes the whole combination taste grander than ever. Why not give wonderful Del Monte Brand Catsup a try? your favorite brand for flavor - makes a marvelous catsup

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48 New beauty, style an<| for the National Stock! REAR-SEAT COMPARTMENT, 1953 HUDSON HORNET SED Fabulous 1953 HUDSON and its lower-priced running-mate, the 1953 HUDSON WASP See the smart and spectacular new 1953 two series, the Super Wasp and Wasp. BotP Hudson Wasp, lower-priced running mate of series feature new styling, interiors and colors t the Hudson Hornet. This car is available in plus Hudson’s traditional get-up-and-go! New Dual-Range HYDRA-MATIC DRIVE New Dual-Range Hydra-Matic Drive** gives you the benefits of overdrive in a completely automatic transmission. You just step on the gas and steer. There’s, no clutch pedal to bother about. It’s effort¬ less driving at its very best. •♦OptionaJ at extra cost. Standard trim and other specifications and accessories subject to change without notice.

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luxury Car Champion This year enjoy performance, safety and durability you’ve never known before This year treat yourself to genuine driving fun in a fabulous 1953 Hudson Hornet, the car that won the cham¬ pionship in all three major stock-car racing associations last year! You’ll enjoy relaxing in its deep, foam- rubber, nylon-upholstered cushions, amid the smartest interior appoint¬ ments ever seen in the auto world. You will sense complete safety and security in your Hornet or Wasp be¬ cause Hudson’s exclusive “step-down” design provides the lowest center of gravity — for the most stable, com¬ fortable ride — among American cars. And for flashing performance — just touch your toe to the gas pedal and feel the deep-chested surge of Twin H-Power*, Hudson’s sensational new multiple-fueling system that develops more power out of every drop of gasoline . . . power to command any situation you’re likely to meet. These are just a few of the delightful things that make the Hudson Hornet and Wasp, in their new colors and smart styling, the most exciting and glamorous cars on the road. You are cordially invited to see your dealer soon and try a Hudson yourself. tOptionai at extra cost. HORXET HUDSONS WIN TRIPLE STOCK-CAR CROWN Here’s dramatic proof of Hudson’s superior performance, durability ond sofety — the very qualities you want in your fomily car. In AAA competition with 16 other makes during 1952, Hudson won 12 of 13 races, set new records for every trock distance from one-holf mile to 200 miles. Hudson now holds every notional AAA record for stock-car competition! In the Notional Association for Stock- Car Auto Rocing, Hudson coptured the 1952 notionol chompionship with 27 wins in 34 races. In oddition, Hudson placed second in 17 roces for o totol of 833 points, with no other moke even close. In the Pacific Rocing Association, Hudsons thrilled the coast with 8 wins in 13 races — o record never before opproached by ony other make. All records in the three rocing circuits were made by Hudsons just like those you con buy from your deoler. See him todoy! 1953 HUDSON SUPER WASP TWO-DOOR SEDAN

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50 foolhardy, of course, but that was not the whole answer Vaguelv, Henr\ felt guilty, as though, in his seeking for ulti¬ mate moments in this courtship of speed and danger, he were being un¬ faithful to his wife. 'Oh. just a sort of sportsman's club,” Henr\ said. “You know, horses and vachts. And cars.” It was technically true about the horses and vachts. ’Well, that’s nice.” Lllen was very conscious of their position in lhe com¬ munity. Henry was sure that he had made his new activities sound just right to her, and he felt suddenly ashamed, ashamed and frightened of the wav that lhev had drifted apart. There was some¬ thing terrible .bout knowing a woman so well that you lied to her with an al¬ most mathematical certainty, and yet not in a lovers' climate that made deceit impossible. "Ellen,” he said, and stopped. How many times had he tried to tell Ellen something, anything, and failed? “You were spending too much time by yourself,” Ellen said. “Moping out on that side porch.” She was sitting at the inlaid escritoire he had given her >ears helore, and that she had used constantly since. She was fingering one of her lists — of shopping or laundry or guests or household tasks. She looked ai him brightly. nPOO brightly. It had been a long .1 time since he had seen Ellen strug¬ gle with tears, since there had beet? any occasion for tears, or any other emo¬ tion, hetween them. Crashingly, it came to him that he, the deceiver, was the onlv one deceived here. “Darling,” Ellen said. “Don’t you like us any more?” Of course,” Henry said. “Of course,” Ellen said. “Nothing’s of course. I trv.” she said. “I keep try¬ ing. I trv to run the house the way 1 think you’ll like it. 1 try to keep every- lhing going so you’ll nev er have to think about it. Even the children — 1 always tned 10 get there first, if anything hap¬ pened, so you wouldn't be bothered.” “I isten.” Henrv said. “I’m only fool¬ ing around with some racing cars. I just got kind of interested.” “Racing cars?” It obviously meant nothing to Ellen. “You're acting in¬ fatuated,” she said. lheie was a loud crashing sound on the st iirs that Henry realized was young Hank making a normal descent. “Ellen!” Hank shouted. “El-lcn!” “In here, dear,” Ellen called. “Shirts,” Hank shouted, coming in. "No white shirts. Hi, Governor,” he said kindly to Henry. “Darling.” Fllen said, “don’t you think you could be a little more old- fashioned and just call us Mother and lather?” “Okay,” Hank said cheerfully. “I just hate to make you feel your age.” “Well, bv God!” Henrv exploded. A kind of loyalty to Ellen worked in him so strongly that he felt he would strike his son. “Well, by God . . .” “Henry,” Ellen said. They were both looking at him oddly. “I'm reaching the point,” Henry said to Hank, “where I don’t care much what you think of me. But to speak of your mother . . .” His breathing labored. But they didn’t believe him. Of course they didn’t believe him. Obvi¬ ously they thought he was making an¬ other spectacle of himself, of his hurt vanity. Things, thought Henry — taking one more step backward, and into the refuge of defeat, accepting stiffly young Hank's bewildered apology — things were right back to normal. He could never talk to Ellen, he thought later, alone. And there was no use trying, he assured himself, needing this prop, needing almost any old lie at all, now, to hold him up. Henry had ordered the chassis for his new car, with his own modifications in¬ corporated, from a California builder of racing cars. Partly from conviction and partly from irritation at hearing the virtues of European cars too often pro¬ claimed, he had reworked a stock American motor for maximum power. The whole thing, he decided, must have aesthetic appeal. Too many other cars had too much fairing-in disguised as streamlining, too many phony and unnecessary curves. The Italian influ¬ ence that was attacking the American taste he found baroque at best, and usu¬ ally ugly. Henry’s car emerged somewhat stark, reminiscent of prewar design. It looked exactly like his mental picture of it, perched powerfully within the firm spread of its wheels; and after he had driven it Henry knew that he w'as going to be as satisfied with its performance as he was with its looks. He hroke a fuel line the first time he entered it in a race. The second time, exuberant because at last he had a car of his own and because it held the road better than any he had driven before, he “spun out.” The car lost traction while he was taking a sharp, flat corner, bounced off a hay bale, and shot back¬ ward into the ditch. The accident cost Henry a black-and-blue midriff, where his safety belt held him, and a twisted chassis. “Henry, old boy,” Jake said, “don’t kill yourself. It gives the sport a bad name, and we like you around here.” Henry had no intention of killing himself. But the competitive urge was powerful in him; he began taking novice events and club rallies with regu¬ larity. By the fall of the year he felt ready' to race in a grand prix effort. “Good boy,” Jake said. “Ell head up your pit crew.” “I thought you had your heart set on this one yourself,” Henry ohjected. "Listen, boy,” Jake said, “I got you mixed up in this racket. It's up to me to see you through your first big time.” “Can 1 take it, Jake? Can I win?” Jake gave him a curiousjook. “You want to win too badly,” he said. “It's none of my business why, but we both knowr something’s pushing you into this too fast. You should be more sea¬ soned.” Henry nodded. Jake was not inviting confidences. “Outside of that,” Jake said, “I'd say, good. You have wonderful re¬ flexes for your age, and good judg¬ ment.” Jake laughed. “Hell,” he said, “you're going to win, boy, if it’s what you want. Now come on, and let’s prac¬ tice cornering.” HENRY practiced a good deal, and when he wasn’t driving his car he was tuning the motor or making adjust¬ ments to the car’s running gear. He was home very little these days, but so far as he could see it made no difference to Ellen. He made his excuses for the race week end long in advance. Ellen was used to having him travel occasionally for his firm. It was easy enough to tell her that he had to make an out-of-town survey, easy enough to spend the night before the race with Jake Belter. It was necessary for Henry to run a qualifying lace in the morning, before the grand prix , and he took this hand¬ ily, happy to come in first and happier to know that at no time had he re¬ alized the car's limits, or his own. It was his first experience of a big and en¬ thusiastic crowd, there in the little up¬ state country town, and he was not so sure that he was happy about that. There seemed, to Henry, to be some¬ thing indecent in having this experience publicly; and he was worried about someone's meddling with the car. “Never mind about it,” Jake said. “The boys won't let anybody near it.” But Henry couldn't sleep. He had begun to jitter with nervousness, or ea¬ gerness. He paced irritably on the hotel veranda; when it was time to go he was shaking through his whole body. The crowd was hard to control, clamorous for its favorites. In spite of all the stewards could do, Henry and Jake had to make their way by force to the closed-off area that held the cars. Somebody wished him luck, remem¬ bering his minor win of the morning, and then Henry saw the hat. It was the kind of hat that only Ellen could wear, and worn only the way Ellen would wear it. He grabbed Jake’s arm. “What’s the matter?” Jake said. Ellen was at the very edge of the crowd, a long way away. She waved. Beside her, young Hank was waving too. “Come on, boy,” Jake said. “We’re holding things up. They’re waiting.” Henry climbed into his car and pulled up the belt. His teeth rattled against the neck of the soft-drink bottle Jake handed him. “You sure you’re okay, Henry?” Jake said. “Don’t drink too much. It bounces in your stomach.” “I’m okay,” Henry said. “Then start her up, boy. And luck.” He felt better with the motor rum¬ bling up in the nose, with the whole pack of cars poised now about him. Even at idling, the noise was deafen¬ ing; with the green flag, it broke like thunder. Henry’s was not one of the favored starting positions, but he made a strong bid for the lead at once. At the first corner he had cleared the pack, was trailing the five strongest contenders. He cornered on the thin edge of skid¬ ding, depending more on the car than on himself, and then she was gathering herself under him, hurtling herself after the fleeing tails of the other cars. Nothing now but ride for a win. Nothing now but obey the accumulated experience of months, the fine-drawn knowledge of himself and his car. Noth¬ ing now for Ellen, and Henry held his mind closed against her, against think¬ ing of her. Jf he was trembling now it was too intermingled with the vibrations of the car for him to know it. He was feeling fine now. THE little black square of an under¬ pass was leaping toward him, enlarg¬ ing until it became a great maw that suddenly swallowed him. A solid chunk of his own car’s noise was flung at him, and then he was through, braking, down-shifting, and losing speed against the engine. For a critical moment he let her float, and then he gunned into the turn. He saw one of the lead cars in the ditch, its driver standing up and signaling that he was okay. Henry was closing fast. At the next turn another car “'spun out” in a shower of hay and dust. Now there were three ahead of him and the long straightaway coming up. Henry pressed the gas pedal down firmly. He passed one easily, began to duel with the second for the lead to a little humpbacked bridge. Ahead of him he saw the lead car make a tremendous spraddle-legged leap over the bridge, a leap that could hurtle a car end over end to destruction, and Henry knew it was time to slow. He was abreast of the car he was challenging now, and the other man held the pace until Henry felt the cold sweat of fright oozing un¬ der his armpits. Then abruptly the other car braked, conceding the posi¬ tion. Henry slowed and steadied him¬ self for the bump. The car took it well, landing true, so that there was no fight for control. Only gas and more gas for the final straight¬ away before the turn into the town’s main street and the end of the first lap. He recognized the green lead car now. It was of fabulous marque, and Henry knew that the youngster who drove it had twenty times his experience. Then the last corner, the ripping ac- Collier’s for January 24, 1953 k'AlI the while I thought he was saying he collier s owed the Gas Company. Not owned it!*’ john ruoe

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51 celeration along the crowd-lined street, where somewhere Ellen was watching him; Jake holding the board with his time and position. Henry hardly looked at it. He knew' all he needed to know for this lap. The green car must be challenged; the green car was the car to beat. Henry hit the corner w ith hard confidence. At the straightaway he saw that he had closed the gap without yet hitting any limits. The green car led for three more laps; three more in which Jake’s board told him that there was no serious competition behind, that he and the green car had taken the lap record. HE LET it go for two more, and then he began nerving himself for his bid. It could be a win if he got out in front, Henry knew'. He swung into the street corner, the car pulled down briefly to twenty-five miles an hour. With his eyes adjusted now to picking out objects, he saw' Ellen clearly. She was at the edge of the crowd, and she was standing perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her. “What about Ellen?” It was like a voice inside his crash helmet, and Henry shook his head impatiently, curv¬ ing himself against his car’s accelera¬ tion. He was right on the green car’s tail now, and he cornered into the straightaway faster than he’d ever dared before. Then, with a fraction of power in reserve, he pulled up abreast. The two cars were screaming up to terminal speed now', and the now fa¬ miliar sensation of passing through a barrier into the mystic dimension of no motion and no time passed over Henry. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other driver’s face, set in lines of furious concentration. The green dar was at its limit. All Henry needed was the will to use his reserve of speed. But in this trance of terrific velocity, Henry’s urge to win had become a nebulous thing, a confused value. Out of time, he attempted to debate the matter within himself when suddenly an expression of fright, or a gesture, from the other driver shrilled an alarm at him. The few, blasting seconds on the straightaway had run out. Some¬ body had to yield. Somebody had to yield, and in near panic Henry found himself braking, saw the green car shoot ahead, and then brake down and corner with exquisite skill. The clumsiness of fear was on Henry now, and he hit the corner like a man who had never driven any kind of car before. He shrieked around it with the rubber straining to leave his wheels, and spun violently. Some sav¬ ing reflex established a little final con¬ trol. He sent hay from the bales flying in a shower, and his rear wheels plowed to a stop in the ditch. He hadn't crashed Collier’s for January 24, 1953 in any final way, but by the time he had started up again, the green car had a winning lead. . . . “Darling,” Ellen said. He was home now, sitting on the side porch, drinking h is first highball in weeks. Henry felt he needed that high¬ ball He was still ashamed and puzzled with the final failure of his courage. “Darling,” Ellen said, “I thought it was another woman.” Young Hank's jalopy roared deafen- ingly in the driveway, then was silent. The car’s door banged, and Hank came running up the steps. “Hey!” he said. “Listen. The guys at my club want you to come over and make a speech. Boy, is my stock up with them!” “What?” Henry said. “Listen.” Hank yelled. “You’re hot stufT. Second place in the biggest race of the year, in your own design.” “Don't yell,” Henry said. “Don't let me down. Dad.” “Well, 1*11 be damned!” Henry said. Pleasure stirred in him. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll make you a speech.” “Darling,” Ellen said, “go away, please. 1 want to talk to your father.” “Right.” Hank ran down the steps. “Well,” Henry spoke again. “I'll be damned.” ELLEN put her face in her hands. “I wish it had been another woman. Women are equipped to go through that, one way or another. But when Hank told me, when he said your name was in some maga¬ zine, and I found out w hat you really meant by fool¬ ing around with cars . . .” Henry put out his hand and touched the top of her head. Ellen looked at him and then stood up. Her eyes were glittering with tears and with a kind of fierceness. “You were rather magnificent,” she said. “It kills me to tell you. but 1 have to.” Henry grinned. “Well.” he said. His feeling of pleasure was definite now. “But 1 can’t compete with it. You'll keep wanting to try again. You'll keep wanting to win. A woman can’t com¬ pete with that.” She was standing beside him, very straight, her hands gripping each other, and it came to Henry that in Ellen this was an attitude of supplication. “There isn’t going to be any more competing,” he said. “No more for me and no more for you.” He stroked her, gently, with happy intimacy. “I love you. Ellen,” he said. “And I love you. darling.” She came down into his lap and kissed him. “You didn’t have to risk your life to find out all this,” Ellen said. “Oh, yes, I did.” Henry said. He thought of something. “I had to look for my moment of truth,” he said, laughing now, feeling no distance at all between them, knowing that a good deal of the truth lay warm, now, within his hands. “Truth,” Ellen murmured. “Did you find it, darling?” “Why, yes,” Henry said. “I didn't recognize it. though. I had to come home for that.” Ellen lifted her head. “You know.” she said, “I’m beginning to feel terribly flattered.” She kissed him, hard, biting a little. “Darling,” Ellen said. “You're such a fool.” AAA • Flowers express man's hope for everlasting peace. Their delicate beauty and fragrance shut out doubt and darkness by symbolizing the love we hold for those we've lost. And, because we love, we grieve. But, because we have faith, we look forward to immortality. To our soul's unspoken question on these solemn occasions, flowers whisper comfortingly, "Hope!" Because . . . like life . . . flowers flourish and fade. But there is something in their vital beauty that cannot wholly perish. When you can't be there with those who grieve, Flowers- By- Wire carry your sympathy across the miles. LOOK FOR THE FAMOUS F T.D. MERCURY EMBLEM. IT IDENTIFIES THE RIGHT SHOPS I FLORISTS' TELEGRAPH DELIVERY ASSOCIATION, Headquarters: Detroit, M

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THE CUBS /{AD ME SCOUTED I In- turn ( Den J{ learn *omelliin wile had been playing weekly hostess to Den 8 of the Cub Scouts of America. The fact that the dust was settling rather than rising indicated to me that the meeting was over. And indeed, a moment later -I saw my wife in the smog, busily engaged in locating our younger chil¬ dren with one hand, and rebuilding our home with the other. I helped as best 1 could by filling my pipe, asking her for a match and complaining that I couldn't find the evening paper. “The trouble with the cubs.” 1 said, “is that their meetings are presided over by women instead of men. You den mothers mean well, but you don't know how to impose discipline on the lads. 1 have read up on these things, and 1 know that this havoc is not the fault of the boys, but it is a direct result of your mom-ism." “Oh,'1 she said sarcastically, “1 suppose you could do better.*’ “Could,” 1 admitted modestly. “After all, I was a drill instructor in the Marine Corps during the war. And 1 had more than ten sweet little boys to lead. 1 had sixty fouled-up civilians at a time to train. Wh\, if 1 had the little tykes for just . . .” “You have,” my w'ite said. “Next Tuesday.” * * * Eve always been a man of inv wife’s w'ord, and when next 1 uesdav rolled around 1 was ready. 1 decided it would impress the boys if 1 were in uni¬ form, so 1 got out m\ old Marine greens. Most people who pul on their wartime uniforms after several wars find that the uniforms have shrunk around the pistol pockets and the lower chest. My experience was the opposite. My uniform had grown like a wool mushroom in its dark trunk, and when 1 put it on. the sleeves came beyond my fin¬ gertips, the trousers came up under my armpits, and the belt sagged to my knees. Vet, with the gay nbbons that indicated mv campaigns from Wash¬ ington to San 1 rancisco, I was pretty much the awe-inspiring leather-lung ot the past. At close to the appointed time tor the meeting 1 took mv place at the top ol the front steps, head bent, neck outthrust. hands clasped behind me. My son. a member of Den 8, and hitherto a loyal staff member, had been dispatched to tell the other boss that 1 expected everyone to arrive on time. Naturally thev arrived on time. The entire group hove into sight at once, advancing slowly, as skirmishers, taking advantage of every natural ter¬ rain feature to scout me out as they approached. I remained motionless and grim of aspect until they stood in front ol me 1 had intended to start ofT with a ty pical Marine Corps greeting, hut when I saw these bright-eyed boys before me, with their innocent, trusting eyes looking up at me with respect and admiration, the words “yard-birds.” “feather merchants,” “skin¬ heads” and other nomenclatures of the recruit died in my throat. “Fellows." I said. “Men of Den 8, you are going to have a different kind of meeting this afternoon. We’re going to do things the Marine way. And we’ll show the world that there can be a den meet¬ ing where everyone has a good time, we can ac¬ complish our mission, and finish our tour of duty without anyone getting hurt or any property get¬ ting damaged. Right?” ‘“Right!” they chorused, “All light,” 1 said. “You’ll find me a command¬ ing officer who is easy to get along with as long as everything is done my way, when I want it done, without argument or discussion. Now we’re going to march down to the basement to hold our meet¬ ing. No talking in the ranks on the way, and every¬ body try to keep in step. Den . . . Aten . . . shun! Forward . . . HOO!” 'fuming around smartly, 1 stepped off at the standard military pace, counting cadence as I led my boys. “Awn-up reep, reep fa yo low,” and so on. Arriving at the back door I shouted, “Den . . . Halt! One . . . two!” And 1 turned around again to cheek my men. They were all there, still in ranks. Mathemati¬ cally it had been impossible for them to break step for a moment without getting left behind. They were with me, I had heard the tramp of their marching feet, and their faces shone w ith the same innocence and desire to eo-operate, How to explain, then, that the clothcspoles were down, the side of the house was decorated with pictures and slogans, an old maple tree was snapped off at the base, and two cubs had black eyes? 1 decided to overlook that which 1 had not seen, and to be more watchful in the future. I stood at the back door and issued another command. “All right, you people!" I bellowed, getting some of the old toughness into my voice. “1 want you to get down in that basement on the double. When you get there, freeze like statues until 1 arrive. Understand? Not a move! Now you have five sec¬ onds to get downstairs and three seconds are gone already. Move out!” One at a time they scooted down the stairs. When they reached the basement they stood rigid, as I had commanded. When they were all down. I followed. 1 turned lor perhaps half a second to close the door behind me, and when I looked again, my boys still hadn’t moved. They couldn't have rolled their eyes without my hearing them. And yet. . . . The furnace lav on its side, the guns on my wall rack had been taken down and completely field-stripped, there was nothing left of my prize mounted fish but the head and the skeleton, and four hoys sported black eves. There was only one explanation for it. I w'as looking at some wreckage left over from one of my wife's meetings. “Now, men," I said, “we will start the meeting. The color guard will come forth with the colors, and we’ll pledge allegiance to the flag,” “That's not the way we start,” a shrill voice pro¬ tested. “We say the cub promise first.” “We do not!” another, shriller, voice counter- protested. “We pledge allegiance to the flag first!” “1 guess I know more than you. I’ve been in cubs longer.” “Yeah, and you missed more meetings, I guess I know more than you!" “You’re both wrong.” another voice shrieked. “We make the living circle!” “Attention down here!” I bellowed. “Attention! Quiet! Aten . . . SHUN! Boys! I SAID TO SHUT UP!” Suddenly 1 remembered the magic signal to re¬ gain quiet. I held up my right hand with two fin¬ gers extended, the traditional cub sign for attention. It worked, and they quieted. “Now, men,” I said, “you don't have any wishy- w'ashy den mother to deal with today. You have a man here, and I won’t stand for any more non¬ sense. From now on, anybody who wants to speak has to ask my permission.” And they did ask permission. They really did. Every one of them at the same time. They yelled for permission to speak, they screamed for it, they wrestled with one another and swarmed over me in their earnest effort to gain my attention. I went down under their combined weight, knowing in my Collier's for Jununry 24, 1933

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The boys were taking their punishment like real men. They were scrubbing the floor with the family toothbrushes heart that they believed the cub who came out with the biggest piece of me in his teeth would be en¬ titled to speak first. Eventually they tired, and I decided it was time to quit being soft. “Just for that outburst,” I said sternly, getting to my feet, “we will scrub the basement floor with toothbrushes before we go on with the meeting.” “I don’t have a toothbrush with me,” one of the lads complained. My son came to the rescue. “We’ve got plenty in our bathroom,” he yelled. “Let’s get ’em!” I tried to head them off at the stairway, but I was too late. By the time 1 reached the stairs they were in the house proper, and when I reached the bathroom it was already six inches under water. I turned off the water and stopped the wrestling matches in the closets. * * * When I returned to the basement the boys were taking their punishment like real men. They had buckets of soapy water, and were scrubbing the floor with the family toothbrushes. Those who hadn’t found any of our toothbrushes were try¬ ing their best to get the floor clean with my wife’s hairbrush, the fur collar of her new coat, and the cat's tail. “Well done, lads,” I said, hoping to interrupt them before any damage was done. “We will now pledge allegiance to the flag.” They pledged. It was a solemn, moving mo¬ ment, followed by a thoughtful silence. I figured it was a good time to deliver a needed lecture. “Boys,” I said, “the youth of today are the citi¬ zens of tomorrow. How you learn to play the game of life in this basement wiil determine whether you make the varsity when the whistle blows to start the great game of Life Itself.” The first floor of the house suddenly fell in. I stepped aside, and, putting my foot on a chunk of rubble I once called my hearth, 1 continued: “The simple virtues of discipline, obedience, fel¬ lowship and courtesy will remain when all the sham and dross has melted to dust,” I said gravely. I paused while several explosions took place. “Civi¬ lization depends on you young people of today. Yours is the great responsibility of tomorrow. We must guard against allowing young boys like your¬ selves to be dominated by women, as it is obviously making milksops of you, and weakening your abil¬ ity to get out in the world and strive like men and fight like aggressive male animals. Now let me say a few words about close-order drill.” At this moment my wife clambered over the wreckage and came to my side. “Is your meeting over?” she asked. “Dues collected? Project com¬ pleted? Rehearsal successful? Treats distributed? New skills learned?” My son, grimy and happy, bounded to her side. “Don’t jeer, Ma. The poor devil is trying.” In another hour or so all the lads were tired, and bidding one another fond and affectionate fare¬ wells until next week, they went happily home, stopping to help old ladies cross streets and to re¬ move splinters from the paws of limping dogs. * * * I creaked to my feet and began rebuilding the house. My wife stood by, watching. “How did the close-order drill go?” she asked. “And the iron discipline that enabled you to command sixty rugged Marines? Do you think having men take over the den meetings regularly would do away with the evil of mom-ism?” I promised to give her a complete report in writing, in due time. But at the moment 1 pleaded with her to give me a hand in getting our house back together again. Do you know how she helped with that task? She took out a cigarette, asked me for a match, and complained because she couldn’t find the eve¬ ning paper! Well, that did it. So far as I am concerned, our boys can grow up to be the biggest sissies in the world. 1 am through trying to show the superi¬ ority of pop-ism when it comes to raising children. From now on, Tuesday afternoon is my afternoon to relax. I’m joining the Marine Corps reserve unit in town, and I’ll be practicing amphibious landings under neat and quiet machine-gun fire. ^ ^ ^ 53 ILLUSTRATED BY PERRY BARLOW

Page 274

A doctor shows how far we’ I IF YOU think that people will go to any lengths s| to scratch where it itches, you are wrong. Dr. Theodore Cornblcet, a dermatologist at the it University of Illinois College of Medicine, had long suspected that the response to an itch is not o a random motion. He recently showed in a precise scientific study that all human beings of normal |c health scratch specific parts of their bodies with strokes of approximately the same measurements. To obtain his data, Cornblect worked with adult $ volunteers. Areas of their skin were smeared with { ointment to reveal scratch marks, but though they knew they were being observed for scratching hab¬ its, to keep them from altering their normal mo¬ tions they weren't told that the length of their scratches would be measured. For some, itching t had to be induced by stimulating the skin with hairs t or a fine wire; others were subjected to drug- induced irritations, but many began to scratch I Scratching across forehead requires average strokes of nine tenths of an inch to allay itch

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m ITCH to ease a common problem spontaneously after sitting before the doctor for two or three minutes with nothing else to do. After measuring scores of scratch marks on all parts of the body, Cornbleet found that skin areas in which nerve endings sensitive to touch are close together required short strokes; areas in which the touch re¬ ceptors are farther apart required longer strokes. Because of the distribution of the tactile nerve end¬ ings, long scratches occur closer to the trunk; shorter strokes are used on surfaces farther away from the trunk. The inside surfaces of finger tips, for instance, were satisfied with strokes about one tenth of an inch long; the middle back needed strokes over three inches long. What did Dr. Cornbleet accomplish? For scien¬ tists, he contributed to knowledge of the workings of nerve endings. For the rest of us, he helped as¬ suage the common itch to know as much as we can about how and why we act as we do. ^ ^ ^ Longer marks are made on skin less sensitive to touch. Chest average: almost two inches Scratches on back of neck were just over two inches; on middle back, a bit more than three PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY ARTHUR SIEGEL CornbleeFs report had no length for nose scratch. Wondering what it would he, volunteer subject Rhonda Sherwood scratched thoughtfully, guessed quarter inch Length of scratch on thigh is two and nine-tenths inches; like other scratching patterns it lengthens under influence of such things as cold, narcotics, fatigue

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56 The lovebird CONTINUED FROM PACE 12 flat-footed walk of the parrot, but with the quick, nervous pit-pit-pit of a spar¬ row. And as it went, it took bearings with the sly, swooping glance of all wild things, and the round black eyes, that had no pupils and gleamed like small black mirrors, seemed to warn, “I’m friendly, but don't try anything sudden or funny.” It was five weeks old, according to Mrs. Valdeyo. ‘'Poke out your finger,” she suggested. I he young woman did so. Without hesitation, the bird trotted up to her finger and, like a runner taking a hur¬ dle, went over it. Then, tempted back by the red polish, it hopped on to her knuckle and started nibbling at the nail. The young woman squealed and clutched her husband’s arm, and he smiled tolerantly. But at once, as if her touch on him recalled them to them¬ selves. she let go. He took a step away. “Oh, dear,” the young woman said, “this I must have.” “Of course, if there arc children, you’ll have to be careful they don’t hurt it. Children will do that without mean¬ ing to, you know.” Mrs. Valdeyo said. ”1 here are no children,” the young man said. “I believe you said this was a male?” “Right.” Mrs. Valdeyo was short be¬ cause she was not happy about the sale. These people looked cold, supercilious so modern. Mrs. Valdeyo used “mod¬ ern” as a catchall to distinguish between the older and the more recent extremes of sophistication. It's all guts and glands and complexes now — no sentiment, no heart, was her verdict. Grudgingly, she said, “You see that bone over the beak? Well, that's the ceres. It’s hard to tell the color in so young a bird, but it looks bluish blue for males, brown for fe¬ males. The males talk better.” That was how Don and Laura Hov- erley acquired a bird, a cage, a supply of seed and gravel, and a bottle of bird candy. Mrs. Valdeyo threw- in a booklet on the care and habits of the Australian shell parakeet, often called budgeree- gah or budgie, and sometimes, incor¬ rectly, lovebird. She came out to the doorway and watched them turn the corner. In the shop, Soldier was trying to h:t a black-and-white kitten with the bottle. ”1 do hope they give the poor thing a good home,” Mrs. Valdeyo said, when they had gone. MRS. VALDEYO was wrong about the Hoverless. They were not su¬ percilious or heartless. As young people go. they were kindly, affectionate, tun- loving and popular, with a talent for making and holding friends. Their mar¬ riage, now in its third year, was thought ol as a long and flawless honeymoon. They were the envy ol their circle. But, recently, the pleasant rhythm of their lives had been spoiled. It was nothing unusual or startling. It could happen to many people, and. as a matter of fact, docs every day. But it was this very quality ot being ordinary and everyday that made it all the more insidious and terrible to bear. And what Mrs. Val¬ deyo had assumed to be a kind of fashionable flippancy was actually the strained mask that hid a wretchedness that each was trying to keep trom the other. In the circle in which Don and l.aurel had grown up, the relations between men and women were neither exagger¬ ated nor underestimated; if anything, they were formalized into acceptable social patterns. Sex, for instance, was taken for granted. Whether you did or did not do something about it was strictly your own affair. Older people quite naturally expected something would be done about it, quietly, of course, and in good taste. They even suffered a momentary Freudian qualm when they were convinced that nothing was being done about it. But they did not interfere. They knew their own shortcomings. Their most intimate hab¬ its had been a subject for open jest, commiseration or astonishment. THEIR children were more sensible. Their children’s bank accounts, so¬ cial ratings, politics, careers and styles might be, so to speak, on the table. But their emotions and instincts were their own. And so the young Hoverleys talked least about what they felt most. If you had to talk about it, there were always psychoanalysts who were paid to listen, and were presumably wise and tactful listeners. They had carried this reticence into marriage. As long as they were happy with each other, it made no difference. But as soon as their pleasure in each other began to fade (not all at once but imperceptibly, by degrees, and not first with one and then the other, but with both together, as though a gas jet were being slowly turned off), then the habit of silence and privacy, enforced by the wish to spare each other, became one more burden piled on to the burdens of guilt and frustration. It was not merely a lessening of sex¬ ual desire. Everything that marriage required them to do together — eating, sleeping, dancing, going to a ball game, seeing friends — all of it became toler¬ able only when done separately. One night they were listening to a news broadcast. The lamps were down; they were in pajamas, Don, with a glass of sherry, in the big wing chair, Laurel, with a liqueur, on the Chippendale couch. Suddenly a feeling of dismay swept over them, and each, secretly, looked down a dim, enormous empti¬ ness with the horrified thought: I’m bored stiff and have been for a long time. What use was there to search for reasons? There were none, or there were too many to understand. At any rate, it did no good to talk about it. If there was a comical side to this, the Hoverleys did not see it. They thought of it as a rotten break. Here they’d been going along, satisfied and pleased. They hadn’t wanted a change. They didn’t want to hurt each other. They wanted their smooth, pleasant and gracious way of life to go on, and they loathed what was happening. Still, it went on hap¬ pening, as though ordered by a will and logic beyond their control. Not that they were less fond of each other. It was simply that, for no one reason or purpose, they had ceased to be lovers. And in their hearts burned the knowl¬ edge of irretrievablejoss. They tried to hide it, to seal it off. They made frantic efforts to be cheerful and amusing. Their devotion to one another had always been known; now their unflagging attentiveness excited wonder. Yet nothing helped. It all rang hollow. Gradually, they lapsed into a cool, brittle and dull detachment, in¬ terspersed by diversions that flared up briefly, and, failing to reawaken the old passion, came to nothing. Alone, si¬ lently, they suffered, shut off by their isolation from the relief of a good con¬ fession or the tumultuous cleansing of tears, recrimination or lament. And this was the household into which Mrs. Valdeyo had sold the little parakeet. AT FIRST, it seemed a very lucky ar- . rangement. The bird was excellent therapy. The Hoverleys had scarcely placed his cage in an alcove formed by two huge casement windows, when they began to feel the impact of his person¬ ality. Using his beak as a third leg, he did a series of balletlike acrobatics. They found themselves talking about him, playing with and worrying over him. He was someone to love and to share. They had no trouble naming him. Both hit on McCorkle, after a Bermuda fisherman who had taken them on a three-day cruise in the days when being together had been a superb new joy. They decided that since he was a wild bird, they would give him as much free¬ dom as possible. But as he had no con¬ trol over what Laurel euphemized as “dropping doodles,” they barred him from the kitchen and dining room. That still left him plenty of room to cavort. The Hoverleys had five luxurious rooms. The building they lived in had been designed by a famous modern architect with an eye to “conspicuous waste.” It was elegant and chic, had a doorman who looked like a Western movie star, two elevators for passen¬ gers and one for freight, an incinerator, mail chute and college-trained super¬ intendent. Their apartment was fur¬ nished with English and French antiques, and among their paintings were two Reynolds, an Inness and a Renoir. They had a maid who slept in and a cook who came to prepare dinner. DON was the New York and New Jersey distributor for the Yak Farm Equipment Company, having inherited the agency on his father’s death. He had an income of twenty-seven thou¬ sand dollars a year, to which was added Laurel’s eighteen thousand dollars a year from a trust fund left by her uncle. They spent several evenings poring over Mrs. Valdeyo’s booklet. The para¬ keet, it said, lives up to its nickname of lovebird. Actually , it is not a lovebird but has earned the title because of its nature, which cries out for companion¬ ship and love. If kept without a mate, it will transfer all the fervor of its passion¬ ate little heart to the humans around it. This proved all too true. McCorkle was almost frightening in his demands for love. Uttering short shrill cries whose import could not be mistaken, he would nuzzle his soft head against the nearest hand, cheek or neck, begging fiercely to be stroked and petted. McCorkle was curious, daring and full of tricks. When Don was brushing his teeth, he would fly to the brush handle for a free ride. Laurel couldn’t bite an apple without hearing wings be¬ hind her. He had to taste what they ate, for the sheer pleasure of communion. Their guests were alarmed, on raising a glass of beer or whisky, to see a green rocket detach itself from the wall mir¬ ror and dive toward their heads. Mc¬ Corkle liked nothing better than to perch on the rim of a glass and sip with a great affectation of daintiness. “Some of our dear ones are not at their best after a few shots,” Laurel re¬ marked. “But I’m proud to say that McCorkle holds his like a gentleman.” In one respect, McCorkle was a flop. They could not each him to speak. Don and Laurel alternated in holding him on a finger, repeating slowly and clearly, “Mac-Cork-ell — Mac-Cork-ell . . .” The small knobby head would cock smartly, the round black eyes would shut, the beak would gape distortedly, the throat would quiver as though in pain — in short, ail the motions of speech without a sound. Don and Laurel were disappointed. “It’s childish to care, isn’t it?” said Laurel. “Of course it is,” Don replied. The bird appeared to sense their dis¬ appointment. He would perch on the gilded frame of the wall mirror for hours, bobbing his head, chattering and Collier's for January 24, 1953

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57 playing with his reflection, but now and then he would shut his eyes, open his beak and go through the tormented mimicry of human speech, to no avail. One of their guests suggested slitting the parakeet’s tongue to make him talk, but Don shut him up fast. “One more peep out of him, and I’d have slugged him,” he said, after everyone had gone. Nevertheless, they wrote to the curator of the Bronx Zoo, and he advised that McCorkle might be slow in memoriz¬ ing words because other birds were dis¬ tracting him. This was a shrewd guess. Their ease¬ ments opened on a back yard that was dominated by a great branchy sycamore whose leaves flickered within inehes of the sill. That tree was alive with spar¬ rows, tough perky fellows who hopped out to the end of a branch and called to the parakeet. McCorkle, on hearing them, would flutter from window to window, beeping and shrilling wildly. One Sunday, the Hoverleys heard a staccato rapping like a telegraph gone mad. They rushed into the living room. McCorkle and a sparrow were dancing on either side of the window, rapping with their beaks on the glass. As long as he was at liberty, the bird would not let them out of his sight. When Laurel bathed, he sat on her shoulder, licking at the drops of water clinging to her back. When Don was reading a newspaper, he would clutch the top of the sheet and, like a person eating eorn on the eob, nibble his way across and baek again. WITH the coming of spring, the bird began to molt. Floors, tables and chairs were littered with colored feath¬ ers. Laurel pressed a couple of blue plumes, fallen from his tail, in a photo¬ graph album. She said nothing of this to Don for fear he’d think her silly. One morning, while Don was still at breakfast. Laurel decided to clean the cage. Suddenly she gave a cry. Don hurried in, still holding the butter knife. “What’s wrong?’’ Laurel was rocking and gasping help¬ lessly on the couch. She pointed waver- ingly at the bird perehed precariously on her knee. “Brown, brown,” she said. “Can’t be,” Don said, in the tones of Mrs. Valdeyo. “When the eeres is blue, he’s a male.” “It’s turned brown — he’s a she!”. . . On the surface, things seemed to be almost normal with them until one night Don came home from the office and Laurel met him at the door. Collier’* for January 24, 1953 “Just listen to this,” she said. “I was in the bedroom, doing my hair, and you know how that little devil can squawk? Well, I heard the most awful fuss in here, and I came in to see what was up. Well, there was a mouse — really, a live mouse, scooting over the rug — and right over his head, guess who? Miss McCorkle, if you please, strafing the mouse like an airplane. The poor mouse dived into his hole, and I’ll bet we never see another in this apartment.” Don handed henhis brief case. “She was jealous,” he smiled. “She wants us all to herself.” HE WENT to wash up for dinner. The maid had the night ofT and Laurel began mixing Martinis in the kitchen, after lighting the oven to heat her casserole. Because McCorkle was on his shoulder, Don did not come into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, watching his wife pour the drinks. Looking at her — a stunning girl, lively and athletic, her dark-gold hair soft around her thin tense features and her eyes the color of twilight — Don felt a surge of longing, and, with it, a pang of regret that it was so distinctly the long¬ ing of reminiscence, not desire. The bird reached up and nibbled his ear. “McCorkle’s a barrel of lun, isn’t she?” he said. “She is, wonderful fun.” “I’m glad we got her.” “Strange that a bird should make such a dilTerence, but it is livelier since she came.” She stopped, flushing, and there was an awkward pause; then she said, “That doesn't say much for two grown people, does it?” “That may be, but it is like having another member of the family.” Laurel gave him a hard look. “If you mean what I think you do,” she flashed out, “my answer is. I’ve been available for three years, ready, willing and able.” “We’ve both been ready, willing and able,” he said. “And you know what the doctor said.” “Oh, shut up!” Disturbed by the sounds of quarrel, the parakeet leaped from Don’s shoul¬ der to his wrist. He smiled wryly at it. “Them that ean't, want to,” he said, “them that can, won’t.” They said no more about it. It was two years since they had consulted a doctor together, and nearly half as long since either had done any clinical re¬ search on the sly. There was no simple remedy. “You're both able to have ATHLETIC SOCKS BY UNCONDITIONALLY GUARANTEED I Your TRIPLE-DUTY- PAK of 3 pairs must satisfy, or you may return them within 3 months of purchase for 3 new pairsf Everyone loves ’em... they look so fresh, feel sa soft, give so much in wear and camfart. Dad and Junior like ’em for bowling, golf, gym and every he-man activity. Mom ond Sis enjoy them for games and everyday casual wear. Buy Sport Age Socks in the money-saver, 3-Pair TRIPLE-DUTY-PAK, at Men’s Wear and Department Stares everywhere. Just say Sport Age... by PORTAGE! nylon reinforced toe and high spliced heel PORTAGE HOSIERY COMPANY, Portage, Wisconsin Also makers of BOOT SOCKS, BUNDLE SOCKS, SKI SOCKS, SLIPPER SOCKS, DRESS HOSE and WOOL MITTENS. Better Than That depends on your taste! At Carling’s we brew both beer and ale — and each is mighty popular. But more and more people are telling us Carling’s Red Cap Ale gives them more pleasure than any beer they ever tasted. They say it’s light and O H C. A dry as the smoothest beer, yet with that extra flavor-— that “heart” which only a fine ale can provide. They call it the “light-hearted” ale. Tonight, why not try it yourself? See whether you are one of those who find Carling’s Red Cap Ale tastes even better than beer! BETTER THAN BEER? TRY CARLING’S RED CAP ALE AND SEE!

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58 “What a picture you get!” Writing of his new Sylvania TV with HaloLight*, Mr. Donald R. Miller, of Gary, Indiana, states, ’'We love the set. And the HALOLlGHT feature is wonderful. No glare or imperfect pictures.” Sylvania owners from Coast to Coast agree that they get the clear¬ est picture and the most satisfying performance of any set they have ever seen. Make sure that you buy the finest in television today. Your nearest Sylvania TV Dealer has a gorgeous variety of new 1953 Sylvania sets to choose from. Visit him today . Sylvania Electric Products Inc. , Radio and Tel¬ evision Division, Buffalo, New York. • Sytvanla Trademark BE WELL GROOMED HAIR DRESSING . _ T r y Sur • Lay Hair \ 1 Dressing. A few drops \ ML 1 keeps hair in place all yflhA Y\ 1 day giving it a natural iTA\ \\ 40* 3 look of good grooming. \\ r Particularly valuable for dry ^a*r and 9calp. Millions of applications of this pop¬ ular hair dressing have been sold SOU II III HIDING DRUG STORES RROTESSIONIl INIICITION IT TORI RUBER S Pro** it yourself no mettrt how Ion* you have ButTe or num for teneroun trltl bolt e *o met. our famoue ' One Spot Tr»t" Teet it your- * eurpri.e you. V»rtt# today for your teet |* * L,e*'_ f" '7 •*. directed . Print name EtVr'T. sold by Llicett end Walgreen Dm* ft tore a and other leedln* DruftJeU. LAKE LABORATOP*" ' n. Dept . “ et and other leedln* D Boa *92* Str athmoor lie _ _ RATORItS, 2723. Detroit 27. Mich. Bronchia! Coughs To ease, loosen wracking coughs due to colds, there s nothing safer and more reliable than Piso’s — at any price! Get a 40c bottle today. PISO’S FUN TO POP OP CORN children,” the doctor had assured them. “Keep on hoping. It might take months, it might take years — don't lose pa¬ tience.” They had lost patience. They had lost hope. They no longer referred to it. But it was there, and unless they were alert, it broke to the surface, the more frustrating because nobody was at fault. THE spring came on; the Hoverleys’ estrangement ran its course; and re¬ luctantly, Don and Laurel came to the end of the line. In May, Don’s firm called all dis¬ tributors of Yak Farm Equipment to Chicago for a three-day series of sales conferences. “Will you come?” Don asked. “Wives are invited.” Laurel nodded at the cage, covered for the night with one of Don’s sport shirts. “What about Miss McCorkle?” They glanced at the cage as though expecting a rebuke. By then, they were aware of the restrictions that went with Miss McCorkle’s affection. She loved greatly, but demanded great loving in return. She brooked no halfway right to her possessions, and the Hoverleys were the most important and dear of the things she owned. While she was cheerful enough playing with her toys and visiting sparrows as long as the Hoverleys were about, she abandoned these diversions and sulked as soon as Don and Laurel went away. The maid was afraid of her, and the bird seldom went near her. When the Hoverleys left for an afternoon, she would fly to the top of her cage and sit there, brood¬ ing darkly, a forlorn thing, until they got home. Then it would take a treat of candy and much coaxing to win back her favor. “The trip would be a fine change for both of us,” Don said. “Besides, we can’t run our lives to suit a bird.” “There’s no reason why we couldn’t board her at Mrs. Valdeyo’s,” Laurel said firmly. For a small fee, Mrs. Valdeyo as¬ serted that she would “take over the responsibility” of caring for Miss Mc- Corklc. Her grumbling softened after a thorough inspection of the parakeet, which she pronounced “in mighty good shape, I must admit.” The Hoverleys went on to Chicago, and to divorce. The sales and promotion conferences began at eight in the morning and ended promptly at three in the after¬ noon. This gave the distributors and salesmen a chance to show their fam¬ ilies around the city. Don and Laurel felt out of it the moment they arrived. They had little but business in common with the others, who were, in the main, middle-aged executives — hearty, loud, provincial and innocently coarse. But among them was one couple — the Creghorns, of Dayton, who seemed of the same age as the Hoverleys. The two couples gravitated toward one an¬ other and formed an alliance for the week end. Will and Sidella Creghorn were very unlike the Hoverleys; they had neither poise nor beauty, money nor social po¬ sition, culture nor wit. They were awed by the magnificence of Chicago and the Hoverleys. Will was skinny, pigeon¬ chested and rumpled, about two years younger than Don. Sidella was a short, meaty girl, addicted to sheer, flouncy dresses, and obviously just out of her teens. They had been married only six months, and were full of naive delight in each other. They couldn’t resist tell¬ ing the Hoverleys all about it. “Why say, when I bought her her first pair of shoes, she hung them around her neck,” Will chuckled. “You never had it so good,” Sidella said, and then turned to Laurel. “He’s gained four pounds already, and his mother’s so jealous.” After three hours and six highballs together, the Hoverleys could stand the Creghorns no longer and retired to their hotel room where they gave way to sour jesting. “Oh, those sheep’s eyes and itchy hands — ugh!” Laurel said, crossly kick¬ ing off her shoes. “You’d think they discovered the se¬ cret,” Don said. And Laurel said, “It’s much too good for them — really.” Will Creghorn, who was at the con¬ ference to assist his father, an agent for Yak products, was impressed with Don already in charge of such broad and lucrative territories. Sidella was over¬ whelmed by Laurel’s wardrobe and air of “having seen the show before.” The Creghorns were so happy that they im¬ agined everyone else was too, and they would have been shocked to learn that the older, richer and more brilliant couple actually envied them. As the week end wore on, the Hoverleys grew less critical of the Creghorns, and more so of themselves. The reminder of what they had lost stood before them, in the flesh, and they did not like the contrast between their weary, amused indiffer¬ ence and the fresh, ardent hunger of the newlyweds. They were glad when the conferences came to an end and they could bid the Creghbrns good-by. On the train, returning home, Don said, “I’m sorry it was so dismal.” “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” “Those Creghorns weren’t much help.” Laurel sighed. “It wasn’t pleasant, seeing the you and me of three years ago, and then going back to our room — and nothing.” “I suppose we were like that once,” Don said. “And it will never be that way for us again.” Exactly how or when the truth had broken out between them, they didn’t know. But they sat up straighter, and their silence was like a gasp of recogni¬ tion. Then all pretense dropped, and they found themselves curtly and pre¬ cisely in agreement on the need to part, and on the terms that would be con¬ venient to both, pending court action for divorce. They spoke lightly, in “the civilized manner,” yet they hadn’t come to this lightly, nor were they bearing it lightly: It was simply that the problem had festered so long that the only emo¬ tion left them, at this moment of tear¬ ing apart, was sadness at their relief. But what about Miss McCorkle? THEY had been so engrossed in their plans that they had forgotten her. If they didn’t like her so much . . . But they did. It was a bother. “I suppose you’ll take her,” Don said. He was selling hard, so he took an easy, careless tone. “Why me, why shouldn’t you?” Laurel said. Don glanced out the window at the countryside greenery swirling by, and he wished he could leave his problems behind half as fast. “You’re keeping the apartment,” he said, “and that’s the home she’s used to.” Laurel faltered. “No,” she said finally, “she likes you best.” Of course they knew that neither wanted the bird. The reason they were destroying a marriage they had once been proud of, was that they had grown desperate for a new start, another chance at love and fulfillment. Know¬ ing themselves, they knew there could be no hope for that, unless they shut the door on the past. There was no de¬ nying that Miss McCorkle had by then become integral to their past. She was “One thing I’ll say for Matt, he doesn’t have a roving eye — just collier s stares steadily at the prettiest one” glenn bernhardt Collier’s for January 24, 1953

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59 ( the last of many experiments that had failed. For the rest of the trip, they did some halfhearted adding and sub¬ tracting on the problem, but the sum remained the same. “We must be prac¬ tical — we have our own lives to iron out — after all, it is only a bird.” It was significant that in this crisis “she” had become “it” once more. They did not wait to get out of Penn Station before calling Mrs. Valdeyo to tell her she could keep the parakeet and the cage. She was singularly ungrateful for the gift. She sounded quite bitter. “Don’t you realize, you people, that you are the whole world to this bird?” But now that the Hoverleys had set their feet onto separate paths, they were anxious to move as fast and far as possi¬ ble. They hung up. DON went to stay at his club, Laurel to visit her parents in Southamp¬ ton. She was away a week, then re¬ turned to the apartment, and began a hectic fight against loneliness. The first day in, she made seventeen telephone calls, to let whoever might be interested know that she was back in circulation. On his part, Don had already cast his lines out. Popular and attractive as ever, they were besieged with invita¬ tions and appointments, and were soon whirling about in an aura of imminent adventure. Meanwhile their lawyers were stitching the fabric that would give society’s sanction to their accomplished fact. They were traveling in different cir¬ cles now. But occasionally, on their jaunts through the entertainment areas, they would meet at a hat-check stand or in the lobby of a theater. Under the watchful eyes of their companions, they would remark on how well they were looking and trust that their fam¬ ilies were in good health. And after the handshake, perhaps an afterthought flung over a shoulder, “McCorkle — she okay?” “Can’t really say — haven’t heard . . They were stunned to learn, after four weeks of this, that the little para¬ keet had died. Don had just got in from his office. He was dressing for a date that evening when Laurel telephoned to ask him to stop by. The note of suppressed hysteria in her voice frightened him, and he lost no time hurrying over to the apartment. The maid let him . into the living room. Laurel was standing in the alcove, gaz¬ ing out on the rustling foliage of the sycamore tree. This was the first inti¬ mate look Don had had of her since their parting. He saw that she was thinner, and her eyes looked hurt. “Oh, that stupid, nasty woman!” she exclaimed. “Whom you talking about?” “That Mrs. Valdeyo. Look what she sent me — us. The package says Mr. and Mrs. Hoverley.” She gestured to an open cigar box on the marble-topped commode. Don ap¬ proached it and looked down. On a bed of pink rose petals lay the stiffened body of Miss McCorkle, the black eyes open, the beak clenched in the death spasm. Mingling with the odor of the rose petals was the smell of decay. A note lay next to the box. Don picked it up. Written in a jagged angry hand, it in¬ formed them that the bird had stub¬ bornly refused to eat or play, and had gradually weakened and died. With a brutal, literary flourish he would not have expected of Mrs. Valdeyo, the note concluded: Shakespeare , or some - body , once said. “ Men have died . . . but not for love” A pity we can't say the same of little birds. “Damn her, damn her, damn her!” Laurel said, and she began to cry. Don started to put his arm around her, but thought better of it and patted her hand. “She’s not nasty,” he said. “She’s a silly, sentimental woman, and she feels we were responsible.” “We were. We were responsible.” “Well, I guess that’s true.” “Why couldn’t she have just buried the poor thing and left us alone? It’s hard enough trying to get adjusted.” “It is hard — for me too. Still, it would have been harder with the bird.” “I know.” “She’d always have reminded us.” “Sonic Lab’s electric brain is getting more publicity than ours. They have collier s a bathing beauty demonstrating it” Charles pearson Collier’s for January 24, 1953 “1 know — we had to get rid of her. But she lived for us, and we said, ‘She’s only a bird.’ ” “That’s childish, Laurie. Besides, I’m the one who said it.” “But I agreed — and now 1 feel so cheap. That word ‘only.’ That’s us, right down to the core. Only a child. Only a marriage. Only a bird. I hate that damned word.” “Hate it then, but what can you put in its place?” He began pacing hap¬ hazardly, his fists pressed together be¬ fore him. “Don’t you see, there can’t be any absolutes for us. If there were, we’d end up in the alky or psycho wards.” “We had to separate — there was no other way.” “If what we used to have meant noth¬ ing, then we could have gone on pre¬ tending. Because then we’d have lost nothing. But what we had together, Laurie — once you’ve had it, you can’t go on without it. That’s not something you can have, and lose, and go on as if it didn't matter. You know that.” “I know we can’t make ourselves over,” she said. “But she loved and loved — and there was no measure to it, and no stopping it.” “So she had to die.” “That’s what it comes to, doesn’t it?” LAUREL ran into the bathroom. She J washed her face and put on fresh make-up. When she came out, Don was standing where she had left him, staring at the dead bird. “Donny,” she said. She glanced at him timidly. “Would you think it aw¬ fully — silly and sentimental — to bury her in the yard?” “Hell, why not?” he said. They closed the cigar box and wrapped it in a sheet of silver Christmas paper, then took the elevator down to the basement. There was a door that led to the yard. Laurel held a flashlight while Don, using a cake knife for a spade, scooped out a hole under the sycamore. Into this hole, they put the box, and shaped and pressed the earth tightly around it. On top they placed a rock the size of a watermelon. A cat with a bell dangling from its collar slid uneasily along the whitewashed brick wall. Whatever sparrows were about were silent. Don held his wrist so that light fell on his watch. “It’s past eight,” he said. “I’ll have to get along.” “Yes, so must I.” She had turned off the light. “Well, thank you for coming right over, Donny,” she said. “It was awfully kind.” “Listen here,” he said. “Just because we’ve separated, let's not forget that we are people of breeding.” They stood there, looking into the darkness, a thousand things begging to be said. “Do you know, Donny,” she said, with a frown of thoughtful bewilder¬ ment, “tonight’s the first real break- down-and-cry talk we ever had?” He nodded. They were thinking of the small, inarticulate creature that had been brought so casually into their home and had filled it with the fierce, unrelenting bounty of its heart. Its stay with them had been an indulgence they did not feel they had deserved. Now it was gone, and their life together was gone too. She turned her head and made a droning cry. “Oh, Donny, Donny, why couldn’t we have loved each other the way she loved us?” His bitterness was like a larger sor¬ row. “I suppose that’s part of being human,” he said. Famous wines of unsur¬ passed quality, produced by The Christian Brothers of California, an Order founded in Reims, France in 1680. “COOKING AND ENTERTAINING WITH WINE AND BRANDYM New 52-page booklet shows you how to work fla¬ vor magic with wine and brandy in a wide selec¬ tion of famous dishes and mixed drinks. MAIL COUPON FOR YOUR FREE COPY! FROMM and SICHEl, Inc. C-3 218 West 57th Street New York 19, N.Y. Nanu'. _ Add r ess _ City - Zone - State. So/e Distributors FROMM and SICHEL, Inc. New York. N.Y. « Chicago. III. • San Francisco. Calif.

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The man saw him and grew tense, as wary as any animal, hut lie showed no other sign of fear as he watched the great beast that was cutting off his esca 4 HE previous days had been desperate; tower¬ ing mounds of ice had been crashing around A the rogue walrus as a storm from the Bering Sea, whipping up toward the North Pole, had frac¬ tured the solid arctic pack into separate Hoes. Dur¬ ing the winter the ice had been frozen into a nearly continuous field; but with the advance of spring, the cover of snow had melted and run into cracks and made it possible for the pounding winds to split up the pack. The floes were of iceberg size, with ridges extending skyward fifty and sixty feet, and with bases under the surface several times as deep. The gale tossed them about like rudderless ships, driving one into another. To survive the chaos, the walrus had had to be active, to stay awake, for several days and nights, and by the storm’s end he had been exhausted. Climbing onto an ice cake, he had had a long sleep. Now he was awake, lying on his back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his belly, and seeing in every direction the new. open lanes of water through which he could leave this realm of eternal ice be¬ tween Wrangel Land and the northern coast of 60 Siberia. Through those lanes he would be able to go to his summering grounds off the coast of Alaska, where he would find the great walrus herds from the Bering Sea. There, perhaps, old and aching desires might be fulfilled. The air was still stirred by the storm’s trailing gusts, but they were not lifting the water. Its sur¬ face was placid, protected by the tall structures of sapphire-blue ice. The fioes had spread out on the sea. forming small, intimate chambers and stately courtyards, one opening into another. All were floored by the polished water, and prismatic colors shimmered from the water to the crystal walls. The sky overhead was a cloudless dome of blue light. The walrus’ hind flippers were spread to the sides, relaxed; he was idly scratching himself with his fore flippers. With the back of his head on the ice, the two sharp, white tusks, that grew to a length of ten inches out of his mouth, pointed skyward, as did the bristles that covered his upper lip. The bristles were thicker than porcupine quills, and he viewed the world through their mesh. He was able to see all around him because his eyes, though not large, had a mobility almost like those of a lobster. He was watching a flock of fulmars and gulls that were soaring about in the air, waiting for him to start hunting. The remains of his meal would furnish their nourishment; meanwhile, they scanned the water for starfish, capelin and shrimps. The sun, shining through the translucent white wings, outlined the birds’ curving sides. Summer and sun and movement, these were all present on that day, which was June 22d. As the walrus’ eyes followed the gulls, a long, undulating line of ducks traveling in single file appeared out of the north. They were Pacific eiders — the males — leaving their mates in the nests on Wrangel’s low treeless hills. Birds flying south were a reminder that the sweet season about to begin would not last for long. On the journey the walrus would soon under¬ take, he would see life everywhere — on the coast, in the skies, in the seas. But within a few- weeks all the migrating flocks and their young, most of the fish, the whales, and the other walruses would have deserted the arctic. The polar bears would ILLUSTRATED BY C. E, MONROE, JR.

Page 281

le walrus reared until his immense chest was out of water Bv SALLY CARRICHAR Kin-killing beasts, cut oil' from the herd, lonely and wild remain, the white foxes, and some of the seals, but they would be scattered. Days would pass in which the walrus would have no glimpse of a liv¬ ing creature. The banner of ducks, rippling through the sky on the opening day of summer, was the first warning of autumn. He rolled himself onto his side, more than a ton of flesh, and reared his head, like the peak of a pyramid, over the massive and spreading girth of his chest. If seals were not here in these waters, the rogue must seek them, today, before he pro¬ ceeded eastward, for he had not had any food since the start of the storm. Hooking his tusks in the ice, pulling himself along while he pushed with his fanned-out flippers, he came to the edge of his floe. As he dived, he seemed almost as boneless as : gigantic snail, yet his tumble was not without grace With his weight gone, the ice rose two feet, He swam with smooth, noiseless strokes, his flip¬ pers moving more freely than those of seals. The gulls accompanied him. They would warn his prey that he was coming, but he could not disperse the birds nor could he hide from them. Even though Collier’s for January 24, 1953 he was submerged most of the time, he was still visible to them in the clear arctic sea. This was not his best hunting ground, for the arctic floes were so high that seals could not pull themselves up onto them. The walrus could do it by making a swift, upward lunge, hooking his tusks over the edge and then hoisting himself out by the elbow of one of his flippers. The seals lacked the tusks. But there should be seals down in the water. All winter they had been there, breathing through the holes in the ice that they had made — an ability not possessed by the rogue. Through what cracks he could find in the ice field, he had gone below and had captured enough prey to live, though not to live well; and his foraging had not been easy. He soon heard a promising pulse in the sea, steady and rhythmical. He approached the dis¬ turbance cautiously and, a few feet under the sur¬ face, discovered a small seal absorbed in chasing its tail. Till the gleaming and murderous tusks were upon him, the seal did not notice the rogue, Then, clapping his hind flippers together sole to sole and using them as a rudder -propeller, he shot out ol sight into a cavern below the ice. I he walrus pursued him. 1 he cavern opened into a free area between Hols, and the chase be¬ came faster. Sometimes the two were in unclut¬ tered channels, sometimes under the ice. in and out of the shadows. 1 he seal was not onlv quick, he was adroit at swinging around turns difficult tor so large an animal as the rogue; and vet it was curious that the walrus had not succeeded in catching his prey. This was something new: that a seal so young could escape. The rogue drove himself, but his body was not streamlined. It w'as formed with its bulk at the shoulders, and not for speed. If the rogue's life had been normal, he would not have attempted to catch any prey so swift. Now in a straight stretch, the seal drew away from him. It was disconcerting, even alarming, that the walrus could not overtake such an immature vic¬ tim, yet he gave up the effort. He hung at the sur¬ face, much winded, only his nostrils out, panting, needing rest. THE chase had taken the walrus southward. He was in thinner ice now, not blue like the older floes but green-silver, When he recovered, he swam ahead in the same direction and entered a loose, white drift of pans and cakes of ice that were frothy and porous. This wfas the kind of ice w'herc the seals, basking on top, often could be surprised But it was not the scent of his usual prey that alerted him next: it was the scent of a human— the eater of walrus flesh. The rogue's head went up instinctively, lifting his tusks to the attacking po¬ sition. New strength seemed to surge through his muscles. He was again in his prime, filled with a compulsion to slaughter. The man was an Eskimo; his own scent was mingled with those of his sealskin boots and cari¬ bou parka and wolverine rulT. Combined with these others was the scent of a freshly killed hair seal, but the rogue scarcely perceived it, for his fury was more stimulating than his hunger. Now he was approaching the long, nearly straight edge of the shelf ice which was attached to the shores of Siberia. If the man he scented was up on the ice plateau, the rogue would not be able to reach him. He would know soon. He saw the Eskimo several minutes before the man was conscious of him. The man was kneeling on a floating ice pan beside the carcass of the seal. He had ridden his dog sled from shore to the brink of the shelf ice to hunt, and had shot the seal in the w ater. Leaving his gun on the sled, he had gone out to retrieve his seal, using the small pan of ice as a raft and propelling it with a paddle tied onto his harpoon. The walrus swam into the lane of water between the man's raft and the shelf ice. The man saw him and grew tense, as wary as any w ild animal. The rogue could detect emotion in the man's heightened odor, but the hunter showed no other sign of fear as he watched the great beast that was cutting off his escape. Staying out of the range of the harpoon, the wal¬ rus reared until his immense chest was out of the water. He roared and bellowed and flung his head back, and then he suddenly jabbed it forward, a motion born of his wish. He charged along a few feet and repeated the threat. Whenever he wished, he could dive, come up from beneath and upset the floe, and then, grasping the man between his fore flippers, he could attack with his tusks. But he was not ready yet. He was controlling the situa¬ tion entirely, prolonging the pleasure of the hunt. He had more cause than he knew' to resent a man, but he knew enough. He could not remember as far back as his infancy, but he had had recent encounters with human beings. Hunters had speared him and shot at him; he was carrying sev¬ eral of their bullets under his skin. But their great¬ est injury to him he could not comprehend . . . The incident had occurred when he was two months old, migrating north with his devoted mother and protective father. It had been June, as it was now, and his family, with numerous others, had relaxed on a wide field of floating 61

Page 282

62 STANLEY &. JANICE BERENSTAIN ice which transported them without effort over the sun- bejeweled length of the Bering Sea. A thousand-mile trip lay ahead of them. While the moth¬ ers nursed their young, the other females were being courted. All enjoyed the sway ol the ice and the waves that splashed on the edge ol the held. After thev had passed the Yukon delta and Cape Nome, thev came to Sledge Island and the sheer cliffs of King Island, where thousands of gulls, kitti- wakes and murres wheeled out from their nests at the sight of the herd. The older walruses knew where the clam beds w'ere; and when the ice moved over them, some would dive dow'n to the floor of the sea to rake their long tusks into the mud for the shellfish. They worked rapidly, for the ice w'as moving north¬ ward at a rate of better than twent>-five yards a minute, and it was a matter of survival not to be left far behind. Walruses had died of exhaustion in try¬ ing to overtake ice that had gone too far ahead. And so, when the little one's parents had left him in order to forage, they never w'ere gone ver> long, and he did not dive down to the beds himself. He would not do any digging until he was two years old. His tusks would not have grown out until then, and in the meantime he would be nursed. rpHE sociable herd was able to stay A together as far as the bottleneck of the Bering Strait. There a wind from the north broke their field of ice into many small floes. The walruses would be separated briefly; but within two or three days, the current would take them all to Point Hope and on to Icy Cape on the arctic coast of Alaska. For the present the family of three lost sight of the others. They passed through the strait, but beyond it the family's floe drifted into a fleet of white men’s whaling vessels. I he ships were waiting there till the would take him on board for a while. He too was hoisted up. On the deck was his mother. She lay there, curiously inert, but surely she would soon make some sign. He crawled onto her back, as he had done so often, and patted her sides with his flippers. His breath was coming in short gasping sobs. The men stood in a circle around him. Some laughed, but not all. “Oh, come on, put him back in the water,” one said. The young w'alrus w'as thrown over¬ board. He swam to his ice floe and there found his father, who would have defended his family if he had not be¬ come separated from them. The floe carried them to more-distant ice, where they were out of the men’s sight, and safe. For a few hours the young walrus’ only problem was loneliness for his mother. Then he began to be hungry. When his father dived to the ocean floor for a meal of clams, the little one went down with him, but he had no means of getting food. His discomfort increased. For three days he moaned and cried plaintively, finally staying on the ice most of the time. The fourth morning a small seal climbed onto the floe beside him. It did not fear walruses; they did not attack seals, at least not if their normal nour¬ ishment were available. But the young walrus was starved. He was several times the size, of the seal and had several times its strength. He killed it and tore off its skin, and though he did not relish its flesh, he ate it. THERE were many seal in¬ fants in the ocean whose mothers had already left them, for the seals, living on shrimps and fish, learned early to take care of themselves. The walrus caught others, although his hunting became more difficult when he began to have the re¬ vealing scent of a flesh eater. It was an odor the seals quickly recognized and took flight from. By the time he and his father found the herd again, the other walruses de¬ tected the change in him. The mothers particularly, with their own young to protect, would drive him away. He stayed farther and farther out on the edge of the herd as the summer ad¬ vanced. When the rest of them left for the south on the drifting ice, he w'as not with them. He paid no attention to their going, nor did he follow. He had be¬ come an outcast before he was six months old, a rogue walrus, as men would call him, one of those who ate and acquired a taste for warm-blooded animals rather than shellfish, because their mothers were captured before the digging implements of the young had matured. There were a few' such rogues in the arctic ice should withdraw far enough so that they could proceed up the coast in their search for whales, and they were filling their time by taking some wal¬ ruses— sea horses, they called them. W'alrus blubber >ielded only a little oil; the prize was the ivory of the tusks. A small boat put out from one of the ships. As it approached the floe, the three walruses dived. The little one rode on his mother's back, grasping her neck with his flippers. They were safe in the depths of the water, but they had to rise Irequently to breathe. And the walrus swims in a straight line instead of maneuvering, as a seal or a whale does. By following long enough, there¬ fore, the men were able to make a sure strike. The one that they killed was the mother. She had clasped her young one to her breast in her fore flippers, shield¬ ing him even while shot after shot was striking her. Then her embrace relaxed suddenly, and the bewildered young one followed the boat as it towed his mother's body back to the ship. At the vessel, a cable was fastened around her chest, and her body was hoisted on board. He tried to work his way up the side of the ship, slapping against the hull with his flippers. The sailors did not want to kill him, for he would be of no value to them, but one of them thought of something amusing — they arctic at all times. Every hunter could recognize them. On their rich fare, they grew larger than other walruses, and they also could be identified by their tusks which, being used for an abnor¬ mal purpose, remained short and were pushed out on a sidewise slant, no doubt from the rogues’ efforts to get their mouths into their meat. Their tempera¬ ments were ferocious, for they lived by killing. Some Eskimos never tried to take a rogue; they were too apt to attack. In spite of the meanness that he had developed, the rogue never ceased to long for the companionship of his kind. For a few weeks each summer, he went from his wintering ground near VVran- gel Land to the outskirts of the wal¬ ruses’ congregation at the clam beds off Icy Cape. Still pursuing his hunt for seals, he would be in sight of the herd. He could hear their deep and resonant chorus. When the wind was right, he could get their scent, the scent espe¬ cially of the females. He never had known a female, though in other cir¬ cumstances he probably would have been a mate faithful through life. The herd which came north did not include any w'alruses as old as he. After their vigorous years were over, the wal¬ ruses remained on the small Punuk Islands, southeast of St. Lawrence Island, a southern resort with prolific clam beds offshore and a climate mild for the north. On the Punuks the ancient ones for¬ aged and swam together and loafed on the beach, lying in such a close pack | that one could not lower his head with¬ out jabbing his tusks into his neighbor’s hide. They grumbled and bickered a little, but the arrangement was in fact sociable, safe and easy — as pleasant an old age as animals anywhere knew. The rogue should have been sharing it. That last deprivation was the final injury men had done him. He had known so many years of misery, and now', on this day, one of the human beings responsi¬ ble for his suffering could, any time that the rogue wished, be his victim. I THE Eskimo on the ice raft got to his feet. He held the harpoon aloft in his hand while his feet, wide apart, were braced against knobs in the ice. He weighed less than a tenth as much as the walrus, but his face and his move¬ ments showed guile like that of an arctic fox, an animal that the walrus knew' but had never been able to catch. Coura¬ geous and poised, the man waited. The walrus lowered himself in the water and blew out his breath just be¬ low' the surface, causing a shower of spray. He came up again, water drip¬ ping from his tusks and the bush of bristles upon his lip, and he flung his head back and bellow'ed again his hor¬ rendous threat. His prominent eyes ap¬ peared bathed in blood to the man, who turned away from the fearsome sight. The walrus detected this weakening, and his roars became louder. It did not lessen his anger to smell the dead seal and see the man apparently guarding that meat. Each time the walrus dived under the surface, the impulse to upset the ice pan took shadowy form, yet each time he rose again and repeated his menac¬ ing show of anger. He was greatly en¬ joying this contest. It gave him a flash of pleasure to see the man lower the ? harpoon, now, in his tired arm, later to see him drop to his knees, to pass his hand over his eyes in a gesture of dizzy fatigue. By stages, the walrus was con¬ quering. Meanwhile, he too was becoming a little tired. His strength was not as it Collier’s for January 24, 1953

Page 283

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The fearful and bloody mauling that would have given him exhilarating satisfaction a few years earlier began to seem arduous, like climbing upon a high ice cake or like the swim which he would soon make under the conflicting currents north of the Bering Strait. Now mo¬ ments came when the smell of the seal on the ice was more provocative than the man’s helplessness. Late in the evening a quietness spread across the sea. The birds — the auklets, paroquets, murres and cormorants — which had been canting by, all had dis¬ appeared. The fulmars and gulls were perching sleepily about on the ice. Al¬ though the sun stayed above the hori¬ zon, the beautiful arctic night drew an opalescent shadow from east to west. It passed as the sun’s circular path tipped higher; another shimmering day commenced. The walrus continued to swim back and forth between the ice pan and the shore. FOR fifteen hours the Eskimo had been under an intolerable strain, but he was still rational. He was indeed as smart as a fox, for he had planned a strategy he would use whenever the wal¬ rus’ anger seemed to approach a climax or whenever he had tired enough so that food would appeal to him more than carnage. The man stood up and made sure the paddle was tied securely to his harpoon. Now he was ready. The next time the walrus swam to the far end of his pa¬ trol area, the man picked up the carcass of the seal and heaved it off to one side of the ice pan. It fell with a splash, and the walrus stopped. The seal was sinking — food for the taking at last. He lowered his head; and the arc of his great back, and finally his hind flippers, came out of the water as he rolled down in a dive. Ahead, in the transparent depths, was the silvery seal, dropping flatly and slowly, so slowly that even one weary with age could not fail to catch up with it. Closing his fore flippers around it, clasping it as a mother would carry her young, the rogue had only one wish: to escape with his prize. Staying close to the ocean floor, he swam northward, away from the man who had so long de¬ nied him this nourishment. The scoops of the Eskimo’s paddle were audible be¬ hind him, but they only quickened the walrus’ urge to hasten away with the meat, out of the reach of the man’s har¬ poon. For a distance of several miles, the walrus rose only to breathe, sub¬ merging again at once and continuing his journey, which had now become a flight. When, for a space of time, he heard no more of the Eskimo’s sounds, he hooked his tusks over the edge of a floe, pulled himself high enough so that he could put the seal up on the ice and, grasping the brink, heaved himself to the surface. While he was eating the seal, he knew only the satisfaction of having his hunger stilled. Finally all of the meat was eaten; only the larger bones and the hide remained. The walrus stretched out on the ice and dozed, but he was not quite at peace. Although a consuming, intense emotion had passed from him, an enemy that he might have destroyed was alive, was unharmed. A man, a killer of walrus, could have been his victim, but he had not acted. When the walrus awoke, he dived into the water. Now he would start for the coast of Alaska. He swung through the sea at a leisurely speed, and soon he was able to hear a grinding of ice caught in conflicting currents. North of the Bering Strait, like parallel rivers hound in opposing directions, two streams in the ocean passed, and, since each was bearing a load of ice, the ice churned in an unearthly, screech¬ ing, and crashing chaos. Cakes, blocks and pans tumbled together, a monstrous tumult Off at the sides the disturb¬ ance gradually diminished, but a strip in the center, miles in width, could only be crossed by staying well under the ice. The passage was a challenge, and coming up for a breath was impossible. An animal caught in that ice would be instantly crushed. Although the walrus had made this trip many times, he hesi¬ tated now. For half a day he swam back and forth, seeming to dread the test of his strength and endurance. With a new morning, however, there was a rise in the walrus’ vitality, and his daring rose with it. He moved toward the heaving ice, at the 'edge took several quick, deep breaths, and dived. Brushing along the sea’s pebbly floor, he swam at his fast¬ est pace into the turmoil. Soon he was under a ceiling of rapidly shifting, lu¬ minous, shining surfaces, out of which streams of bubbles kept spurting down. Often a jolted ice cake would be thrust down, which the rogue must dodge. The clamor, like all sounds, was magnified in the water. It soon ex¬ hausted the walrus’ nerves, and he swept into panic. It made his need for a new breath seem desperate. Finally he glanced upward and saw that the ice was more tranquil. Still farther, spaces of quiet water opened between the cakes. Relaxing a little, the rogue found that he was not suffocating. He stayed in the depths for more than an¬ other mile; then he came to the top, filled his lungs with air, and looked over the sea’s calm surface, strewn with sparkling and placidly moving floes. He had entered the sea of his summer wan¬ derings after an ordeal which, this time, had seemed almost unendurable. Never again would he return to his wandering grounds off the coast of Siberia. He climbed on one of the ice pans which the current was bearing toward Icy Cape. Two days passed, during which the rogue’s wish to join the wal¬ rus herd he would find ahead became urgent. His longing was so strong it blurred his knowledge that he was offen¬ sive to them. THEY would stay near the cape for a month. There the mussels and clams on the ocean floor were so numer¬ ous that a walrus could dig up a bushel of them — as much as his stomach would hold — as fast as they could be swal¬ lowed. Icy Cape was the chief sum¬ mer stop for the herd. Later they would go on to Point Barrow, Alaska’s north¬ ernmost tip. Then, late in the summer, they would swing to the west, traveling with the southbound current down the Siberian side of the Bering Strait. The permanent arctic ice pack stood twenty miles out from the shore when the rogue approached Icy Cape. As the current brought up the floes of mi¬ grating ice, they jammed up against the pack. Small pans and cakes like the rogue’s were scattered over the surface, all drifting slowly and tranquilly. The time was late afternoon, and the sun, dropping down toward the ice, touched it with incandescence, so that great, burning coals appeared to be scattered over the water. Except for the cur- j rent’s deep flow, the water was nearly still. Soon the rogue heard the droning hum of the herd’s chorus, rich and clear, and as sweet as a call. He was stirred with an old and forgotten im¬ pulse — to make sounds like theirs. He tried; but his voice, accustomed only to roaring out threats, proved too hoarse and uncertain for gentler meanings. After a few melancholy grunts, he gave up the attempt. BUTCH , 1 Collier’s for January 24, 1953

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65 s\i 3&s vU v -o -O- v)EFF KEATE “We’re organizing a neighborhood flower culture committee. May I put you down for a few hours colliers of your free time each week?'’ jeff keate And then the herd was in sight. They lay on the edge of the ice field, thou¬ sands of massive brown bodies, a ridge of darkness unbroken and regular as a mudbank. Now their scent was also reaching him. It was the mild odor of animal flesh that has been nourished on bland-flavored foods, such as shellfish or plants. Almost a year had passed since the rogue had smelled it. His ice pan was not moving fast enough. He dived into the water and, with only a little hesitation, began mak¬ ing his way toward the herd. Part of his hesitation was due to another odor, a human scent, that he detected faintly. Perhaps it came from an Eskimo camp on shore. A land smell was in the air too, though the coast, off to the south, was too far away to be seen. Some of the herd had discovered the rogue. Their heads were raised so that their tusks were in position to attack. And the tone of the chorus roughened. Into the hum came a warning, the link, huk. link of annoyance. The rogue remained close to the sur¬ face, rising often to check his nearness to the herd. Ahead of him, most of the walruses were sitting up, swaying their heads back and forth. WITH a sharp report, followed by dazzling pain, a bullet struck the skull of the rogue. It entered through one of his eye sockets. With his other eye he could see an Eskimo boat dart out from behind an ice cake. Three men were in it. One was standing; all were aiming their guns. It was impossible to know which was 1 blinding him, blood or fury. He ' plunged toward the men: men, hated always; men who this time had killed him. A dozen more bullets struck his hide, but he did not submerge. He drove on. He reached the boat. He heaved Collier’s for January 24, 1933 himself out of the water, hooked his tusks over the side, and bore down upon it with all of his weight. Two of the men, grasping his tusks, tipped the boat out from tinder them. Diving be¬ neath the boat, the rogue threw back his head and drove his tusks into its wal¬ rus-skin cover. He ripped the hide from one side of the boat to the other and shattered its framework. He con¬ tinued to tear it, to mangle it, until nothing was left but splinters of wood and tatters of hide that sank down to the floor of the sea. THE walrus came to the surface and looked for the men. Two of the Eskimos had already gotten onto the ice; they were helping the third man to climb up the edge. With all the life left in him, the rogue was intent on upset¬ ting that cake. He meant to deal with the men as he had the boat. He would thrust his great bulk up under the floe. In a moment, when he had recovered . . . In a moment . . . The darkness came quickly over his mind. He felt the water fold up from beneath, enclosing him, as it took him down slowly into its clean, cold, inac¬ cessible depths. There he might lie forever. But if his body did float to the surface, the Eskimos would not have it, for they had not been able to save their paddle or their guns. They did not have any means of propelling their ice cake. They stood on the ice now, helpless, at the wind's mercy. It could take them to shore in a few hours’ time, or it could blow them and the arctic pack north¬ ward, toward the Pole. Men had caused the loneliness of the rogue’s life, and men had ended it. But three of those humans, for all that they had one another's company, would dis¬ cover loneliness too, on their small raft of ice, adrift under the fresh, tender blue of the wide arctic sky. A A A Here’s More .. . than just a luxuriously bound five-foot shelf of books . . . More . . . than 418 of the greatest literary masterpieces of all time . . . 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■ What You Read Here May, Mouth and throat cancer needn’t he fatal — yet the disease kills thousands each year. The symptoms are obvious and easy to check. Read about them. Remember them. They may mean life or death to you or to someone you love rf^HIS article will save many lives — certainly hundreds and possibly thousands. I feel sure -M ot that for two reasons: first, the information 1 am going to discuss is hopeful information about a killer disease, cancer of the mouth and throat. Second, very few people know the facts I shall present: this magazine will make them known to millions. Of those millions, some would otherwise die because of ignorance. Most will be men. Indeed, this could be called an article for men — except that every woman who has a stake in a male also needs to know- the facts, for her man’s sake. Cancer of the mouth and throat occurs about four times as often in men as in women — why, nobody knows. Writing this article was not my idea (1 am not an authority on cancer); it was not sug¬ gested to me by an editor; no doctor came to me with the suggestion. The real author is a friend of mine who has been a victim of mouth and throat cancer for more than ten years. He is a brave and brilliant man. He has endured so many operations that you might not believe the total number if I were to mention it. He said (or, rather he wrote, tor he cannot speak) that if he had once known what he knows now, he could have saved himself years of unbelievable misery— and that he can certainly save myriads of others from such misery, by telling them. “You’re a writer!” he scribbled on his writing pad. “Why don't you tell them?” 1 here are also subsidiary authors of this article — other friends similarly afflicted, among them a retired tycoon who has no larynx any more, and former friends who have died from the afflic¬ tion: the gentle owner of a country store in Con¬ necticut. and a writer about whom all the world knows, Damon Runyon. The principal authority for the facts 1 am pre¬ senting is, naturally, a doctor, a world-famous ex¬ pert on mouth and throat cancer. Although he gladly poured out his knowledge for me, gave me access to the voluminous technical writings which have made him famous, and pul at my disposal in¬ formation Irom one of the country's leading can¬ cer hospitals, he said, “Keep my name out of it.” I argued hard and long, but I was unable to change his mind. So 1 am responsible for the pres¬ entation. but my friend the surgeon is the main source ot the material in this article. And that ma¬ terial consists principally of a single bit of knowl¬ edge, which can be set down in two sentences: lust, most cancers of the mouth and throat, if recognized soon enough, can be removed sur¬ gically, or otherwise cured (by radiation, for ex¬ ample) with relatively little distress to the patient. Second: most such cancers, though they soon become very dangerous, give warning of their pres¬ ence bet ore the dangerous stage is reached. To save your own life from mouth or throat can¬ cer, or the life of a man who is your best friend, or the life ot the man sou love, all you may need to know is how to recognize the early symptoms and what to do. In a crowd the size of an aver¬ age movie audience, you might not find a single layman who had this knowledge. Yet the early symptoms are generally definite. The first is a sore anywhere in the mouth or the throat, or on the tongue, gums or cheeks, or on the lips. If it is a cancer sore, it will usually — but not always — be harder or tougher or thicker-feeling than the tissues around it. All right. You have a sore in your mouth. Do you rush instantly to the doctor? Not yet — unless the sore is big and nasty when you find it. If it is, drop everything and go to your physician at once. But if the sore is small — somewhat smaller than a dime — wait a week. After a week, if the sore is still present, you stop waiting and hustle to the doctor’s office. The chances are it’s not cancer; even the longer-lasting sores aren't usually cancerous. But if it is can¬ cer, you’ve used up all your safe waiting time. From now' on, every month, every wreek, every day you put ofT diagnosis might cost you an eye, part of vour nose or jaw, part of your throat — or your life. A second important symptom is a lump in the neck. It can be a soft lump or a hard one, a little lump the size of a pea or a grain of rice, or fairly large. It can be painful enough so that the ache leads to its discovery, or it can be merely tender, in which case the pressure of your collar or an accidental touch may bring it to your notice. And it may not hurt at all. The lump may be a swollen lymph node. Mil¬ lions ot people have swollen nodes which do not come from cancer; nevertheless, if you have a lump in your neck — or a number of lumps, of whatever size or consistency — go to your doctor. As with the mouth sore, the chances are the lump is caused by something harmless, but you cannot afford to run the risk. In fact, the risk is probably greater w ith a lump than with a mouth sore. Why? Because if the lump in your neck is caused by cancer, it nearlv always means you have a cancer somew here else — and have had it quite a while. In many areas of the nose, mouth and throat, cancers can start up unseen and unfelt. They usually don't hurt at first, or bleed or drain, either. The earliest evidence of their presence, all too frequently, is that lump in the neck. The lump sometimes means that a cancer in an unsuspected area (silent areas, the doctors call them) has started to spread. The neck lump is its offspring — a secondary cancer or, as it is technically called, a metastasis. Another early cancer symptom is hoarseness. People get hoarse from colds, from yelling too loud at a ball game, because they smoke too much, or because of some other temporary irritation. That hoarseness usually goes away when the irrita¬ tion is removed. But a person who is hoarse for as long as two weeks without going to his doctor is taking ciazy chances. Hoarseness that doesn't go away is the most common first symptom of cancer of the throat, the larynx and, especially, the vocal cords. If it’s can¬ cer, getting to the doctor on time may mean the difference between a fairly simple treatment that leaves you intact and a difficult operation that can leave you without vocal cords and obliges you to learn a new way of talking. It may — as always, in cancer — mean the dif¬ ference between a ripe old age and a pre¬ mature grave. Those are the common symptoms: a sore anywhere in the mouth, nasal passages or the throat, a lump in the neck and hoarseness. Fortunately, they’re noticeable symptoms. Certain cancers elsewhere in the body cannot be detected by the victim because they pro¬ duce no marked symptoms until they are greatly developed. Cancers of the mouth and throat nearly always ring a warning bell in time. There are, to be sure, certain other, rarer symptoms of mouth and throat cancers. But they are even more noticeable. One of them is continued or repeated bleeding from the nose, especially in middle-aged people. A notice¬ able difference in size in the two sides of the face is another highly noticeable symptom, which may indicate sinus cancer; any lasting swelling should be investigated by a doctor. Besides the information about symptoms, in my talks with many medical men and scientific re¬ searchers 1 gathered certain other impressions and opinions about cancer which seem important. But since these impressions and opinions invade the field of medical ethics and enter areas of incom¬ plete study, the rest of this article is written on my own responsibility, entirely. It involves various questions that concerned me. What about smoking, for example; does smoking cause cancer? What about dentists? If I have a sore on my gum, why shouldn't I go to my dentist rather than my physician? And how do I know my doctor is trustworthy and can diagnose cancer even if I have it? Finally, a sorry, time-dishonored ques¬ tion: even if I do have cancer, isn’t cancer so awful that I'd be happier just to ignore it so long as I feel okay — and face it only when my affliction compels me to? Let’s begin with smoking. Nobody has proved that cigarette smoking causes cancer. There is some evidence that smoking increases the suscep¬ tibility to cancer of the mouth, throat and lungs. It isn't necessarily the tar in tobacco smoke. Ap¬ parently, the plain irritation of smoke itself — hot smoke, cold smoke, filtered smoke, or what-have- you — may increase susceptibility. The key ques¬ tion, of course, is: “How much?” The answer is not known. It’s true that the great majority of all those who develop mouth, throat and lung cancers either smoke or have smoked, Collier’s for January 24, 1953 before about mouth and thr for reasons he Author-philosopher Philip Wylie, who is best known for his pene¬ trating sociological analyses of American culture (Generation of Vipers, Opus 21), originally in¬ tended to become a doctor. He has written essays, articles and books on a number of scientific and medical subjects, but never cancer. lie turned his attention to oat cancer at the urging of a friend, explains in the accompanying piece

Page 287

Save Your Life but, on the other hand, more than three quarters of all American men smoke, or have smoked. It is not possible at present to make a comparative table of the hazard. Furthermore, quite a few men who have never smoked at all develop these can¬ cers. And, as we extend the average length of life in this country, we increase the likelihood of the degenerative diseases — and eaneer is one such disease. Finally, it is true that all forms of cancer to¬ gether, including those considered here, rank sec¬ ond as a cause of death in the United States. But, even if smoking increases the risk of mouth, throat and lung cancer, it is only a fractional increase in one form of the second most common cause of death. I smoke heavily and have done so for 30 years. It may be that I shall finally develop cancer in the mouth or throat or lungs because of smoking. But smoking is so much a part of me and my ways that all the tables 1 saw and all the dire words I heard did not make me stop. Moreover, 1 suspect that the recent findings con¬ cerning the relationship of smoking and eaneer have done as much harm, by causing exaggerated anxieties, fears and phobias, as good. I Taking a Slight Statistical Risk Smoking, as a eaneer risk, might be compared to driving a ear a shade too fast. As 1 grow older, I drive more slowly and 1 don’t drink: there are many other acts 1 do or refrain from doing for the sake of health and safety. There's still one risk 1 do take — a slight one, statistically: I smoke. But I don't worry about it, partly because if I do get a eaneer, 1 now have a clear idea of its early signs and the steps to take. The next question seems even more important to me. It is quite natural for a person with a sore in his mouth, especially on his gums or near his teeth, to consult his dentist rather than his physi¬ cian. Unfortunately, until fairly recently dentists were only haphazardly trained in eaneer diagnosis. Men like my surgeon friend have led a vast effort of physicians and other surgeons to improve that situation; today, most dentists are far better able to spot eaneer than dentists were five years ago, and some specialized dentists are experts. However, if you have any of the symptoms of mouth cancer, go to a physician. That’s where a competent dentist will send you anyhow. I have almost answered the next question, which is: How can you be sure your physician will prop¬ erly diagnose your trouble? How can you be sure he is competent? Here's what 1 learned: the average physician or surgeon is capable of making a eaneer diagnosis, and you should trust him. If you are uncertain about where to get a good doctor, telephone the local unit of the American Cancer Society, or the local hospital (or even the intern on duty in the emergency room of a good hospital) and ask for the names of able physicians and surgeons. You’ll be told about several of the top medical men in your community. It is, of course, possible that the finest physician may miss a diagnosis of mouth or throat cancer. Cancers are sometimes tricky; doctors are human beings; the best human efforts sometimes fail. It is A sore on palate, cheek, tongue, lip or gum, frequent nosebleed, persistent hoarseness, a lump on the neck — all are possible (but not sure) cancer symptoms. Take them to a doctor SINUS PALATE CHEEK TONGUE LIP GUM LARYNX (vocal cords) LUMPS IN NECK* (GLANDS MAY BE SECONDARILY INVOLVED BY SPREAD FROM OTHER LOCATION) ILLUSTRATED BY DR. FRANK H. NETTER

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68 IWTRODUCIWG THE MEIA/ Almost incredible in its newness and improvement, the 1953 Vagabond is eliciting high praise wherever it is seen. Its new higher ceilings, entirely new cabinet treatments, new larger windows, new solar ceiling glass in the living room, new sliding doors throughout — and its countless other features, you’ll want to see. Vagabond’s time proven exclusive floor heating system, the all metal framing and other Vagabond features are retained. Other new Vagabonds are the models FREE . . . the fully illustrated Catalog and the widely read booklet “Craftsmanship” tell and show you the story of Vagabond, and give you a good understanding of what to look for in a trailer coach WRITE for them today. VAGABOND COACH MFG. CO. Box 601, New Hudson, Mich. also possible that your doctor, espe¬ cially if he knows you’re a worrier (and who doesn’t suffer at times from imagi¬ nary diseases?), may be pressed for time and brush aside your report of cancer symptoms. He shouldn’t — but he might. In such a case, remember that it’s your health, your body and if you have cancer, your cancer. Don’t accept a brush-ofT if your symptoms continue. Go back again. Wait. In¬ sist. Demand. As this article has tried to make plain, the responsibility for saving yourself a welter of pain and perhaps an untimely death from cancer rests first on you. You — not the doctors — are likely to note the earliest symptoms. What you do then, and what you in¬ sist on having done, may determine your future prospects. And what are your future prospects? Dissuaded from Suicide Plan The other day, a powerhouse busi¬ ness executive whizzed through my city. A year ago, he finally took a long- lasting, stubborn hoarseness to his doc¬ tor. “Had it for months,” he reported. His physician told him not only that he had cancer of the larynx, but that his larynx would have to be removed — and with it his voice. He would have to learn to talk all over, by swallowing air or by using a mechanical aid. The man was appalled — more than appalled. He wound up his affairs rapidly and ar¬ ranged, secretly, to commit suicide. But his doctor found out his scheme and, with a surgeon, persuaded the man that suicide was cowardly and silly. The man had his operation. After¬ ward, he learned to use a speaking aid. When he rushed through my city, tanned and healthy, he was on his way abroad to start a new branch of his world-wide business. “I thought death was the only way out of the mess,” he grinned. “But all that happened was, my voice changed. I have to plug my¬ self in on an electric circuit to talk. Small matter!” That man came late to the doctors. Yet I suspect he is as happy as he ever was. Certainly, the modification of his life has in no sense defeated him. On the contrary; the great victory he gained over death — and over himself — made him in some ways a better man than ever. He is more understanding, more compassionate, more aware of the ex¬ citement and the magnificence of life. He had a hard time for a while. But for those who act swiftly after discov¬ ering symptoms of a cancer starting in the mouth, nose or throat, the story will be different: a skillful operation; one to three weeks in the hospital. And then, no more symptoms, no more cancer. “Even the people who think they know what to do,” says one authority, “and who think they’ve acted promptly, usually bring us cancers twice as large as they ought to be. We ought to get them in half the time; then the patient’s chances of having no further trouble, no metastases, no additional complica¬ tions, no more surgery, would be not twice as good, but four times as good. Maybe even ten times!” I can think of no better conclusion to this article than some words scrib¬ bled by the friend who inspired this piece. I asked him how he felt when he first learned what ailed him 10 years ago. He wrote: “The diagnosis of cancer did not mean to me that I was condemned to death. It only meant a fight for the restoration of health. I felt in every fiber that the spirit of defeatism must never be a part of one who has cancer.” That’s the anonymous legacy of his suffering to the world; I’m proud to be able to pass it along. wr * at , START A PAYING llOUU DIIOIUCOO bytelephone DUdinLuO andmaill Coflier’s offers both men and women an opportunity to make a substantial, spare-time income by telephone, mail, or personal calls. Take care of new and renewal subscriptions for COL¬ LIER’S, THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE, WOMAN’S HOME COMPANION and ALL popular magazines. For money-making supplies, mail a postal card or send the coupon now. - EXTRA INCOME COUPON - Independent Agency Division. Desk C-62 THE C ROW ELLCOLLIER PUBLISHING CO. 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. WTithout obligation, send me vour subscription- selling EXTRA INCOME PLAN. NAME . STREET . CITY . Zone No . “Being a secretary is easy. All you have to do is look like a girl, think collier s like a man, and work like a dog” jane spear king Xext Week's Fiction THE GOOD LAND By WILLIAM FULLER A popular Collier’s writer tells of a magnificent old man too mule¬ headed to give, or ask for, love A BACHELOR SURROUNDED By WILLARD II. TEMPLE One guy with a pack of ladies in angry pursuit. Here is more fun for Mr. Temple’s many admirers THE STINGY SKYSCRAPER By HANNIBAL COONS That now-famous character, Dear George, the press agent, again makes hard work of child’s play STOLEN PEARL By JOHN KRUSE The story of a pearl diver who steals from the sea a shell that can bring him riches — or death STATE, Collier’s for January 24, 1953

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69 Coronet worn by Virginia Cornell takes delicate Beanie, first metal hat Hagy made, is worn with workmanship, costs $25. Others are under $12.50 a jersey lining by Madalynne Kelly. It's $12.50 HATS OF IRON W lirn the latly wauls a hat, Bob, Hagy just whips it up with an ulrrtric welder IT'VEN a casual observer of ladies’ .J millinery might guess that what¬ ever can be put on, around or into a woman’s hat has already been put. But a fifty-two-ycar-old Albuquer¬ que, New Mexico, craftsman named Bob Hagy has gone the professional hat people one whimsey better. Mr. Hagy makes hats out of iron. Hagy’s a mechanical engineer, and he whipped up his first metal bonnet three Christmases ago for one of his wife's friends. She wore it to a cock¬ tail party, and every other lady guest was convinced life would be dull without an iron hat. From there, the word spread far enough to provide Mr. Hagy with a lucrative side line. He now averages more than 100 mail orders a week, mostly from women who have heard about the Hagy hat through friends. Hagy designs all the hats himself. The bodies, or crowns, arc made of metal sheeting, one thirty-second of an inch thick, which is cut into nar¬ row strips and “sewn” together with an electric welder. Hagy then cuts delicate flowers, feathers and scrolls out of large squares of sheet metal, hammers them into head-conform¬ ing shape, and welds them to the body strips. Three hundred hammer strokes make a turban, beanie or coronet which perches on the female head as daintily as a bird on a bush. Prices arc from $7.50 to $ 1 2.50. An iron hat, of course, has its dis¬ advantages. It’s not recommended for outdoor wear during an electrical storm. Nor is it advisable for ex¬ tremes in temperature: iron can get mighty hot and mighty cold. But, since the hats are designed primarily for indoor evening wear, these set¬ backs don’t much bother Hagy’s business. The advantages of an iron cha¬ peau, he says, are far more note¬ worthy. For one, his hats are lighter than most cloth varieties. The heavi¬ est model, a latticed coronet affair, tips the scales at four ounces. For another, since no two creations are exactly alike, every woman can have what she wants most in a hat: some¬ thing no other woman has got. “And best of all,” says Hagy, “those hats of mine — they wear like iron. Guar¬ anteed.” AAA Hagy adds a veil upon customer's request, cuts it with blowtorch out of fireplace screening _A\_ favorite American flavor... enmark’s great wine specialty ic HOW TO MAKE DRINKS DISAPPEAR S«rve Cherry KIJAFA oj an aperitif ... or add it to an Old Fashioned ar a Man¬ hattan. Drinks vanish. You'll love it.. .the tart-sweet taste of rare Longtskov cherries. (DMEIRIW! I 1 II Ask for Kee-yaffa Soli Distributors in U. S. A....lrowni-Vintnen Co., Inc, N.T., R.Y. Super-Sot i Ur. Scholl’s Zino-pads arc 3 wavs better, because: (.1,1 They relieve pain in a jiffy . . . (2) Stop corns before they Mp— can develop . . . (3) Remove W corns one of the fastest ways ¥ known to medical science! No 1 | other method does so much Bk for you. (Jet Dr. Scholl’s today! D- Scholls lino-pads Wake Up To More Comfort Without Nagging Backache Nagging backache, loss of pep and energy, head¬ aches and dizziness may be due to slowdown of kidney function. Doctors say good kidney function is very important to good health. When some everyday con¬ dition, such as stress and strain, causes this im¬ portant function to slow down, many folks sutler nagging backache— feel miserable. Don’t neglect your kidneys if these conditions bother you. Try Doan’s Pills— a mild diuretic. Used successfully by millions for over 60 years. It’s amaz¬ ing how many times Doan’s give happy relief from these discomforts— help the 16 miles of kidney tubes and filters flush out waste. Get Doan’s Pills todayJ PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY JERRY YULSMAN

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Collier's Editorials Right Man THIS IS THE WEEK when editorial writers all over the country will be doing a piece about the inauguration. They probably won’t have too much that is new and fresh to say about the heavy burden of responsibility that faces the new President. But they will write the editorials anyway, not only because the inauguration is something that cannot be ignored, but because what they write has become a minor part of the tradition, even the ritual, of American politics. So we shall not violate the tradition. And if what we and others write is of a predictable sameness, it may still be an accurate rellection of the people's sentiments. The time of inaugu¬ ration is the most tranquil period that most Pres¬ idents will know. The campaign bitterness lies behind, and further quarrels and criticisms are yet to come. Today especially, most Americans, regardless of part\ . appreciate the great weight of duties and decisions that the new President must assume. They wish him well. And, in varying degrees of enthusiasm, they are hopeful. At Collier's, the enthusiasm is considerable and the hopes are high. This magazine was with General Eisenhower from the start. We believed for the Job last summer that he was the man for the job. His actions between the election and the inaugura¬ tion have confirmed and strengthened that belief. We like, first of all, his choice of Cabinet members and department heads. On the basis of their past records they should serve the country well. We are particularly glad to see skilled and experienced men from industry at the head of the Defense Department. Certainly a wise solu¬ tion of the military problems of production and procurement is the greatest contribution that civilian officers of that department can make to the national safety. And the appointment of Martin P. Durkin as Secretary of Labor strikes us as fair and realistic, as well as politically wise. In choosing these aids Mr. Eisenhower showed that he is not the captive of the Old Guard, the “Internationalists,” or any other Re¬ publican group. At the same time, his decision to keep hands off the new Senate's choice of a majority leader gives promise of a friendly col¬ laboration with Senator Taft in particular, and the Republican Congress in general. During his weeks as President-elect, Mr. Eisenhower gave the country an insight into his way of doing things when he refused to be drawn into personal controversy with Mr. Taft over the Durkin appointment, or with Mr. Tru¬ man over the MacArthur statement that there w'as a plan to end the Korean stalemate. He again rose above personalities when he con¬ ferred with General MacArthur on his Korean plan. It is no secret that little love has been lost between the two men in the last ten years. This aspect of the incoming President’s char¬ acter will not surprise anyone familiar with his military record. One of his notable accomplish¬ ments as supreme commander in Europe was his ability to make a smooth working team out of contrasting and, at times, clashing personalities. We are confident that this same ability will en¬ able him to restore some lost dignity to the Presi¬ dency, and to avoid the brawls and bickering which, with other and more publicized short¬ comings, marred the Truman administration. The former general has always known how to persuade as well as command. As President, he will be using his persuasion on a good many peo¬ ple as different, determined, ambitious and hos¬ tile as the Pattons and Montgomerys of World War II. We believe that he will succeed again. We look for the same traits that made him a vic¬ torious and popular general to help bring about the rise in government efficiency and national morale which have been so sorely needed for so many years. So, to repeat, we are hopeful. As General Ike succeeds to the democratic dignity of the sim¬ ple title, Mr. President, we wish him good health, good cheer, and the help of God and man in his labors to achieve strength and prog¬ ress at home, and peace throughout the world. Progress Report SINCE IT SOMETIMES SEEMS that good news is no news, we’re passing along a slightly dated item from the town of Itta Bena, Missis¬ sippi, on the chance that you missed it the first time around. Jtta Bena is the site of Mississippi Voca¬ tional College, a Negro school, where students erected a Nativity scene on their campus shortly before Christmas. Four white teen-agers came along and wrecked it. When the news of this vandalism got around, the college received hun¬ dreds of phone calls from white citizens who offered time or money to help reconstruct the Christmas decoration. Both Negroes and whites pitched in, and in two days the job was redone. Afterward, Dr. J. H. White, the president of the college, had this to say: “It was a wonder¬ fully heart-warming experience. We want our Northern friends, who so often misunderstand these things, to know that we have always had 100 per cent co-operation and support from the white people of Mississippi. We enjoy the warm¬ est of relations between the races here.” This, of course, is only one small incident. It doesn't represent the advent of the millennium. It doesn’t solve any basic difficulties of racial equality. But it does reveal a kindliness and friendliness and decency which impatient advo¬ cates of equal rights are inclined to overlook, and Red propagandists deliberately ignore in their attempts to aggravate tension and hostility. We were a little sorry to read that the Missis¬ sippi vandalism was the work of youngsters. But we're glad to know that their elders volunteered to repair the damage, and we hope that the youthful generation will profit by the example. Collier’s for January 24, 1953 70

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Chesterfield is Best ^MERCURY L for YOU! rr y'ch ~ Chesterfield is tho , cgarette / can only for, been i nspe°k °ne ' smoke he °n,X cfc*».rf/,w fA* “°‘*=< and / recn Years try ■emir, ”*"'1 ^ and ho^t" ey Satisfy~ v, Hiv'.rv (Tgar^ette^ R^ETTE^ HOGE’T 4 yyE0S TOBACCO CO LlGCtTT 4 MvCRS TOBACCO CO CONTAINS TOBACCOS OF BETTER QUALITY AND HIGHER JPRICE THAN ANY OTHER KING-SIZE CIGARETTE ■ r Buy CHESTERFIELD./^ /^////er Copyright 1953, uqg*tt & Mftis To* a -o to. - And First to Present this Scientific Evidence on Effects of Smoking \ MEDICAL SPECIALIST is making regular xjl hi-monthl\ examinations of a group of people from various walks of life. 4.5 percent of tliis group have smoked Chesterfield for an average of o\er ten years. After eight months, the medical specialist re¬ ports that he observed . . . no adverse effects on the nose throat and si ousts of the group from smoking Chesterfield. C H ESTER El E LD — FIRST and only premium quality cigarette available in both tegular and king-size.

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Collier's JANUARY 31^ 1953 • FIFTEEN CENTS JA 2 2 '53 LET THE PEOPLE , , ELECT OUR UBUt I [»'^yrne PRESIDENT By Sen. Estes Kefauver HOW TO RUN A GAMBLING CASINO LAUGHS ARE MY BUSINESS By Pete Smith

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AMAZING OFFER DEC ; To Readers of COLLIER'S ENJOY THE COLLECTED WORKS OF IN ONE MATCHED LIBRARY SERIES w 7J?e/!/ew Do/c/ee West De/m D/it/oe Bound in handsome buckram and cloth, in glowing shades of red, tan, blue . Stamped in genuine gold . Luxurious volumes you will be proud to display! YOUR FIRST VOLUME CAPTIVES of Hie DESERT The colorful legend and lore of the great American Indians! Packed with blaz¬ ing action . reck¬ less dar¬ ing' THE LATEST ZANE GREY MASTERPIECE! ^lWTAN, you are crazy . . . ridin’ after them -LVX thievin' varmints w ithout a gun,” the cowboy known as High-Lo told his partner, Curry. "Remember what they did to that gal . . . what they’re aimin’ to do to us!” Suddenly Curry and High Lo stopped in their tracks. There, on the slopes of Devil’s Canyon, were the two men Curry had sworn to run out of the territory! A voice broke the silence. “Stay where you are, Curry! Ride one step closer and you’ll feel hot lead!” “I ain’t aimin’ to turn back until I get some straight answers!” Curry warned. The only answer was two gleaming six-shooters, a spurt of fire. and... Thus begins the pulse -pounding climax of this action crammed story the latent Zane Grey novel released for book publication! ZANE GREY Most beloved West¬ ern storyteller of all time. The blood of Indian chiefs flowed in his veins, and he actually lived the rugged life made fa¬ mous in his exciting books. Recapture the glori¬ ous spell of the wide-open spaces! Really Luxurious Books! These magnificent books are bound in hand¬ some buckram and cloth, in glowing red. tan, and blue. Stamped in genuine gold, with tinted page tops, colored end papers, decorative head and foot bands. All the Glory of the Old West — Its Sweeping Action, Color and Romance READER'S RESERVATION CERTIFICATE Recaptured in Beautiful Volumes Your Family Will Be Proud to Own HERE is an amazing opportunity! Now you can bring into your home The Collected Works of Zane Grey — in beautiful matched volumes, “Golden West De Luxe Editions.” Who can read Zane Grey’s tales and not be swept away by their colorful action, their breath¬ taking thrills, their blood -tingling excitement? Here are fearless men and the women they fought for: ruthlessdesperadoesandtrigger-quick outlaws. Here is the roar of blazing guns — and the awe-inspiring silence of prairie and canyon. How proud you will be to display these lux¬ urious volumes —gorgeously bound in beautiful buckram and clothl Yet they come to you for less than the price of ordinary books! Just picture them in your home — and imagine the world of pleasure they will open up to your family 1 The partial list that follows gives you only an inkling of the thrills that await you: 1. CAPTIVES OF THE DESERT. The brand-new ZANE GREY book Your first volume. (Descrip¬ tion above.) 2, RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE. Brave days of old Utah— drenched with blood of men who gambled their lives for adventure, gold! 3. WILDFIRE. The tempestuous story of a great wild stallion, a fiery girl and the man who was strong enough to tame them both! 4. ARIZONA AMES. His blazing six-shooter spread terror among the toughest badmen! 5. SHADOW ON THE TRAIL. Quick-shooting Wade Holden fights with raw-hide tough rustlers. 6. ROGUE RIVER FEUD Violence and death on Rogue River, where men stopped at. nothing to . • ricli sa‘ win the high stakes of the r l salmon runs. 7. DESERT GOLD. Spine-tingling adventure of men and women crazed by the lure of riches. 8. WEST OF THE PECOS Into this land of the ’T'la’vUess came a hard-riding, straight-shooting ' youlTtwnan — who turned out to be a ttlrU 9. THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS. Mighty epic of warfare, throbbing with rip-roaring excitement: 10. CALL OF THE CANYON. Smashing drama of death and danger — racing to a climax that leaves you breatliless! The other great volumes, of which space does not permit description, include 11. 3U.000 On the Hoof; 12. Wild Horse Mesa. 13. The Vanishing American; 14. Fighting Caravans; 15 The Hash Knife Outfit; lfi The Mysterious Rider; 17. Twin Sombreros. 18 TheHentage oftlie Desert; 19 Wes¬ tern Union: 20. Under the Tonto Rim. 21. Rob¬ bers' Roost: 22. Shepherd of Guadaloupo; 23. Thunder Mountain: 24 To The Last Man : 25 The Man of the Forest Every one is complete — not a thrilling word Is cut! SEND NO MONEY Send no money! Just mail the RESERVA TION CERTIFICATE to examine the first volume in the Zane Grey “Golden West De Luxe Editions,” CAPTIVES OF THE DESERT A copy of this book will be sent at once With it will come a special reader’s invoice for $1.89 as complete payment, plus a few cents mailing charge, and complete instructions on how to get your other beautiful volumes. There are positively no other charges. No “fee.” no “deposit." Your first book will come at once. First come, first served. Send the Reservation Certificate NOW1 BLACK’S READERS SERVICE CO., Suit* 1000, On« Park Avenua, New York 16, N. Y. BLACK’S READERS SERVICE COMPANY VO Suite 1000 1 Park Avenue, New York 16, N. Y. Please reserve m my name the books listed in your generous offer to readers of Collier’s the luxuriously- bound “Golden West De Luxe Editions" of Zane Grey. Send me at once the first book. CAPTIVES OF THE DESERT. I enclose NO MONEY IN ADVANCE; but within one week I will send you only $1 89. plus a few cents mailing charge and I will be entitled to receive each following handsome De Luxe volume as it comes from the press, at the same low price, sending no money in advance. Books shipped m U S A only i Name Address . (PLLASK PRINT PLAINLY) Ci ty . State

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4 men who core |f>V ff Suave their hair SUAVE- the hairdressing created for the one man in four who'd rather pay a little more to get a tot more In grooming satis¬ faction. The kind of hairdressing you’ve always wanted, but never found before. The only hairdressing in the world with secret-formula Curtisol-insures perfect hair grooming naturally. To look suave, use Suave daily. In alligator grained plastic squeeze flask $~| Travel size 60c VJL FOR MEN The Luxury Hairdressing ALBERT E. WINGER Choir mon of tho Board CLARENCE E. STOUCII President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CUAPLIN, Assistant Publisher CORDON MANNING. Managing Editor DAN ID MAN ESS, Asslstont Managing Editor MACLENNAN FARRELL, Fiction Editor ALLEN CLEATON, Senior Associate Editor JAMES TIIRASIIER, Editorials WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director GLRNEY WILLIAMS, Lor toon Editor JAMES A. QUICNEY, Photo Editor Associate Editors • JEROME BF.ATTY, JR. • WARREN BROWN • GERTRUDE RICKMAN JEAN R. CAMPBELL SEY CIIASSLER • HOWARD COHN • WALTER DAVENPORT RILL DAVIDSON • HELEN WORDEN ERSKINE • EVELYN HARVEY • DIANA HIRSH IIO.MER JE.NKS • CHARLOTTE KNIGHT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED M. LANSING JOHN LEAR • FRANKLIN C. LORANGER * TOM MEANY • BLCKLIN MOON JOHN C. PELLEW • ROGER PIPPETT • ELEANOR PORTER • CORNELIUS RYAN JANET SHEPS • FRANCIS WALLACE • WILLIAM WEAVER MARTIIA WEINMAN • ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Reseorch DIANE DOWNS ROS ANNE MrVAY, Chief ALAS M. LEVENSOIIN MADELIN ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT JANICE MOSES • JOHN NEW HOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON: JAMF.S C DERIEUX, Chic.fi TODD WBICnT WEST COAST (Los Angeles ): THEODORE STRAUSS, Chief ; ROBERT CAUN, JOHN FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR FREIDIN. WILLI VM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): PETER KALISCI1ER January 31, 1953 li 16 18 ARTICLES How to Run a Cam filing Casino . RICHARD DONOVAN San Francisco's Most Glamorous Women . collier’s color camera The Russian Soldier- How Good Is He? . SEYMOUR FREIDIN AND WILLIAM RICHARDSON Laughs Are My Business . PETE smith with Arthur marx 22 Why \ot Let the People Fleet Our President? . L.S. SENATOR ESTES KEEALVER WITH SIDNEY SIIALETT 34 R-o-m-a-n-y Revisited . Diana HIRSH 40 My Pet Rear . WARD MOREHOUSE 46 / Go Back to Ireland . JOHN STEINBECK 48 Maybe / Look Like a Crook . GURNEY WILLIAMS 59 Round the World with the Globetrotters . ABE SAPEKSTEIN WITH BILL FAY 66 FICTIOIV A Bachelor Surrounded . WILLARD li. TEMPLE 15 7 he Stingy Skyscraper . HANNIBAL coons 28 Stolen Pearl . JOHN KRUSE 52 The Favor . WALTER MALDAY 58 (THE SHORT SHORT STORY) The Good Land . WILLIAM FULLER 60 48 States of Mind . WALTER DAVENPORT 8 Editorials . 70 Cover . CAROL JOHNSON The chnrocters in all stories ond serinlt in this mngozine nre purely i mnginur* . .Vo reference or ollusio n to ony living person is intended. Subscription Deparlmenl, 204 W. High Slreel, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Executive Offices, 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIER S The N vtional W kkki.y V«|. 131. No. 5. PUBLISHED WEEKLY by The Crow, !! C.»lh«-r Pub¬ lishing 1 «un|»iii>. S|c mjtn'hl. Ohio. ISA. Publishers of C oilier**. Woman'.* !' .n> • l oinp-iinon. Ainei icon Mug. mi iio. Kw.it v.- .til l l.'litor.al Olti. « »0 t if il, Vvo . New York IV. S V Albert 1 . Winter. i b.tir-mm of the Bo.trJ. C'Ur«*m o l . Stonoh I'nm.iriit 1.. A S. hnim-r l- v , olive \ l.'nt I. 1 ltrnnt It Pott-r J 1 burned, m l.,l\t.*r««yimnir. Ra’ph O Sii itli. John W Me* Phei r li. Win A Sutig. \ iee- President* : Denis O'Sullivan. Secretary. F Nor*»ortli> . Treasurer. SUBSCRIPTION PRICES: United Suite-, and ?«*.*»•*. &iona. L'uuada and Philippine Inlands, 1 year $.’>.00: 2 years $$ 00. 2) year- 030 issues $0.00; .3 years $10.00; 4 year* $12 00. Pan- Ymcnean countries in the Pn«tnl Union. 1 year $!hm. under Yet of Mareh 3. 1*70. Authorized as sccoud-elns. mad. Post Othce Department. Ottawa. Canada. MANUSCRIPTS or art submitted to Collier's. The Nation »! Wed s, should be accompanied by addressed envelopes and return postage. The Publisher assumes no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts or art. The Cover We don’t know the name of the gentle¬ man in the foreground, but we can think of a number of names he’ll un¬ doubtedly call little Johnny if the young¬ ster finally gets a bead on that fine head of skin. We only hope that Mom or the approaching conductor can manage to avert what might be called a scene. Art¬ ist Carol Johnson once witnessed this potentially messy drama but won’t tell us how it turned out. All he’ll say is that his own thatch is thin and that he makes a point of never turning his back on any tot under five years of age. Week’s Mail Runyon Booster Editor: Tom Runyon’s story of Ole Lindquist (Number 9843, Dec. 6th) was tops. It caused a lot of comment out in this neck of the woods. I am doing — and will do — all I can to get Runyon moving toward a parole. It may be a long grind. This is not to say that I am a prime figure in the whole affair. Warden Lainson and others go before me. When I was warden nearly a genera¬ tion ago the average life sentence in Iowa was 17 years. Runyon, I think, has done about 15 years and, therefore, is close to the day, if the law of aver¬ ages holds, when his case could be con¬ sidered anew. I hope so. He could become a highly valuable member of free society and would, I think, go far as a writer. J. R. Perkins, Pastor Emeritus, First Congregational Church, Council Bluffs, Iowa The Reverend Dr. Perkins was warden of the Iowa Slate Penitentiary for three of the more than 42 years that Ole Lind¬ quist spent ihcrc. Tom Runyon, another lifer, was the author of Collier’s article about Lindquist. America’s A-Sub Editor: Your article concerning Amer¬ ica’s New Dreadful Weapon (Dec. 20th) has raised a very perplexing question in my mind. Conceding that this “dread¬ ful weapon” will be here shortly, and assuming that we have no monopoly on the item in question, how will the supercarrier or the fast carrier task force (commented on in such great de¬ tail in one of your prior issues) sur¬ vive in a sea inhabited by Russian atomic subs? It appears to an uninformed layman that we could conserve our resources more effectively by converting our naval force from fast carrier task forces to atomic submarines. John A. Griffin, Alexandria, Va. . . . After reading America’s New Dreadful Weapon and looking at your cover, I can assure you that, if I should meet this submarine head on under water, it could save its torpedoes, for it would surely frighten me to death. In all seriousness, though, it’s a splen¬ did article on a most vital subject. Billie Frances Smith, Houston, Texas . . . Regarding America’s New Dread¬ ful Weapon, it is stated: “Then the Bu¬ reau of Ships is working on a device to take oxygen from water.” When this is possible, will we need atomic energy in any form but its destructive one? This . CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reach us live weeks in advance . r of the next issue date. Give both the old and new addresses, i COPYRIGHT. 105.1, BY IIIE CROW ELL-COIT.IER PUBLISHING COMPANY (All rights reserved) Publisher* of Collier’s, The American Magazine, Woman’s Home Companion /

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5 How much do reckless drivers add to your auto insurance bill ? Here’s an amazing fact! Year after year, from 15 to 20% of the drivers on the road have 80% of all accidents. That’s a big reason why State Farm Mutual can offer sound auto insurance at such remarkably low rates. For State Farm aims to insure only careful drivers. The reckless 15% — the ones who have most of the accidents— do not have to be considered in establishing State Farm rates. And this, plus other State Farm economies and efficiencies, makes it possible for this great mutual insurance company to offer careful drivers sound insurance at rates which may save them many dollars a year. If you drive carefully, it will pay you to investi¬ gate State Farm’s low-cost, “careful driver’’ insur¬ ance. Phone your local State Farm agent. He’s listed under “State Farm Insurance*’ in your classi¬ fied phone book. Other benefits of State Farm membership 1. Semi-annual premium payments. Wouldn’t it be easier on your budget to pay for your automobile insurance in two small payments each year, rather than in one lump sum? Advanced State Farm bill¬ ing and bookkeeping practices make this possible for State Farm members— at no increase in cost. 2. Mutual benefits. State Farm is a mutual com¬ pany. Savings from low claim costs and high oper¬ ating efficiency are passed on to members, who actually own the company, in the form of low insurance rates. On the other hand. State Farm policies are non-assessable. You never pay more than the established rate for any period. 3. Fast, fair claim settlement. More than 6,500 State Farm agents and claim representatives stand ready, day or night, to come to your aid in case of accident. State Farm cuts red tape— pays an aver¬ age of one claim every 12 seconds, every working day. 4. Established leadership . State Farm now writes more full-coverage automobile insurance than any other company, with more than 2,400,000 members in the auto company alone. And new applications for State Farm insurance are averaging 2,000 every working day ! Look to State Farm for Life and Fire Insurance, loo. See your agent! State Farm Insurance Companies State Farm Mutual Automobile Insurance Company State Farm Life Insurance Company State Farm Fire and Casualty Company Home office: Bloomington, Illinois • Branch offices: Berkeley, California • St Paul. Minnesota • Lincoln. Nebraska • Marshall, Michigan • Dallas, Texas • Charlottesville, Virginia • Toronto. Ontario • Field claim offices in more than 250 principal cities Hear " Cecil Brown News Commentaries Saturdays and Sundays over Mutual Broadcasting System stations. Check local radio listings.

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6 44 Dewar’s White Label and Victoria Vat \ The Medal SCOTCH of the World Full Dress of Drum Major of The Gordon Highlanders in the Traditional Regimental Tartan. for distinguished service White Label Me dcil Scotch for more than 80 years Victoria Vat "None Finer ” Famed are the dans of Scotland . . . their colorful tartans worn in glory through the centuries. Famous, too, is Dewar’s White Label and Victoria Vat, forever and always a wee bit o' Scotland in a bottle ! \4 riM N_J , y r f,'v __ cfisrrj&F-i White Label' LEADED SCOTCH WHIST WinDewariSoDsl' DlSTILLlHS Perth © Schenley Import Corp., N. Y. Both 86.8 Proof Blended Scotch Whisky Week’s Mail CONTINUED would open the avenue to unlimited cheap power and locomotion. There would be no need for coal or oil; every¬ one could have an oxygen converter for heat, fuel and perfect air conditioning in his home, and one in his car. Or would that upset our economy too much? W. A. Sullivan, Poteet, Texas . . . The story of America’s New Dread¬ ful Weapon must have come as a shock to many Americans who, in magazines and newspapers, have been told of the need for secrecy in much of our war implements and preparations for our protection in time of war. Now in Col¬ lier’s we find all that an expert needs to know about building an atomic subma¬ rine. And the bad feature of the story was that the information was given to your magazine by a Rear Admiral of the Navy in Charge of Naval Construc¬ tion. Public press and other sources of information were told to be quiet about President-elect Eisenhower going to Korea, so why were not the same sources told to be quiet about our se¬ cret weapons? With the information given and shown in your December 20th issue all the Russians have to do now is convert some of their now-building snorkels to atomic submarines and they will be able to match us under water. Some big brass are so anxious to see their names in print that they gave away state secrets as has been done in the past. H. G. Brant, St. Paul, Minn. The article in question was cleared by the IVavy and the Atomic Energy Com¬ mission. They obviously do not share reader Brant’s fear that we are giving away military secrets, or his confident contention that all the Russians need to do is to read Collier’s in order to build an atomic submarine. Saved by the Cover Collier's % Editor: You may be interested in an amusing incident which has to do with the cover of your December 13th issue. Christmas shopping, I’m sure you’ll agree, is a big problem to all of us, especially so to the wives of Westchester County who drive around to local com¬ munities in search of that elusive “some¬ thing different’’ and that equally elusive and all but nonexistent place to park. With shops brimful of gifts and gift seekers, it’s not hard to forget that one last present for Aunt Mamie. So I put another nickel in the slot and off I went to find it. When I returned to the car (in good time, I thought), lo and behold, there was that ominous slip of paper tucked in the windshield! Before reaching home, I picked up my regular copy of Collier’s and got a big kick out of the wonderful picture on the cover. I promptly tore it off and sent it along with the ticket and my check to the authorities in New Ro¬ chelle, scribbling across the top of it — “This could never happen in New Rochelle.’’ I added a P.S. to ask, “Is five minutes overtime so vital that a little Christmas spirit in your commu¬ nity couldn’t overlook it?” And then I added, “Next time I’ll stay in my own bailiwick and not patronize your town.” Well, Judge Christopher J. Murphy, evidently a man with a sense of humor and a good deal of civic pride, decided that the city of New Rochelle could not be found lacking in the yuletide spirit. So he ordered my check returned to me with a nice note and “A Merry Christ¬ mas.” He probably had a good laugh and came up with Christmas spirits ga¬ lore — and all thanks to Collier’s. Ethel R. Dillon, Yonkers, N.Y. To which we might add that the cover artist, Bill Randall, his wife and model, Maxine, and the officer, “Alfie” Hall, are all Mrs. Dillon’s Westchester neigh¬ bors in nearby Bronxville. Safety Lights Editor: Can slaughter on the highways due to improper speed be cut down? I think it can. Recently I drove a car in which an inventor had installed three lights on top, visible from all angles. At speeds of 25 miles an hour no light was visible. Between 25 and 35 miles an hour the green light showed. Between 35 and 45 miles an hour a yellow light. At speeds above the state limit on the highways a red light came up. I became as conscious of my speed as I am when I see a motorcycle cop in the offing. To all those about me I was advertis¬ ing my speed, and a cop a mile or two down the road could spot me coming. I think this idea will eventually be compulsory. James A. Worsham, Sr., Los Angeles, Cal. “ Columbia’s Grandeur ” Editor: As a reader of Collier’s for over 40 years, I wish to express my ap¬ preciation for the many, many won¬ derful articles and editorials that have appeared in this popular magazine, and for their general information as well as their inestimable cultural value. Particularly do I wish to refer to When 11 of 14 Children Were Hit with Polio, written by Karl Schriftgiesser (November 29th). From the sincerity and devotion evident in the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Thiel, the intelligence and effi¬ ciency in that of Dr. McGill, the eternal optimism of youth shown by the crip¬ pled boy Lawrence, and the beautiful happy faces in the main picture, one is reminded of a line from the immortal Bobby Burns, which with a slight sub¬ stitution could aptly apply: “From scenes like these shall Columbia’s gran¬ deur rise.” Trenton B. Currie, Houlton, Me. Collier’s for January 31, 1953

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EASr STREET — 19 S3 While you’re making resolutions for the new year, here’s one that’s bound to broaden your horizons. Resolve to travel the broad blue high way TWA Skyliners fly. It can be your road to greater success in business; your pathway to greater pleasure during vacation days ahead. Swift, dependable TWA Skyliners can help you see more and do more no matter where in the world you go. Where in the world do you wont to go? For information ond reservations, call TWA or see yovr travel agent, ACROSS THE U.S. AND OVERSEAS . . . FLY l SHANN DETROIT BOSTON- CHICAGO NEW YORK JH^HJphiLADELPHIA BALTIMORE WASHINGTON , ANSAS MADRID AZORES ST LOUIS LISBON ■ALBUQUERQUE BASRA PHOENIX TRIPOLI BENGASI cV|RO ^ uy pom TRANS WORLD AIRLINES ^ZURICH USA • E U - A F f? f C A • AS i A GENEVA* \ SAN FRANCISCO ATHE N^ * TEL-AVIV LOS AN nUlHPAN

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Florsheim Quality... for over 60 years America's standard of fine shoe value X mi -Since 1892 tin* name Florsheim has stood for l^10 *n s^loe qualit> — choice premium calfskins; skilled, patient craftsmanship; lasts ' v and styles to meet every possible indi\idnal requirement. \\ hy not make your next pair of shoes a pair of Floi'dieim* — and get on the (/miliiy standard — Amci i< a’s standard of fine shoe x alue. ? and higher Thr Florsheim Shoe Com pan v * Chicago • Mahers oj fine shoes for men and teamen STATUS OF Mi AD Bv XVALTKR DAVlilM’OKT Oppressed by the grinding rigors of winter on the rock-bound shores of Mi¬ ami Beach, a gentleman was holding forth about the good old days. Wasn’t very specific about dates, but said that the good old days were the ones to have lived in. Gentleman nearby set down his tall frosted glass and replied that ex¬ perience had taught him that the best days to be alive in were while you were still alive. For highly intelligent exchanges like that there’s no place like Miami Beach. ★ ★ ★ Detroiter named E. Krumbiegel had a good man-to-man talk with an elderly widower who had accumulated several million dollars and, after looking around pretty thoroughly for something to do, decided to marry a girl forty years his junior. Mr. E. Krumhiegel advised against it. Why not marry someone nearer his own age, and so forth? "Yes, yes,” said the wealthy widower, "I know all about that. But it’s been my experi¬ ence that it's better to own a few shares in a going concern than all the stock in one that’s all through.” ★ ★ ★ The Volunteer Fire Department of Blountsville. Indiana, is not frittering away its time worrying about aid to Europe, Asia and Alrica increased or decreased. But while the government is billionmg around, the VI D of B would like $350 earned in successfully fighting a couple of burning airplanes from Wright-Patterson Held, Ohio, and guarding the remains of the jets until the Air Force security officers arrived. Blountsville boys don’t seem to under¬ stand that anybody billing the govern¬ ment for less than a couple of million can’t expect to get much attention. ★ ★ ★ General Electric C ompany has just released a survey of the lives of work¬ ing wives. That means wives who hold wage-earning jobs. There are more than 1 0.OOO.OOO of these ladies at the moment, and we wish we had the space to tell you all GE found out. For ex¬ ample, the average working wife has one husband and one child. Twenty- four per cent of them own dogs. Most of them spend week ends with their husbands. She doesn’t care a lot for ironing, dishwashing, floorwashing, fur¬ niture dusting, window washing, cook¬ ing or washing clothes— in that order. Thirty-nine per cent are “quite tired” at bedtime, although only 22 per cent are "exhausted.” Twenty-four per cent are "pleasantly tired,” twelve per cent are “not tired — just sleepy” and three per cent are “wide awake.” And, oh yes. She isn’t crazy about carrying out the garbage. Neither is her old man — the bum. ★ ★ ★ Had it not been for a rather stiffish brawl when the ladies met in St. Louis to organize, there might now be an Anti-Mamie Society. The meeting was called by a lady who yearned to lead a crusade to discourage calling Mrs. Eisenhower by her first name. Undig¬ nified. First ladies should not be treated with offhand familiarity. But another lady, doubtless a fronter, said that if Doily was good enough for Mrs. Madi¬ son, Mamie was okay for Mrs. Eisen¬ hower. Another, probably a Democrat, insisted that Mamie was no more dis¬ respectful than Bess — the name of the wife of another but unidentified for¬ mer President. Besides, said another, Mrs. Hoover was a lady known as Lou. Anyway there isn’t any Anti-Mamie Society in existence yet. ★ ★ ★ One of our steady customers in To¬ peka, Kansas, says he knows an author who has just dedicated his latest book: "To my wiie, without whose absence this could never have been written.” ★ ★ ★ Among the nuggets of trifling infor¬ mation you may want to tuck away and forget is this item from Mrs. Regina Potholez, of Duluth, Minnesota: If you have your hair cut in the light of the moon, it won’t grow as fast as if you had it cut in the dark of the moon. ★ ★ ★ Mr. Truman and his pianos have gone. But there still will be music at fh()() Pennsylvania, Washington, DC. Old 48 is told on fine authority that Ike is no fumbleinouth with the harmonica. We re told. too. that his Oh Susannah caused many a SHAPE stall officer to break his arches stamping his feet. It is planned to have at least one har¬ monica on every mantel in the White House. I hus our new President will be able to solace himself wherever he may happen to sit down to think out what he's going to say to, for example, his new Cabinet. Also, he can carry one around for emergencies. Couldn’t do that with a piano. ^ Collier’s for Jnnuury 31, 1953

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9 JAMES HOWARD KINDELBERGER Aviation executive of international renown; distinguished engineer and designer; chairman of the Board and chief executive officer of North American Aviation, Inc.; served as Air Officer, World War I ; one of America’s most expert and sought-after counselors in all phases of the aviation industry. ERNST FREDERICK WERNER ALEXANDERSON World-famous electrical engineer; one of America’s outstand¬ ing inventors; has obtained more than 300 U. S. patents; re¬ cipient of international medals, awards, honors; noted pioneer in radio, television, electric ship propulsion, railroad electri¬ fication; consulting engineer for General Electric Company. CHARLES EARL DAVY Director of Engineering Operations and member of the Engi¬ neering Board of Chrysler Corporation; associated with ad¬ vanced engineering designs and procurement of vital material; prominent in World War II aircraft and tank engine programs; identified with top industry projects for more than thirty years. WILLIAM C. EDDY, CAPTAIN USN (RET.) Famed pioneer in all branches of television engineering; holder of numerous audio-visual patents; instrumental in building the Navy’s World War II radar training program; cartoonist and author ; respected leader in research and development projects; President and active head of Television Associates, Inc. These four great American engineering executives, who have a thorough understanding of electrical and mechanical devices, can afford any type of hearing aid at any price. They wear the seventy-five dollar Zenith hearing aid. ICES or

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10 RACING’S MOST COVETED AWARD AGAIN WON WITH CHAMPION SPARK PLUGS! “When you’re up against the best drivers and ears in the nation you want spark plugs that stay with you,” says Stevenson. “For my money there isn’t a spark plug in the world to compare to Champions and I give them full credit for helping make 1952 my big year. Practically every top race driver I know, here or abroad, will tell you Champions are the best!” The spark plug chosen by Chuck Stevenson— The AAA medal awarded for the best record in 15 big car races totalling 2400 miles. and by nine of the first ten AAA drivers must be the best and that means Champion! This preference by those whose lives and livelihood depend on engine performance means that when you pick Champion Spark Plugs you are buying finer performance, economy and dependability. Whatever make or model car you drive it will run better with Champions ! CHAMPION SPARK PLUG COMPANY, TOLEDO 1, OHIO CHAMPION SPARK PLUGS Better by Far for every car Regardless of Make or Year

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Collier's 9 January ,‘i/, lf),?X How to Run a GAMBLING CASINO RICH All!) DONOYVN Harold’s Club in Reno lakes bets of a nickel to more than $100,000. re|»laee» ils diee every three days, stakes losers to their fare home — and awards uni\ er>ity sehnlardiips THE hour was 6:00 a.m. A new day was dawning for most of Reno, Nevada. But in the down¬ town area, two thousand crap, roulette and twenty-one players still milled around the three large and brilliantly lighted floors of Harold’s Club, the larg¬ est legal gambling establishment in the Western Hemisphere and probably in the world. Banks of slot machines filled the con¬ ditioned air with a tidal roar. Thou¬ sands of kibitzers gravely monitored the play at the keno, pan, poker and chuck-a-luck games. A woman jack¬ pot winner shrieked her joy. Thousands of dollars were changing hands. Oblivious to the torrent of sound and activity, a small, middle-aged man stood in the center of the first floor, locked in combat with a nickel slot ma¬ chine. His face was haggard, his legs sagged, his eyes followed the twirling fruit symbols with sad but threatening watchfulness. Only four hours earlier, this man had been $6.65 ahead of the machine; and then he had been patting the machine and winking at it. Now, without warning, he straightened and punched it just over the pay slot with all his might. “I pull that handle 7,862 times and I lose thirteen dollars!” the man shouted as he was led away to have his hand doctored. “What kind of an asylum is this, anyhow?” In most Nevada clubs, his question might have gone unanswered. But at Harold's Club, it got the prompt, personal atten¬ tion of Raymond I. Smith, the general manager. Smith spent half an hour explaining to the man that Harold’s slot machines are set to give the cus¬ tomer the longest possible play for his money. He also told the complainer that Harold's slot ma¬ chines in July, 1950, alone paid out $8,144,842. The reason for Smith’s solicitude is that Harold’s has built its mammoth business on the little man with a little money and a little daring. “Let the big juice go someplace else!" says one of Harold’s oldest and most trusted employees. “We ain't no Monte Carlo!” Harold’s indeed is no Monte Carlo. It doesn’t boast jeweled patrons, cultivated croupiers or bar- bered gardens. And it has even less in common with its root ancestor, the Western saloon of fron¬ tier days. Harold’s is something new — a supermarket of gambling, huge, glassy, departmentalized and efficient. It has more floor space, games and cus¬ tomers than any other gambling club in North or South America. Although most of its patrons have no more than one dollar to a hundred dollars to lose, a player can — and has — bet as much as $ 180,- Half of the 300 dealers at Harold's Club are women, This is Anne Brewer, who deals al twenty-one table 000 on a single roll of the dice. That $ 1 80,000 bet, incidentally, set a Nevada record for one-shot wagers. Volume is the watchword. To survive taxes and inflation, meet a payroll of 500. clear an overhead of $3,700,000 — not counting gambling losses, which may run as high as $500,000 a day — and still make a profit, Harold’s must give and take an estimated $150,000,000 in bets every year. From this awesome figure, the house reaps a gross profit of $10,000,000 to $15,000,000 a year. To maintain a net profit estimated by outsiders at more than $2,000,000 a year, Harold's must at¬ tract a daily average of more than 5,000 customers. It docs so by staying open 24 hours of every day to market the most capricious commodity in the world — luck. Jammed around the gambling tables and slot machines, wrapped in furs or overalls, spurred by confidence or naked desire, the thousands of pa¬ trons struggle endlessly against the law of averages. System players whose brains might have made them famous had they concentrated on theoretical mathematics instead of craps sit figuring by the hour. Sorcerers sprinkle goofer dust over slot ma¬ chines and run in and out of the build¬ ing to check the moon’s position. Yet young women who try their luck for the first time stagger out the door with bundles of dollars big enough to paper a hotel, while the system players and vet¬ eran professional gamblers sit dazed and mumbling— but keep on playing. The men who run Harold's generally approve this never-say-die spirit in their customers. They know that, in addition to their modest, fixed percentage on the games, they stand to profit from something called the hidden percentage — a strange compulsion that sends the man who has lost $10 back into the game to lose $ 1 00 trying to get his origi¬ nal investment baek. Harold’s is not so serene about pub¬ lic judgment, however. People who spend one day pulling slot-machine handles may spend another pulling vot¬ ing-machine handles and make gam¬ bling illegal in Nevada. To fend off such an eventuality, Harold’s conducts endless good-will advertising cam¬ paigns, contributes heavily to church funds and aw’ards yearly university scholarships of $1,000 each to the top 112 graduates of the state's 35 high schools. Harold’s operates much the same as any lucrative business -with certain in¬ teresting operational and management variations. Raymond 1. Smith, a wise and talkative former news butcher, milkman and carnival wheelman from Addison, Vermont, runs the club and is responsible for most of the progressive advertising and business policies which have made it grow. But the elder Smith, who is Harold’s to most cus¬ tomers, owns no stock in the family corpoiation that controls it. His sons —Raymond A. Smith, the president, and Harold Smith, vice-president and the man for whom the club was named own two thirds of the stock, and the final third is owned by Harold s ex-wife. 1 h is arrangement woiks out fine. The sons wisely defer in most business mat¬ ters to their father, whom they pay a small fortune in salary each year. The elder Smith promotes a policy of s> mpa- thetie understanding for the customers of Harold’s, even though the players themselves have no other desire than to break the club. On one occasion, a Reno man who had em¬ bezzled $7,500 from his employers lost it in Harold's and then confessed to Smith. The em¬ bezzler got the money back after he repeated his story to the police and promised to stay out of the club thereafter. Then there arc always the losers who need money to get home. Harold’s has sent sailors back to San Diego, California, soldiers to the Philip- 11

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Harold'? ( lul> draw-* user 5.000 cu*tomer* a day. 1 hi? i? entrance on Dougin? Alley pines, and civilians to most states of the Union. Once Harolds gave a man S^O for train fare, hut inste. d ot going home he went up the street to Renos Riverside Hotel and won $6,000 shooting eraps. B. ek at Harold’s and lull ot bounce, he tackled the crap table there and lost the $6,000, plus the tram tare. Harold's again staked him to a raihoad ticket, this lime he did not return. Prolonged 'osing streaks by customers ean be just js bad news tor Harold's as tor the victims. I here are times when every game in the house will '-tart to win tion the patrons. Nobody knows why. ’'let tor via \ s. sometimes weeks, nearly every patron is reduced to penury at worst, dismay at best. 1 hen a rumoi inevitably gets around that the games are lived . and piib'ic relations sink to a new low. In the middle ot the tourist season — late May to October 1st a coup e ot years ago. Harold’s good luck really got bad. It all began in a roundabout way when a patron borrowed a nickel trom a bur- tender and won $385. Back at the bar. he returned the bartender's nickel, pounded his chest and an¬ nounced. “1 got the power! I have a message that 1 am going to ruin the house today." His boast, according to the superstitious local Harold's lihes its customers to win. The mandgement still: gambling fraternity, angered Lady Luck. In any event, the man lost all his winnings at a crap table. Then everybody at his crap table started losing; the losing streak spread next to patrons at a nearby roulette table, and it finally engulted the whole building. Alter the club had won steadily for a week, the elder Smith called in his sons, along w ith Guy Lent and Jim Hunter, his two most respected sublieuten¬ ants. for an emergency meeting. The club's spec¬ tacular winnings had to stop at once, he said. He then revealed that he long had been thinking of in¬ creasing the pay-ofT to winners at the crap, roulette and twenty -one games. Now was clearly the time to act. he said. So all live men got to work figuring percentages. At two o'clock the next morning, they were still figuring. At 9:00 a.m., Harold's telephoned the mathematics department at the University of Ne¬ vada, near Reno. "Is there anybody there who knows how to change the percentage on a race¬ horse keno game?" a strained voice from Harold's inquired. There was some confusion on the aca¬ demic end of the line, but finally a professor agreed to visit the club and look into the keno matter. It Was Too Much for the F>rofe»^or Three days later, the professor and Harold's management were all very tired. "We have about 500 winning combinations on this thing," the pro¬ fessor was saving. "Right, gentlemen?" Manage¬ ment nodded. "But figuring all the $0 numbers on the board, we have an infinite number of combina¬ tions — thousands, maybe millions. 1 don’t know." "Why don’t we just raise the pay-out on the six and ten spots?" somebody interrupted. "Or throw the game out of the house?" Abandoning the keno computations temporarily, the professor turned to dice percentages. All the while, terrifying reports ol house winnings kept coming in. "Hurry up." the elder Smith urged the professor. "Or it may he too late." But the dice were tough, too. There were, it turned out. some 495 possible combinations on these little cubes. In that many tosses, the house had 251 chances to win against the player's 244 — a percentage bulge of 1.41, That looked so small the management hesi¬ tated to tamper with it. The professor finally gave up the whole project and went back to the campus; the percentages re¬ mained the same. The Smiths were gloomily con¬ templating a luture in which they might easily win themselves out of business when news arrived that the spell had been broken; a woman on vacation from the Bronx had taken the Number Six crap tabic for $5,500. "This is a gambling hell?" she had inquired, loftily, on her wav out. Actually, the house's take on twenty-one also is almost dead even, except that the dealer wins with¬ out playing his last card if the player goes over 21 on the final draw; this rule gives the house a 2Vi per cent edge. Slot machines give the house a bulge ol 3 per cent or less; they pay something back, from three coins to a jack pot. e\ery six and a half pulls on the average. And roulette gives the house a 5.19 per cent edge. Each gambling house in Ne¬ vada decides its own percentages. The state does not set a definite maximum hut it will revoke the license ol any house which fixes its own take too high. On the other side of the cy cle are the club's los¬ ing streaks. When all the games in the house start to lose, all Harold’s can do is sit tight and wait tor the odds, which lav or the contestant who has the biggest bank roll and can last the longest, to go to work. House-wide losing streaks are bad, particularly for dealer morale, but the elder Smith is inclined to look upon losses to individuals with a jovial eye. Such losses can he excellent public relations. A couple of years ago, two Eastern students did Harold’s a great service. They were system boys. They arrived one day and began to study a certain roulette wheel, not playing, but watching in four- hour shifts. This went on for ten days and began to attract the attention of the local press. Then the students started playing number nine, the number which had hit the most times during their study period. They won more than $5,000 during the first four days, playing in shifts and never leaving the wheel. By this time, newspapers from coast to coast were beginning to root for the boys, and Harold's, which was being identified everywhere as a place to knock over, could not do enough for their com¬ fort and encouragement. Coffee and sandwiches appeared beside them; club olficials dropped by to see whether they wanted cushions for their stools. W hen the youths had won around nearly $10,000, Raymond 1. Smith beamed upon them as though they were his own sons. But eventually the students began to lose. Smith grew visibly distressed and kept urging them to quit while they were ahead. "1 couldn't stand it after everything those fine boys did for Harold’s, ’’ he said. The hoys finally quit while they were about $2,000 ahead. There are plenty of examples of Harold’s cus¬ tomers who have won small fortunes over the gaming tables — and knew enough to quit while they were ahead. A sailor who borrowed $2 from a buddy at nine o'clock one night recently, walked away from a crap table with $30,000 at 1 1 :00 p.m. A soldier who started out with $10 and played nothing hut point four at craps and then roulette won $17,000; he wired the money home to buy a farm. A divorcee with no particular interest in whether she won or lost at dice left the table with $70,000. A housewife playing with the monthly car payment won $37,000 between lunch and din¬ ner time. But the most spectacular incident in the spectac¬ ular history of Harold's Club occurred the night a well-known professional gambler from Kansas City , who had lost $180,000 in 32 hours’ play at a crap table, demanded the right to get even. He would be pleased, he said, to roll the house lor the whole $ 1 80.000 — single dice, high number, one roll. If he lost, he said, he would pay the house double the amount of his debt, or a total ol $360.- 000. Son Harold accepted the challenge. It was Harold's turn first; he got an ace. The gambler, fantastically. also got an ace. Harold rolled a three next. There was a terrible silence. Then the gambler rolled a four. Grocery Bill Upsets Gambling King It was an upsetting experience for Ray mond I. Smith, the we 11- went he red king of the little bets. The next day he visited a Reno market to buy some groceries for his wife. His hill came to $7.65. Smith was thunderstruck. On his way out, he lectured the clerk on the perils of inflation. And for days there¬ after — while his dealers paid out dollars by the thousands — Smith kept grumbling about that grocery hill. "You'd think money grew on trees,'’ he said. The elder Smith, a tall, somewhat grizzled Y ankee, ?pent 25 of his 62 y ears traveling around the country with carnivals. He ran wheels of for¬ tune at hundreds of drab little booths in which the prizes were candy canes Kewpie dolls and similar gewgaws. In the depression year of 1935, when the wheel business was doing no better than most other businesses, his son Harold, then his father's apprentice at a Modesto. California, carnival, set out lor Reno with his $500 life savings. The elder Smith gave Harold his blessing — and said his job would be waiting when he came back. "But 1 misjudged the Reno situation," Smith says now. "Harold bought out a bingo game in the building we still occupy , put in penny roulette and made a little money . Since there w-asn't anything else for me to do, 1 came to Reno and began passing PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY CHARLES STEINHEIMER

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Uudilers ul the memory of llte two-week period when the house won nil the pitls 13 advice around. When it worked. 1 came up with more ideas and gradually, without ac tually mean¬ ing to, began to manage things around the place. Alter a while, we sent lor my son Raymond, who was clerking in a bank in San Francisco, and I ad¬ vised Harold to give him a third ol the business, which he did. “Raymond’s the studious type, closemouthed, not like the rest ol us. so we made him president of the whole shebang. He spends most of his time in the office trying to figure out new ways ol keeping tabs on business. He set up our accounting system, where we run a profit-and-loss tally on every table alter every shift.” Three Girl Dealers Married Dosses The elder Smith took a twenty-one dealer from the club as his second wile 10 years ago and they have three children. Harold also married a twenty- one dealer from the club after his first marriage ended in divorce. Raymond A. Smith likewise followed the family custom and married one of the club’s twenty-one dealers. Unlike the younger Raymond, who is no mixer, both Harold and his father like to meet people and are great handshak¬ ers. Harold also is well known among gamblers for his ability to spot cheaters in the club. How does he do it? Just instinct, he says. The Smith family is generally a cheerful one — who wouldn't be cheerful with a $2,000,000 net annual profit? — but it sometimes seemed weighed down with problems. Turnover is always on the minds of the Smiths. When the club is running on schedule, there are 30 pulls a minute on its slot machines, two spins a minute on its roulette wheels, five rolls a minute on its crap tables and a hand a minute on its twenty-one tables. Over all, the house should win from 70 per cent of the cus¬ tomers, but gives them prolonged entertainment in the process. Guy Lent, Harold’s chief account¬ ant, figured out these statistics; just how, he wouldn’t say. Inventory and licenses are also a headache. Harold’s has 695 slot machines, ranging from nickel to dollar models and costing around $500 each. Federal, state and county licenses on each machine run to $390 a year. The club has 10 crap tables, costing $1,800 each and $1,140 apiece for yearly licenses, nine roulette tables, which cost Harold's boasts five bars. Bartender Bill Borden stands behind the Silver Dollar Bar Collier’s for January 31, 1933 about the same, and 20 less expensive twenty-one tables. I he keno. pan. poker and chuck-a-luek games, of which Harold's has one each, are less of a burden. When he retires to his crowded. Indian-blan¬ keted office on the second floor, the elder Smith has to think in terms of a department-store man¬ ager and a mystic. All games on the three floors must be placed to catch best the How of traffic and to avoid ihe flow ol hexes. A crap table that has been losing near the Virginia Street entrance may win near the hack, or Douglas Alley, door. Dealers who have been losing may have to be shifted to break the spell, too. Why such shilts should be necessary. Smith doesn’t know. But they usually work. In higher realms, the Smiths have to deal with a maze ol Nevada gambling regulations. Under Ne¬ vada law, dice must be within one ten-thousandth of a perfect cube: a Harold’s woman employee uses calipers to check the 9.000 pairs of dice bought each year from manufacturers all over the country and each pair is used for only three days. I he roulette wheels must be lice ol magnets, which would make the ball drop into certain slots, and the slot machines must be free of plugs that would make it impossible for players to hit winning com¬ binations. State inspectors drop in at times un¬ known to Harold's to check the games and look for minors among the guests. W hile they’re at it, the inspectors also may check the house books. Gaines Made f oolproof for Customers Then there is the problem of keeping the cus¬ tomers happy— and sometimes protecting them against their own follies. A loud gentleman in a sport jacket may start explaining the crap game to a young woman acquaintance. At the same time, he may begin to play simultaneously the front line and the hack line on the table, a procedure which makes it impossible for him to win. In such a case, a dealer is required by house rules to stop the game and point out the customer's error. Tact is needed, however, because most customers would prefer to lose rather than have their ignorance ex¬ posed in front of their women friends. This great mass-production luck factory is also efficient in other ways. It moves as fast as any bank when a customer wants his w innings or wishes Hubert Adair and Percy Kelley repair slot machines in basement workshop at Harold's to l ash a check It advei lives as widcK - m : conventional mannfaciuiers. there .tie H ruU > ( li ib or Bust sic ns on hi 1 1 hoards or I . ■ rs n> m t e ^ states And it has achieved vvh.q htiMiK wr.eri consider the best testimonial ol all „n umu mu rcpc.it business. Harold’s ( lub cstim. tes that about 60 pci cent of its customers return to plav .ej.on I ike any sei ions business entei prise. H> rold’s de¬ pends hcavilv on the qualitv ol its e nployees l or this reason, the elder Smith chooses them with I he care of a bank president Dealers, the core ol his staff, are his specialty . Job VpplirnHt" Severely Screened Applicants for Harold's dealerships fill out a questionnaire, are interviewed by a Smith secre¬ tary. and then if they qualify and there are open¬ ings, are passed on to the elder Smith. Smith looks for a conservative appearance, a cool. fast, mathe¬ matical brain, an easv going manner and sharp eyes. If the applicant possesses all these qualities and has stood up under Smith’s grilling, he is given a three-month apprenticeship under the eve of a veteran crap, roulette or twenty -one dealer. His starting wage is $10 a day. Lvcntually. he may work up to the top wage of Si 7 a day. Some 30 per cent of Harold’s dealers arc former lawyers, teachers, accountants or university grad¬ uates Almost every dealer is a Reno homeowner. Hall ol Harold’s 300 dealers are women, who were introduced to the gambling business by Smith in 1936. Most are between 25 and 30. because the job is tough on the nerves and the feet; and most are married. They handle all kinds of games, and work the same shifts and get the same pay as the men. Among the sober, fatherly -looking men deal¬ ers, they stand out like birds of paradise in the cowboy shirts and riding trousers that are their uniform. Women dealers have little trouble with roman¬ tically inclined players because gamblers seem in¬ capable of more than one emotion when they sec all those silver coins lying on all those emerald tables. When would-be romantics do appear, a woman dealer reaches under her table for a buzzer, rings three times (the trouble signal) and waits for the floor manager to arrive. W hen belligerent cus¬ tomers appear, she l ings much rnoic quickly . The only dealer ever to he manhandled at Harold’s was Tlu* three Smith* (from left): Veep Harold, Manager Raymond I., President Raymond A.

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14 .1 lighting failure eoultl start « riot. Bat Harold's just turns on its own power wop urn twcim-i nc dealer who was slapped down ; ; .i hu r I v customer lor winning with a smile. I Ik Hooi man i gel's ot whom Harold s has six, two lor c ich shilt are the management’s field generals I ike the dealers, from whose ranks they 1 ,i\e come. the\ aie all quiet, dolt, pleasant and ob- seiwmi. I hc\ combine the qualities of headwait- eis bookkeepers, lather eon lessors and house detectives Besides watching the customers, the 11)01 nnmaixM has to keep ,i cool eye on the dealers and the eh mge gnls, hostesses, cashiers and watch¬ men. And m his constant patrolling, he tries to icmain as invisible as the men walking the con¬ cealed. one-wa> mirrored catwalks which hang horn the ceilings ol the club's three floors; they, too. keep the customers and the employees under constant observation. ( row < U I) rawn by Lure of Easy W ealth I he chance of winning huge fortunes keeps the customers flowing into Harold's at the rate of 2 000000 a sear. I he crowds, the excitement, the whir ot machinery, the dealers' calls- — all con¬ tribute to an atmosphere of tension and controlled violence. Gambling tables and slot machines domi¬ nate all thice floors of the club, and even the deco¬ rative scheme seems to suggest action. Across the entire front of the building is a huge colored-glass mural showing pioneers sacking down beside a wagon train on the desert. Inside, the walls , re alive with pictures of hangings, scalp- ings shootings, massacres and other activities which highlighted Nevada's past. Near the first-floor escalator, believed to be the only one in a gambling club in the world, a kind ol blockhouse runs from floor to ceiling. Here are the floor manager’s office, the credit depart¬ ment, cashiers’ cages and a vault in which up to a million dollars is kept. Inside the vault, which is guarded by one solid steel door and two barred ones, sits a woman custodian who keeps track of arrivals and departures. Cashgirls run in and out, to and from various tables, carrying thousands of dollars without a visible care in the world. (Har¬ old's has never been held up, possibly because Reno has a large police force and is surrounded by desert, with only five easily blockaded roads lead¬ ing out of town.) On his occasional struggles through the crowded building, the elder Smith most enjoys the scenery of the second floor. This huge space, housing two of the club’s five bars, was occupied by hotel rooms before Harold's took it over. Now, full-size stage¬ coaches, smaller coaches, buggies and other an¬ cient vehicles hang suspended against three of the walls in the main gambling hall. The fourth wall is covered b\ what Harold's describes as the largest and most expensive collection of rifles, six-guns, bows, arrows, knives, bayonets, brass knuckles, clubs, hatchets, nooses, spears, sw7ords and other instruments of death in the world. Smith, the proud owner of this collection, feels that it re¬ flects the mood of the customers perfectly. The third floor, which Harold's added a few years ago. features two peep shows. In both, plaster reproductions of women of the proportions our fathers respected recline gracefully. Smith takes great pride in the building — even in the basement shop where repairmen are constantly at work on injured slot machines and where Har¬ old's big, emergency Diesel power plant sits. The plant switches on automatically whenever Reno’s regular power fails; otherwise the club might be plunged into darkness and all money in play at the time would be in dispute. Nostalgia for Old Carnival Life Despite the outstanding success of Harold’s Club, there are times when the elder Smith gets dis¬ heartened over what he has wrought. On one such night recently, he recalls, he found himself think¬ ing everything looked too big, too organized, too remote. He felt a pang of regret for those by¬ gone days when he operated carnival wheels and on occasion had fought his customers personally. Here he fought only balance sheets and his cus¬ tomers fought only the law of averages. There wasn’t a real gambler in the place, he decided. Not one. His eye lighted on a striking-looking old gentle¬ man who had been playing roulette 26 hours straight and had lost about $10,000. The old man arose finally, gaunt and unsteady. As he passed Smith, he announced that he would never gamble again. Near the door, the old gentleman suddenly stopped stock-still and stared at two bugs crawling toward a crack in the wall. ”1 have 33 cents on the brown one, by a nose," the old gentleman said. “I’ll cover that," said Smith, Suddenly he felt immeasurably better, Customers play some of the 695 slot machines in Harold’s Club. Machines are set to pay ofT from three coins to jack pot every six or seven pulls Collier's for January 31, 1953

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15 A Bachelor Surrounded By WILLARD If. TEMPLE H omen to the right oj him. iromen to the left of him — a guv didn't hare a elm nee. A dog's life irns better THE trouble with being a bachelor is that there are too many women in the world. Even if \ o u have cast-iron nones and don’t marry one of them, you're still surrounded. I drove home after a bad day at the office. My new secretary was terrible and I should have fired her. but even time I tried, she looked at me with that wide-eyed baby stare, and 1 lost my courage. Now I had to stop olT at the rental office and give Miss Hillcrcst my rent check. I hated dealing with Miss Hillcrcst. Her eyes, which weren’t baby blue, stared disapprovingly at me from behind gold- rimmed spectacles; they always seemed to express her conviction that it had been a bad mistake to let me have the apartment. I parked the car and went inside. She was just an old crosspatch, I told myself, and she couldn’t intimidate me. 1 paid niy rent on time, didn't 1? Well, all right. I thought, and slapped down my check. “Good evening, Mr. Shelton," she said coldly. “W e have had an¬ other complaint about you. That is the second this month." 1 tried to meet Miss Hillcresfs eye, became aware 1 had neglected to remove my hat, jerked it ofl and dropped it. “I’m sorry, M iss Hillerest," I said. “I had a little poker part) — " “It must not happen again," Miss Hillcrcst said. A beaten man, 1 retrieved my hat and got out of there. Auto¬ matically I walked toward the pet shop down the street to pay my respects to the lone, lorn cocker spaniel in the window. I felt a kin¬ ship for that dog. He was the last ol a litter. His ears were ragged and his expression hopeless. He knew he was licked. The other dogs found homes, but not him. In a way, he could be called a bachelor dog. Every night 1 looked into the window and wished him luck. But this time he too was gone: the window w?as empty. Maybe someone had taken pit) on him. 1 wouldn’t ever find out. I went back to the apartment-house garage, thinking las 1 had taken to do¬ ing at all moments lately) of my next-door neighbor. Susan Chal¬ mers was her name; Ed looked tor it on her mailbox. 1 had met her in the hallway a month betore, when 1 came in and found her struggling to open her door with her arms full of packages. “Allow me,” I said, and took the bundles while she operated her key. I followed her in, cheeking the vital statistics. She was about five four, chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, and easily the prize tenant. I debated asking her out tor dinner. But a girl right next door can become a serious complication, and while I hesitated, she took the packages from my arms. “Thanks, chum," she said, pushed me lightly outside, and shut the door in my face. End of romance. It was probably tor the best, 1 thought, but still I kind of kept hoping something would develop. I even took to leaving my front door open, but nothing happened. 1 put my car in the garage and walked into the building. The door to Apartment I A opened up, and old lady Skinner, a widow, glared out at me. “Did Miss Hillcrcst speak to you?" she said. 1 decided not to take any more female (Continued on page 44) “You think you know a lot. don’t you?" Susan said. •’I’ll go — hut only for Topper’s sake. Sot* ii the coast is clear" ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR SARNOFF

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16 Collin's COLOtt CAMERA FRANCISCO’S CLAMOROUS WOMEN l$u -thc-Hav columnist Ilerh Caen, otherwise known as "Mr. San Francisco,’’ makes his selections

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PHOTOGRAPH FOR COLLIERS BY CARLYLE BLACKWELL, JR. THHRF may be more beautiful women in San Francisco than the 12 who are looking out at you I mm these two pages, but in my many wanderings about town lor the San Francisco Fxaminer I have found none more glamorous. Along with their obvious physical beauty, they arc exciting and talented representatives of an exciting city. If I could boil their qualities down to one word, I would say that they have importance in their own circle, in the public's eye and in the city as a whole. I heir glamor, if we may use the term all- inclusively, is universal and recognizable. Mrs. George Ross, 31, is the wife of a rcal- cstatc-insurancc man and the mother of two daughters (7 and 3) and a boy (4). She appears extensively on local television. Mrs. David Fcntriss I till. 2F is married to a prominent rancher. I hev have a sixteen month- old son. Mrs. Adam Musto, 3b. has two daughters aged 14 and 3. and a son 12. I lei husband is a lawver Mrs. 1 dvvm M W ilson 22. wile ol an insurance broker, is the mother ol a 17-month-old girl. Mrs. John McW horter, 12. also is married to an insurance broker. Thev have two girls (one 7, the other I 3 months) and a son 2. Mrs. C larence Young. 4 3. who as 1 ois Moran was once a stage and screen star, is the wile ol an airline executive and the mother of a son lb. Mrs, Victor Bergeron. 4 3. is married to the noted restaurateur, I ruder Vic, and has a 2 1 -year- old daughter. Mrs. Jackson Moffett, 32, is the mother of a 17 girl, aged ^ Her husband is in oie ■ rl business Fide Snow Wong ( Mrs Woodiow One) '0. a well-known ceramic isl and the uitrthr * Bi. recent best-selling autobi >graph\ 1 ilth ( hmesc I )<iughter. Mis. Henrv Holding. 44. wife of a stoelFn ker is a societv leader and active in chant worf Mrs. Bettv Holmes. 2K, has one son aged h and another 3. She recent Iv divorced C hristiun Holmes III, heir to a veast lortune. Mrs. Robert 1 olger Miller, 2b. h.is a 3 v ear-old daughter, and sons aged 2 and 1. Her husband is in law school. Well, there you are. If there’s anv eitv that suvs it has lovelier ladies than San 1 rancisco I shall defend to the end their right to suv it. hut I'll never believe it. Hi kb ( \i n

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i Killian uomni soldier* through tlic same grueling training schedule as men comrades Frankfurt, Germany r I THF Russian combat soldiers — -women as well as men who lace our troops across occupa- tion-/one borders in Germany and Austria are just as touch and formidable as those who threw the Nazis out o! the Soviet Union and cap¬ tured Beilin in World War J.l. 1 hev Irani as long as 12 hours a da> , are kept in an almost constant state of alert and are being in- llamed In propagandists against the United States. It our own soldiers in German) and Austria never bet ore ha\e had it so good, then — in the words ol a Russian deserter who has been in the west long enough to learn the vernacular — Soviet troops “never had it so rough. ” 1 here are no well-stocked post exchanges, no sctmcc clubs, no pretty hostesses lor Soviet sol¬ diers. 1 he Russian GIs ha\e onh a poor imitation of a post exchange, with no more goods than are displav ed on the nearh hare shelves ol stores at home I he\ have entertainment, hut even the the¬ ater tioupes and concert paitics hammer away most ot lhe time at the glorification of Commu¬ nism the dedication ol Joseph Stalin and the threat ot American imperialism And attendance at these propaganda pai ties is as compulsorv as attendance at the Soviet airm’s two-hour political indoctrina¬ tion lectures. \s ,i matter ol tact, the Soviet soldier has no eisure time he can call his own. He spends almost HI his waking hours tiainmg phvsieallv and men- i.i llv to de end his homeland horn wh.it his Com¬ munis: political officers tell him is an impending Amci lean attack. Ihe Russians mav he, exaggerate and bluster about othoi things, but the lighting abilitv ot t lie Soviet soldier and his preparedness tor battle are no nulls Ihe tough Soviet lighting man and woman ol ins} are as much a realitv as Soviet possession ol the atomic bomb, and a force equally to he reckoned with Ibis h st authentic, up-to-date picture of the soldiers who make up Russia’s anm and the life thev lead comes from oui own observations hehind the Iron ( urtain and .long its lunges, and from Russian deserters representing nearlv everv blanch of the Soviet militarv s\sum. It is a pictuie which laises vital questions for our militarv planners in these tense davs ot the Cold War. Are we pampering our soldiers too much.’ Would thev he able t o withstand . Com¬ munist onslaught from the east? Ihe real answers could he found onh in battle— a battle we hope will never come. I herefore our Chiels ot Stall must make their decisions on the basis ot informa¬ tion about Soviet training nethods and capabili¬ ties onh now becoming lullv available. Russian deserters often tell conflicting stories of their life in the Soviet army, but that is to be ex¬ pected. No two ollicers in any arms lead their men 18 The Russian Authentic reports from behind the Iron Curtain show lie’s just as formidable as in World W ar II. That goes for women troops, too or apply discipline in exactly the same way; no two soldiers react to that leadership or discipline in ex¬ actly the same way. But that does not alter the over-all picture which emerges from our interviews and observations. 1 here is perhaps no better illustration of Soviet all-out preparedness than the assignment of women as combat troops as well as to rear-echelon jobs similar to those held by our WACs. Women com¬ bat soldiers in the Russian army get no special priv¬ ileges. They go through the same training schedule as their male comrades. They get the same rations and are subject to the same discipline. Many wear the same uniforms as the men. l,We made our own brassieres if we could get the material; otherwise we wore none,” a Rus¬ sian woman deserter who used to be a noncommis¬ sioned officer told us. ‘'Even if we didn't feel well, we took our turns on the firing range as long as we could walk. We were treated like soldiers, and we were expected to act like them.” I he cx-noncom was a slim girl of twenty-five, Anya Zalenko, who deserted about a year ago in Berlin. She didn’t look as though she could heft a large-sized pockctbook, much less a tommy gun. Yet she was no smaller than blonde Lieutenant Maria Dononyev, whom we saw in action during the final davs ol the battle for Berlin in 1945. l ieutenant Dononyev commanded a group of light tanks on which Russian infantrymen were riding into the thick of the lighting in the burning German capital. When a couple ol infantrvmen were hit bv German bullets and toppled olT a tank, some of their comrades leaped down to their as¬ sistance. Maria cold-bloodedly leveled her pistol at the men and ordered them to abandon the wounded and get hack on the tank. They jumped back with alaeritv. One of the wounded even dragged himself painfully onto a tank, he stopped two more bullets before he ceased firing his toninn gun. I he Soviet general stall hasn’t given the Rus¬ sian soldier a chance to soften lip in the years since Germany’s surrender. His training schedule and field exercises are backbreaking and callous by American postwar standards. “We lived with our weapons — our tanks and our guns,” deserters say. "It's train, train, train. The equipment is your wealth, the gun your fian¬ cee, and knowing how to use them your life.” Russian ex-Sergeant Georgi Bayukin, a recent deserter now working as a larm hand in western Austria, also put it succinctly: ■ “I was a profes¬ sional soldier and served in the army lor 1 1 years. I he Sov iet armv I eels that recreation for soldiers is stupid and bourgeois. '1 he men were always told that they were being trained to light and that fight¬ ing men don’t have time lor anything else. “You can bet that everv man knows what to do with his weapons and how to care for them. He gets so that he thinks about them in his sleep. His equipment he knows better than his family. He’s in good phvsieal condition; he’s tough.” On defensive field exercises, the soldiers are taught to live like moles. Thev burrow deeply into the earth and use their foxholes as firing stations, sleeping space and latrines. They are told that every foxhole soldier should hold out until death regardless ol what may happen around him. To make sure that the lesson of never surrender¬ ing sticks, Soviet officers sometimes lash their men to field guns and lay a curtain of real fire on ex¬ posed positions. You might think this sort of thing happens only in training, but: “We often chained our soldiers to their guns during World War II to give others more time to retreat,” says Mikhail Paladko, a former Russian infantry captain. “They kept firing even when they were lashed to their guns,*' adds German ex- Major Ernst Gunthersberger, who was at Stalin¬ grad. ‘‘If they stopped, they'd be killed anyway: they couldn’t raise their hands to surrender,” In offensive training, the Russians still empha¬ size mass assaults. They taught this technique of human-sea attacks to the Chinese and North Ko¬ rean Communists, and the Asiatic Reds have used it effectively in Korea. Such mass assaults, even when they succeed, are costly. But the Russians always have ignored casualties. There are no casualty lists in Russian newspapers, no telegrams to the next of kin. As a matter of fact, there is practically no mail service in the So\ iet army. Families of World War II dead learned they had lost a son, husband or daughter only when he or she failed to return after Ger¬ many’s surrender. How Red ArmyA Wounded Are Treated Although the Russians boast their medicine is the most advanced in the world, you don’t see much evidence of it in the Soviet army. In con¬ trast to the slick efficiency of an American field dressing station, Soviet emergency treatment is a haphazard affair. The soldier is supposed to fight until he drops, and this rule of thumb hasn’t changed since the w'ar. During the Battle of Ber¬ lin, we saw a wounded Russian tommy-gunner fight on until the house he was assaulting was taken. I hen, assisted by two comrades, he walked a half mile to a battalion aid station under artillery fire and waited his turn in a long line, A dozen stitches were hastily taken in his wounded arm and, hall an hour later, the soldier was back on the line again firing his tommy gun. When a Russian soldier is in barracks, reveille is at 6:00 a.m. Rifle and machine-gun instruction takes up lour hours a day, and field exercises an¬ other three. Then the always emphasized political instruction, plus drills and numerous other chores, occupies the rest of the crowded schedule. There are brief breaks for meals. Mainstays of the diet are kasha, a cereal, served at least twice a day; chunks of black bread with each meal; tea, with one lump of sugar per man daily; and a total of 25 grams of meat daily. The diet is filling, if monotonous, and, as a former Russian army lieu¬ tenant explains: “A Russian soldier eats pretty well compared w ith w hat he gets at home. During the war, if he didn't get his ration of black bread and kasha , he could even get along by eating the bark off trees.” Just before “lights out”- — at 10:00 p.m. in the winter and 1 1 :00 p.m. in the summer — some po¬ litical officers require enlisted men to sing the So¬ viet hymn. If the officer is dissatisfied with the singing, he may force the men to sing it five or six times more before they can get into bed. The ordinary tour of duty in the Soviet army is two to four years. And it is accompanied by Collier’s for January 31, 1953

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19 Soldier— How Good Is He ? - By SISYMOl'K KKKIDIN an.l W ILLIAM RICHARDSON iron discipline. A Soviet soldier can’t go out on the town. Barbed wire, guards and watch towers with searchlights keep the soldiers close to home when they’re not on field exercises. They are for¬ bidden dates, and the only glimpse they get of women, except for their own soldiers, is through the barbed wire or on maneuvers. “Mostly, we don’t think about girls,” explained a former Russian private. “You’re so tired at the end of a day that you simply want to get to sleep. Of course, when you sec some girls passing by, you think about them. In East Germany, wo used to ask about meeting local Communist girls. We were told that we had better wait until we got out of the army and went home to meet Russian girls in our own communities.” Furloughs home are rare for the average Soviet soldier. Even noncommissioned officers seldom get them, and when they do it’s more likely due to their political than their military aptitude. The favored ones usually have shown their loyalty to Communism by becoming secretaries of army branches of the Komsomol, or Young Communist League. Home leave, when granted, hardly ever exceeds 45 days every three years, and there is no local leave. Officers in the Soviet army, especially the pro¬ fessional officers, lead an entirely different life from the enlisted men. A caste system has been built up more snobbish than anything the c/arist armies ever knew. The professional officer has his orderly or orderlies, depending on his rank. And in some units there are even separate movie houses for professional (as distinct from reserve) officers. Caste System Extends to Cigarettes The cleavage between officers and enlisted men extends even to tobacco. Officers can buy fine-grain tobacco cigarettes with good paper, and enlisted men consider an officer's cigarette butt a great prize. Russian GIs receive only a coarse tobacco substitute called makhorka, the usual smoke of So¬ viet peasants and distributed in strands sufficient for the men to roll six cigarettes a day of their own. “We used to wrap makhorka in newspapers to make cigarettes,” a deserter says. “Everybody tried to use Pravda (official newspaper of the Soviet Communist party) It burns the best How about pay in the Sen let army } Ibis quo" tion usually brings laughter from Russian desert¬ ers: they've had a chance to see the big-spending American GIs. Soviet soldiers receive, depending on rank, the equivalent in local currency of up to ten dollars a month “overseas pay’ while on oc¬ cupation duty. I he balance of their pay in rubles is held for them in their homeland. Over-all pay rates depend largely on the spe¬ cialized mechanical skills of the individual soldier. For instance, an air-torce sergeant mechanic is likely to earn more than an infantry lieutenant A mechanic may receive as much as 550 rubles a month (about $135 at the Soviet-pegged official exchange rate, but with tar less buying power than the dollar equivalent). Since an average en¬ listed man is paid only 30 rubles a month, most Russian soldiers try to enter technical schools. Admission into the schools is easier for those who know their Marx and Stalin; political officers get speedy action on the application of loyal Reds. Courses at the technical schools are thorough. Even to drive a Russian version of a jeep, a soldier Soviet tommy gunners attack Nazi troops in Breslau during World War II. Soviet general staff hasn't let Russian army go soft since then S Z-i- .To L.lv

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20 Itussia tolls its army that American soldiers are more besiittl than were Nazis must pass a strlt examination. Once he completes hi^ course, the soldier handles his equipment ex¬ cellent \ and keeps it in tiptop shape mechanically. Sosiu planes, tanks and motorized equipment may look seedv without paint or polish, but thcVre extien el > efficient. 1 he same standards also apply to the infantry¬ man s ri He and other equipment. From pistols to superjets, peilormunee not appearance — is the rule in the Soviet armed forces. Thus an unclean rifle hairel can send a man to a forced labor gang a decision his commanding or political oflicer makes on the spot. Arkadi Kudovskv. twenty -four, formerly a sen¬ ior sergeant in the 7Kth Bombardment Regiment, near V lenna, put it this wav : “We worked over our planes as if everv training mission meant life and death. It could, you see. And vve were always kept in a state called Alert Number 1. That meant we had to get from our barracks to our planes in two minutes." Kudos sky, lanky and grave-faced, is now a member of the United States Army. He was sworn in under the alien-enlistment program last Sep¬ tember, seventeen months after he fled his Soviet air-force outfit. I he enlistment program, estab¬ lished in 1 V 5 1 , provides for the admission of 12 >00 1 astern Europeans into the American Army. Recruits are screened for security and must take an oath, as did Ruijovsky, to "defend the United States against all enemies." Why do men like Rudovsky desert? Disillusion- ( pi. V. J. Fiorucci, from the Bronx. New York ment with Communist propaganda is the main reason. Away from their homeland for the first time in their lives, Soviet soldiers found it just wasn't true that peoples in other nations were oppressed and exploited. 1 hey discovered that Soviet living standards were far worse than those in the conquered countries they were occupying. Russian soldiers deserted by the thousands in the early days of victory after World War II, but in recent months the number has shrunk to an in¬ significant trickle. Security precautions have been so stepped up that Soviet soldiers in Germany and Austria have little or no contact with the local populations. Russian ex-Captain Mikhail Paladko, who fled the Soviet army in 1949, warns against expecting any increase in the number of desertions in the near future. "I think Americans overrate discontent in the Soviet army," he says. "Every soldier grumbles in every army. Then, too, most of us who were dis¬ illusioned already have got out. Moreover, the Russian soldier eats better in the army than he does on a farm or in the factory. None of us, ex¬ cept party officials, ever had or knew anything much better. We make do on very little. We don’t need meat, socks, beds, blankets or tooth paste." Another development instrumental both in re¬ ducing desertions and in conditioning the Soviet soldier for battle is that a growing proportion of the men and women in the Russian army appar¬ ently believe most of what they are told in political , shows American liaison plane to three Russian lectures. The political officers hammer on the dou¬ ble theme that the ‘United States is preparing to attack the Soviet Union and that U.S. soldiers are more bestial than the Nazis of World War II. “Every week we had at least two hours of po¬ litical lectures," says a Soviet soldier who deserted recently from the Soviet zone of Austria. “We were always told, in every lecture and by different officers, that American imperialists are preparing to attack the Soviet Union. 1 hey told us that American troops have no political indoctrination, that they won’t fight well, and that the American people are cowardly and have never won a war alone. At the same time, we were told these cow¬ ards were drunkards who would shoot civilians and rape our women. We were told they would loot and pillage worse than the Nazis ever did.” Another Russian deserter, Vladimir Feodoro- vich Moisejev, a blond, square-faced, smooth- shaven farm boy from the Tomoskaja district 350 miles south of Moscow, added; "They told us the Americans would never take any prisoners and we could expect no mercy." One of the mainsprings of the Red soldier’s fe¬ rocity in World War II was his deep, bitter hatred — and fear — of the enemy. Now he’s being asked to protect his homeland, whose defense, the Krem¬ lin contends, begins at the English Channel, against a more villainous enemy than before. Deserters agree that if war comes the Soviet soldier will fight just as fiercely and just as well as he did in World War II. Jk.Jk.Jk. army deserters in American zone of Germany RAY V. LAWRENCE Vi • * “ 'Yv - i/I 1 M % nJ hj Li . J

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Worth making tracks for. When the cold biles deep, a wonderful drink to head for is a wanning and satisfying hot toddy, made with that most satisfying whiskey— Four Roses. The very special and distinctive flavor of Four Roses has made this superb whiskey the first choice of millions across the nation. Wouldn't you _ _ rafher d ri n k TourTfosss Frankfort Distillers Corp., New York City. Blended ivhiskey. 86.8 proof. 60% grain neutral spirits. ^ r -

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22 LAUGHS ARE MY Here's how Hollywood's famed producer of movie shorts THERE comes a time in the making of movie comedies, even as in real life, when a man must go up a ladder. In 20 years of making Pete Smith Specialties for M-G-M, 1 have sent many men up ladders — so that they would fall off. It’s a sure-fire way to get a laugh. But there are only a certain number of ways a man can fall off a ladder. He cither can tumble on his way up, when he reaches the top, or while clam¬ bering down. He can fall to one side or the other, or he can slide down the rungs (usually to the ac¬ companiment of xylophone sound effects). Or the ladder can collapse or be knocked over. Several years ago, 1 sent a man up a ladder in a movie short which I was making at the request of the government. Called Seventh Column, the pic¬ ture pointed out the hazards of working in an indus¬ trial plant and suggested ways to avoid accidents. The movie showed the ladder climber perched precariously on the top rung among the eaves of a huge warehouse. Near the base of the ladder, un¬ known to the man on top, another man was carelessly driving a dolly truck. A huge hook pro¬ truded from the end of the truck, and it appeared to be only a matter of time before the hook would topple the ladder and hurtle the man on top to the d cement iloor. But my writers and I thought such a sequence would be too obvious. So we devised a new twist: the truck would pull the ladder out from under the man on top — and the camera would pick him up a moment later hanging desperately to a protruding ledge. The audience snickered all the way through the tantalizing build-up as the dolly truck drew nearer and nearer the ladder. But there was not a single laugh as the ladder fell to the ground with¬ out the man. The audience had wanted to see him fall and resented being fooled. This incident proved once again what an elusive thing comedy is. I have produced and narrated more than 300 Pete Smith Specialties ranging in subject matter from sports oddities to how to un¬ derstand inflation (which, incidentally, 1 still don't understand). Most of them have been comedies. Yet neither I nor anyone else in the business pre¬ tends to knowr exactly what it is that constitutes a sure laugh. A gag may have the audience in hys¬ terics in one theater, and the very same gag on the very same night will lay an egg at the movie house across the street. If you make one-reelers, as I do, you have but eight brief minutes to get your laughs. And if you don't make every second of those eight minutes count, the people will be in the lobby buying pop¬ corn and the feature will be on before you know it. But at the risk of sounding conceited, I think 1 can say 1 have sold less popcorn over the years than a good many of my competitors. I try to squeeze as many laughs into my eight-minute shorts as a lot of producers will settle for in a whole 90-minute feature. To succeed, however, 1 must be willing to do almost anything, so long as it isn't in bad taste. In this business, there just isn't time for subtlety or long build-ups to a gag. Whatever story points have to be made, I explain in a couple of short lines of narration. And as for the humor itself, I have to take advantage of every trick device imaginable — from comedy sound effects to running the pic¬ ture upside down. These tricks may be corny, but they pay off in audience reaction. At every preview, 1 keep my own box score — not only on the total number of laughs, but on the kind of laughs they are. A Num¬ ber One laugh is a boff or belly, a Number Two is a medium laugh and a Number Three is a snicker. Collier’s for January 31, 1953 Spilled orange* provided laugh in Pedestrian Uncle Sam says the mail must go through, hut was Safety, one of Pete Smith's funniest shorts he ever confronted by a boy with a squirt gun? Dave O'Brien, Smith's ace director, actor and stunt man. nearly saws hand in two while watching a pretty girl. Audiences thought this gag from Wrong Way Butch too realistic

Page 315

! 'BUSINESS 23 \u blit: smith with vktiil r makx boosts his laugh average as high as one every 15 seconds — -from snickers to ga (fairs I consider a comedy a success when it gets some¬ where in the neighborhood of 40 laughs, including from 12 to 20 Number One laughs. 1 don't always attain this goal, but on rare occasions I have even surpassed it. Pedestrian Safety, for example, con¬ tained 51 laughs — or a laugh every 15 seconds. Pedestrian Safety was a sugar-coated educa¬ tional picture. In a comic way, it pointed out many of the careless habits of the average pedestrian and suggested methods of preventing unnecessary acci¬ dents. I don't know if it saved any lives — I hope it did — but i do know it was a natural subject for comedy. The sequence which got the biggest laugh opened with Mr. Average Pedestrian spilling a sack of or¬ anges in the street and attempting to retrieve them from under a streetcar that was about to start up. Narrowly escaping death under the heavy wheels, Mr. Pedestrian crawled out from beneath the car and sat on the curb to count his oranges. As he did, a dump truck unloaded a ton of sand on him. That got a Number One laugh. Like all pictures, Pedestrian Safety had its share of Number Two and Number Three laughs. A Number Two, which I had hoped would be a Number One, showed our pedestrian alighting from a parked car on the street side of his vehicle. As he opened the car door, ignoring oncoming traffic, a car whizzed by and ripped off the door. Housewife's Boner Gets Only a Chuckle Actually, there’s not much to choose between a Number One and a Number Two laugh. Some¬ times just the size of the audience can make the difference. But there’s no mistaking a Number Three. What’s worse, a Number Three laugh se¬ quence isn’t necessarily less funny — to us — than a Number One or Two. Take, for example, a se¬ quence in Wanted One Egg, the story of a scatter¬ brained housewife who, needing just one egg to bake a cake, found her cupboard bare and set out for the grocery store. On her way there, the family jalopy ran out of gas, and the wife had to take a bus. When she returned home three hours later, she found that she had left her key inside the house. It took her another two hours to break into the house — only to discover that the front door had been unlocked all the time. The audience was amused, but didn’t laugh out loud. That’s what we call a Number Three. But to make any gag work — no matter how wild it may be — you must first have a sound basic prem¬ ise, or plot idea. It should be something that will strike a responsive chord in most people. Audi¬ ence identification, it’s called. It means something that’s happened to you, possibly in an exaggerated form by the time it reaches the screen, but never¬ theless something that will make you sit up and say, “Gee, that's just like what I did,” or “I have a mother-in-law who acts the same way.” Knowing what constitutes a good idea is one thing. Finding a good idea is another. Luckily I have a fellow working for me named Dave O'Brien, who’s one of the best idea men in the business. O’Brien is my man Friday. He di¬ rects and co-writes nearly all of my pictures, and appears as an actor in about 90 per cent of them, usually portraying Mr. Average American. The only time I don’t use him as an actor is when I’m making a sport short or some other kind of pic¬ ture which doesn’t require the talents of a slap¬ stick comedian. O'Brien has been working steadily for me for the last 13 of his 39 years. When he appeared in his first Pete Smith Specialty, Bus Pests, he had had no background in comedy. His acting experi- Collier’s for January 31, 1953 Upside-down actor-director Dave O'Brien tries to might happen to a careless telephone lineman.

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24 THE BIGGEST YOU’Ll ER...S Wild Pageantry CONCORD . . ENEAN EUREKA STATE FRESNO . . . WILSON gustine VALLEY LAFAYETTE PARK LAGUNA BEACH LAGUNA LA JOLLA GRANADA LINDSAY LINDSAY LIVERMORE STATE LODI . LODI MIL l VALLEY SEOUOIA MODESTO COVELL NAPA . UPTOWN NEWMAN WESTSIDE NEWPORT BEACH LIDO OCEANSIDE PALOMAR ONTARIO GRANADA OXNARD OXNARD PALM SPRINGS VILLAGE PITTSBURGH VOGUE POMONA FOX REDLANDS REDLANDS RIVERSIDE RIVERSIDE SAN BERNARDINO WEST COAST SAN FRANCISCO PARAMOUNT SAN JOSE PADRE SAN LUIS OBISPO FREMONT SAN RAFAEL EL CAMINO SANTA MARIA SANTA MARIA SANTA PAULA FOX SAUSAllTO GATE STOCKTON STATE VALLEJO CREST VENTURA mayfai r walnut creek EL REY WHITTIER WHITTIER COLORADO COLORADO SPRINGS TRAIL DENVER TABOR, ALADDIN ond WEBBER LA JUNTA MESA PUEBLO MAINE TRINIDAD FOX CONNECTICUT BRIDGEPORT MAJESTIC HARTFORD strand NEW HAVEN ROGER SHERMAN NORWICH LORD waterbury . POll FLORIDA ARCADIA . DE SOTO Bartow RITZ BRADENTON PALACE CLEARWATER CAPITOL DAYTONA BEACH EMPIRE DELAND ATHENS FT MYERS LEE GAINESVILLE state JACKSONVILLE . palace KEY WEST SAN CARLOS lakeland LAKE MADISON . WOODARD MIAMI L NCOLN 4 TOWN NEW SMYRNA . . VICTORIA OCALA MARION ORLANDO . GRAND PALATKA HOWELL ST AUGUSTINE . MATANZAS ST PETERSBURG PHEIL Sanford . RITZ Sarasota FLORIDA TAMPA PALACE IDAHO BOISE ... RIALTO CALDWELL FOX IDAHO FALLS paramount MOSCOW KENWORTHY NAMPA ADELAIDE POCATELLO .. ORPHEUM TWIN falls . ... IDAHO ILLINOIS AUBURN . . . ”R" BENTON . CAPITOL BLOOMINGTON . . . . . ESOUIRE CANTON . ... CAPITOL starring MARIA MONTEZ PAUL CHRISTIAN Faye Marlowe • Massimo Serato Produced by ROBERT HAGGIAG • Directed by JOHN BRAHM • Screenplay by JESSE L LASKY, JR. • From an original story by MICHAEL PERTWEE • Music by ALESSANORO CICOGMINI • Played by the Rome Symphony Orchestra • Released thru 20th Century-Fox ALABAMA B rmingham MONTGOMERY TROY . ARIZONA GLOBE PMOEN'X TUCSON YUMA EMPIRE EMPIRE PIKE GLOBE FOX FOX . YUMA ARKANSAS BALD KNOB JOY CLARKSVILLE STRAND CONWAY . GRAND EL DORADO R ALTO HELENA . . PARAMOUNT HOPE RIALTO LITTLE ROCK . CAPITOL MORRIITON . RIALTO PINE BLUFF MALCO POCAHONTAS . RAND STEPHENS STATE WARREN . PASTIME CALIFORNIA BANNING . BANNING BISHOP BISHOP BOYES SPRINGS . BOYES BRAWLEY . BRAWLEY CALEXICO . CAPITOL CENTRALIA GRAND CHAMPAIGN .... COED CHARLESTON WILL ROGERS CHRISMAN . . EMPIRE DANVILLE . ... RIVOLI DU OUOIN GRAND EFFINGHAM . . HEART FLORA . FLORINE HAVANA LAWFORD highland . LORY JACKSONVILLE TIME LAWRENCEVILLE AVALON MARION . ORPHEUM MATTOON MATTOON MT. VERNON GRANADA OLNEY ARCADIA OUINCY GLEN ROBINSON LINCOLN ROCK ISLAND ROCKET SPRINGFIELD LINCOLN TUSCOLA STRAND VILLA GROVE GEM WAUKEGAN TIMES WEST FRANKFORT STRAND INDIANA BEDFORD . INDIANA BLOOMINGTON PRINCESS ELKHART ORPHEUM EVANSVILLE MAJESTIC FT WAYNE PARAMOUNT INDIANAPOLIS LYRIC LAFAYETTE LAFAYETTE logansport LOGAN MADISON OHIO MUNCIE strand IOWA AMES varsity DAVENPORT ESOUIRE DES MOINES STRAND GRINNELL IOWA IOWA CITY STRAND KEOKUK . IOWA MARSHALLTOWN ODEON OSCEOLA LYRIC SIOUX city HOLLYWOOD KANSAS COFFEYVILLE MIDLAND COLBY COLBY Emporia STRAND HUTCHINSON FOX LAWRENCE PAT EE MANHATTAN WARE HAM MC PHERSON RITZ OAKLEY mainstreet PITTSBURG midland RUSSELL . DREAM SAUNA strand TOPEKA jayhawk WICHITA PALACE KENTUCKY ASHLAND paramount DANVILLE . . KENTUCKY FRANKFORT . CAPITOL LOUISVILLE . BROWN PADUCAH RIALTO WINCHESTER LEEDS LOUISIANA BATON ROUGE OGDEN HOUMA . . DRIVE-IN LAKE CHARLES . . . ARCADE MINDEN . TOWER RUSTON . . DIXIE MAINE AUBURN . AUBURN BANGOR BIJOU BATH . . . OPERA BIDDEFORD ... OPERA CARIBOU . . . . . POWERS FT. FAIRFIELD . PARAMOUNT FT. KENT . . SAVOY These are some of the leadijr will be playing "The Thief of Venicy HOULTON . HOULTON LIVERMORE FALLS DREAMLAND MILL I NOCKET MllllNOCKET MILO CAROL NORWAY REX PORTLAND EMPIRE ROCKLAND STRAND SOUTH PARIS STRAND VAN BUREN . MARILYN WATERVILLE HAINES WILTON WILTON MARYLAND BALTIMORE _ CHINCOTEAGUE CRISFIELD CUMBERLAND . NEW NEW ARCADE LIBERTY DAMASCUS . DRUID FREDERICK OPERA HOUSE HAGERSTOWN HENRY POCOMOKE mARVA SALISBURY BOULEVARD WESTMINSTER CARROLL MASSACHUSETTS AMHERST AMHERST BOSTON PARAMOUNT 4 FENWAY FALMOUTH . ELIZABETH FARMINGHAM ST. GEORGE GARDNER ORPHEUM GLOUCESTER No. SHORE GREENFIELD VICTORIA HAVERHILL COLONIAL HUDSON . HUDSON IPSWICH . STRAND LAWRENCE WARNER LOWELL . STRAND MAYNARD FINE ARTS MILFORD IDEAL NEW BEDFORD . EMPIRE NEWBURYPORT STRAND NORTH ADAMS MOHAWK SPRINGFIELD CAPITOL TAUNTON PARK WESTFIELD PARK WORCESTER WARNER MICHIGAN ADRIAN FAMILY ALPENA LYRIC ANN ARBOR MICHIGAN ATHENS . SWING BAD AXE . BAD AXE BATTLE CREEK . REGENT BENTON HARBOR . STATE CHEBOYGAN ... GOLD FRONT COLDWATER MAIN DETROIT . . PALM STATE ESCANABA MICHIGAN GAYLORD GAYLORD GRAND RAPIDS rko RECENT GRAYLING . RIALTO HOLLAND . . CENTER HOUGHTON LAKE . PINES HOWELL . HOWELL MAROUETTE . NORDIC MUSKEGON STATE NILES . RiVIERA OWOSSO . . . . CENTER PONTIAC OAKLAND PORT HURON . FAMILY SAULT STE. MARIE . TEMPLE TRAVERSE CITY . STATE WEST BRANCH MIDSTATES Y PS I LA NT I . WEURTH MINNESOTA AUSTIN . PARAMl DULUTH . GRA I FAIRMONT . FARIBAULT . PAR j MANKATO . MINNEAPOLIS CEfl ROCHESTER ST. CLOUD . . PARAm| ST PAUL Rl VIRGINIA . WINONA . Wifi MISSISSIPPI BAY ST. LOUIS. HIG| DR l GULFPORT . LE: OXFORD . PASCAGOULA LAKE DR J MISSOURI CAPE GIRARDEAU . BRC CENTRALIA ELDON HANNIBAL JOPLIN KANSAS CITY LIBERTY MACON MEXICO ST. JOSEPH . ST. LOUIS . . TOM SPRINGFIELD SHADY O/f'r PACEANT , MONTANA BOZEMAN . CIENDIVE . UPVr* GREAT FALLS . RAI HAMILTON . . . W*: HAVRE ORfjte KALISPELL LEWISTOWN NEBRASKA FAIRBURY FREMONT . GRAND ISLAND HASTINGS KEARNEY . LINCOLN NEE 51 McCOOK . (My NORTH PLATTE . OMAHA . <*► I NEVADA BOULDER ... . 8CC HENDERSON . VlC* LAS VEGAS . EL FT» NEW HAMPSHIR CLAREMONT . . CONCORD . CO DOVER . SJL* HANOVER . N CT KEENE . COLlW LACONIA . COlBU- LEBANON . OPERA )Ul« MANCHESTER . 5 M NASHUA . fM PORTSMOUTH

Page 317

25 -leatres which arting Jan. 23rd, 1953. NEW JERSEY LANTIC CITY . SHORE NC BRANCH . PARAMOUNT W BRUNSWICK . RIVOLI !EAN CITY . VILLAGE 3 BANK . STRAND MS RIVER .... COMMUNITY ENTON . CAPITOL LDWOOD . CASINO NEW MEXICO BUQUERQUE . STATE TEC . AZTEC RMINGTON . TO-TAH S CRUCES . STATE NEW YORK NORTH DAKOTA FARGO . GRAND GRAFTON ZELDA PARAMOUNT GRAND . STATE IBURN . .... PALACE 1 SABLE FORKS . HOLLYWOOD BION . . RIALTO TAVIA . . . . MANCUSO YGHAMTON . _ CAPITOL FFALO . . CENTER .NANDAIGUA . LAKE TSKILL . COMMUNITY ATHAM . .. . CRANDELl IBLESKILL .... . PARK IRNING . . PALACE )RTLAND . . STATE NSVI LLE . . STAR NKIRK . . STATE ST AURORA . .. . AURORA MIRA . COLONIAL iNEVA . . REGENT 3UVERNEUR UNION HALL 3WANDA .... HOLLYWOOD MBURG . . . PALACE JRNEll . . . . . .. . STEUBEN JDSON . . COMMUNITY iACA . . STATE .mestown . SHEA'S ESVILLE ... . REX iCKPORT . . RIALTO VLONE .... . PLAZA .DINA . ...... DIANA AGARA FALLS STRAND *3RWICH . ... SMALLEYS DENSBURG . . . . . PONTIAC J.EAN . . . PALACE VEGO . . TIOGA 1 TSDAM . . ROXY 1)CH ESTER . LITTLE EVER CREEK . . .... GEITNER RINGVILLE . . . ... JOYLAND TRACUSE . . ECKEL >NAWANDA . . STAR •ICA . . OLYMPIC UAVERLY . . CAPITOL •ESTFIELD .... . . GRAND NORTH CAROLINA iDone . APPALACHIAN u.INTON . . AUSTIN 4 IZABETH CITY . CENTER OREST CITY ... . GRIFFIN CKORY . .... CATAWBA ANNAPOLIS . . . MAIN taksville . ... ORGANTON . . . DAVIS S^LEIGH . . VARSITY ' 3CKINGHAM . . STRAND GRAND FORKS JAMESTOWN . . MINOT . OHIO AKRON . COLONIAL ASHTABULA . BULA CAMBRIDGE . STATE CANTON . PALACE CELINA . CELINA CHILllCOTHE . MAJESTIC CINCINNATI ... KEITH CLEVELAND .. HIPPODROME CONNEAUT . STATE DAYTON . ■ • COLONIAL DOVER . .. .BEXLEY E. LIVERPOOL . STATE E. PALESTINE. E. PALESTINE FINDLAY . STATE GALL IPOL IS . COLONY GENEVA . SHEA'S GREENVILLE . STATE HAMILTON ... RIALTO LIMA . OUILNA MANSFIELD . MADISON MARIETTA ... OHIO MARION . . . OHIO MASSILLON WESLIN MINERVA . ROXY NEWARK . AUDITORIUM NEWCOMERSTOWN . RlTZ PORTSMOUTH . COLUMBIA ST. MARYS . ST. MARYS SIDNEY . OHIO SPRINGFIELD . . MAJESTIC STEUBENVILLE ...... GRAND TOLEDO . . PARAMOUNT TORONTO . MANOS TROY . MAYFLOWER WASHINGTON COURT HOUSE FAYETTE WILMINGTON . MURPHY WOODSFIELD . NEW LIFE XENIA . XENIA YOUNGSTOWN . PARAMOUNT ZANESVILLE . WELLER OKLAHOMA MUSKOGEE . RlTZ OKLAHOMA CITY . HARBER OREGON CORVALLIS . STATE EUGENE . REX GRANTS PASS . RIVOLI KLAMATH FALLS . PELICAN MEDFORD . CRATERI AN & ESOUIRE PENDLETON . ALTA PORTLAND _ _ MAYFAIR SALEM . . CAPITOL AMBRIDGE . ■ ■ STATE BEAVER FALLS GRANADA BELLEFONTE ... STATE BELLE VERNON VERDI BERWICK . STRAND BETHLEHEM . PALACE BLOOMSBURG . . CAPITOL BRADFORD MC KEAN BROCKWAY . . BROCKWAY BROOKVILLE COLUMBIA BROWNSVILLE . PLAZA CANNONSBURG ALHAMBRA CARMICHAELS . LUND CHAMBERSBURG . CAPITOL CHARLEROI . PALACE CLARION . ORPHEUM CLEARFIELD . ... ROXY COALPORT . DIXIE CONNELLSVI LLE ORPHEUM COUDERSPORT . COUDERSPORT DANVILLE . CAPITOL DONORA . . HARRIS DU BOIS . HARRIS ELLWOOD CITY MANOS EMPORIUM . EMPORIUM ERIE . STRAND FRANKLIN . KAYTON GREENSBURG . MANOS GROVE CITY ...... LEE HARRISBURG COLONIAL HAZLETON . CAPITOL HUNTINGDON . CLIFTON INDIANA . MANOS JOHNSTOWN _ _ . EMBASSY KANE . TEMPLE LANCASTER . . . GRAND LANSFORD . .... PALACE LATROBE . ■ OLYMPIC LEBANON . COLONIAL LEHIGHTON . CLASSIC LEWISTOWN . EMBASSY MAHONOY CITY VICTORIA MAUCH CHUNK CAPITOL MC KEESPORT . LIBERTY MEADVILLE . PARK MT. CARMEL VICTORIA MT. PLEASANT . PENN NEW BRIGHTON BRIGHTON NEW CASTLE . VICTOR OIL CITY . LATONIA PITTSBURGH . J. P. HARRIS POTTSVILLE . CAPITOL PUNXSUTAWNEY JEFFERSON READING . WARNER RIDGWAY . STRAND ST. MARYS . ST. MARYS SAYRE . SAYRE SCRANTON CAPITOL SHAMOKIN VICTORIA SHARON . LIBERTY SHENANDOAH CAPITOL STATE COLLEGE STATE STROUDSBURG SHERMAN SUNBURY . STRAND TAMAOUA . VICTORIA TARENTUM . HARRIS TITUSVILLE . PENN TOWANDA . KEYSTONE TYRONE . WILSON UN IONTOWN . STATE VANDERGRIFT CASINO WARREN . . COLUMBIA WASHINGTON .. BASLE WAYNESBURG ■ OPERA HOUSE WELLSBORO . ARCADIA WILKES BARRE . . . ORPHEUM WILLIAMSPORT . CAPITOL RHODE ISLAND NEWPORT . OPERA SOUTH CAROLINA CHARLESTON . RIVIERA CHERAW . CHERAW COLUMBIA . . . FIVE POINTS GREENVILLE . FOX KERSHAW . CENTER LEESVI LIE . LEESVIllE MYRTLE BEACH _ GLORIA ORANGEBURG . CAROLINA SUMTER . CAROLINA SOUTH DAKOTA ABERDEEN . CAPITOL HURON . HURON MADISON . STATE MITCHELL PARAMOUNT SIOUX FALLS . EGYPTIAN WATERTOWN PLAZA TENNESSEE CHATTANOOGA . ROGERS COVINGTON . RUFFIN KINGSPORT . CENTER KNOXVILLE . RIVIERA NASHVILLE .. KNICKERBOCKER TEXAS BEAUMONT . JEFFERSON CANYON . . OLYMPIC CORPUS CHRISTI . RlTZ MARLIN . . . PALACE PORT ARTHUR . STRAND SAN ANGELO . . . RlTZ UTAH CEDAR CITY ... . CEDAR LOGAN . . ROXY OGDEN . OGDEN PRICE . . . . CINEMA PROVO . ACADEMY ROOSEVELT . ... UINTA ST. GEORGE . DIXIE SALT LAKE CITY . LYRIC VERNAL . VERNAL VERMONT BARRE . PARAMOUNT BRATTLEBOR0 . IATCHIS BRISTOL . COLONIAL MANCHESTER . PLAYHOUSE MIDDLEBURY . TOWN HALL MONTPELIER CAPITOL RUTLAND . PARAMOUNT ST. ALBANS . STUDIO ST. JOHNSBURY . PALACE VIRGINIA BRISTOL . LEE CHRISTIANSBURG . PALACE DANVILLE . NORTH HARRISONBURG . STATE LYNCHBURG . WARNER MARTINSVILLE . RIVES NEWPORT NEWS . PALACE and WYTHE & STUART NORFOLK . RIVERVIEW PARKSLEY . ROYAL RICHMOND . CAPITOL ROANOKE . . GRANDIN & LEE STAUNTON . VISU LITE SUFFOLK . PALACE VIRGINIA BEACH . BAYNE WINCHESTER . PALACE WASHINGTON ABERDEEN . . Di* BELLINGHAM . . AMERICAN BREMERTON . ADMIRAL CENTRAL) A ..FOX ELLENSBURG . LIBERTY EVERETT . GRANADA HOOUIAM . 7th STREET KELSO . KELSO OLYMPIA . STATE PASCO . LIBERTY PULLMAN AUDI AN RICHLAND RICHLAND SEATTLE _ COLISEUM SPOKANE STATE SUNNYSIDE LIBERTY TACOMA . ROXY VANCOUVER . CASTLE WALLA WALLA CAPITOL WENATCHEE . . . LIBERTY WEST VIRGINIA BECKLEY .... LYRIC CHARLESTON KEARSE CLARKESBURG RlTZ ELKINS . MANOS FAIRMONT . LEE GRAFTON . MANOS HINTON . RlTZ HUNTINGTON . ORPHEUM LOGAN . GUYAN MARTINSBURG . . CENTRAL MONTGOMERY . KAYTON MORGANTOWN . METROPOLITAN MT. HOPE . MT. HOPE NORTHFORK . FREEMAN OAK HILL . OAK HILL PARKERSBURG . STRAND WAR . WAR WEIRTON ... STRAND WHEELING . CAPITOL WHITESVILLE . BOONE WILLIAMSON CINDERELLA WISCONSIN ANTIGO . PALACE APPLETON . APPLETON BEAVER DAM . ODEON EAU CLAIRE . STATE FOND DU LAC RETLAW FT. ATKINSON UPTOWN GREEN BAY . ORPHEUM JANESVILLE . MEYERS KENOSHA . ORPHEUM LA CROSSE . HOLLYWOOD MADISON . . MADISON MANITOWOC . STRAND MILWAUKEE WISCONSIN OSHKOSH . OSHKOSH RACINE . VENETIAN RHINELANDER . MAJESTIC SHEBOYGAN . WISCONSIN STEYENS POINT . LYRIC SUPERIOR . . . . PALACE WAUKESHA . . PIX WAUSAU . . . . WAUSAU WYOMINO LARAMIE . WYO. ROCK SPRINGS . RIALTO HAWAII HONOLULU . HAWAII ALL THIS... And More! ^ H E RACE of the galley- slaves for Venice . . . under the . lash of the whipmaster! THE REVOLT of the rabble against Prussian mercenaries ! MEDIEVAL TORTURE! Tina— tortured on the wheel The Thief— broken on the rack! THE THIEVES against the might of the Chief Inquisitor! marriage parade of the Doge’s daughter — tens of thousands on the screen! ANGEL'S ROOST fabu lous hideaway of the cut-throats of Venice— where all law ends! THE INNOCENTS swinging from the gallows— for the secret crimes of the Masked Assassins! WW £ % ft

Page 318

Where floes Pete Smith yet ideas for film shorts? I ence had been limited to about 200 friend- of-the-hero roles in quickie Westerns. Will Jason, who was my director at the time, spotted O’Brien on the set of some Western, clowning for the benefit of the rest of the cast. Jason was so amused by the unknown actor’s antics that he insisted I use him in my next short. 1 did, and O'Brien has been doing prat falls and double-takes for me ever since. O’Brien dreams up most of the slapstick comedy routines himself. Then he tries to sell them to me by acting them out in my office. He performs with much gusto, climbing on tables, turning over chairs, knocking down lamps, in fact doing all kinds of acrobatics to make his point. When he is through, my office is frequently a shambles, and usually O’Brien isn’t in much better shape himself. It’s then that I ask myself: Is this some¬ thing that will be funny to the layman? If the verdict is no, 1 throw' out the routine, no matter how amusing it might be to me; then 1 throw' O’Brien out as well. Part of the success of any O'Brien com¬ edy is the fact that he does his own stunts. When O'Brien falls off a ladder or out of a window, it’s O'Brien falling, and not a stunt man or a dummy. The realism is w'hat makes the audience laugh. Several years ago w'e made a picture called Let’s Cogitate. In one sequence, O'Brien, while cleaning a second-story w in- dow', lost his balance and fell to the ground. On the w'ay down, he grabbed a rose trellis beneath the window and pulled it w'ith him. A dangerous scene to make — naturally — but by the time we were ready to shoot it, we knew exactly how to do it w ithout in¬ juring O'Brien. Our prop man would con¬ trol the action of the trellis so that O’Brien, while appearing to land on his head, would first break the fall with his feet. It w'as worth all the trouble we went to. It produced one of the biggest laughs we ever have got — because the audience ap¬ preciated the realism of the scene. O’Brien appreciated the realism of it too, because the prop man mistimed the falling of the trellis. O'Brien landed on his head — and was unconscious in the studio infirmary for six hours. Sometimes a scene may be too realistic. In Wrong Way Butch, a safety picture, O’Brien was working an electric saw. His fingers were less than an inch from the blade, but he wasn't even looking at it. His eyes were on a pretty girl in a tight sweater who had entered the workshop. We thought the scene would get a Number One laugh; instead the audience sat through it in stunned silence. I guess we should have taken our cue from the cameraman on the picture. He had to look the other way while O’Brien was playing the scene. Of all the sources of raw material avail¬ able, 1 believe that my own personal ex¬ periences have proved as rewarding as any. W’e have just completed a picture showing the trials and tribulations of an average mailman, and all the obstacles he must hur¬ dle before he can finally deliver the mail to Left: Thi* fall from Let's Cogitate was the real tiling. O'Brien tumbled from the seeond story while washing window. He pulled down rose trellis during fall and landed oil head. He was in coma for six hours afterward. Right: Dolly truek upsets ladder in Seventh Column, a short about safety. The audience sat silent through this sequence. It wanted mail to fall and felt cheated when he escaped by grabbing hold of a ledge your door — obstacles like the roller skate on the front step, the boy with a squirt gun, the ferocious dog and the locked gate. I got the idea from my dog — a boxer named Lobo. Lobo’s a very sweet dog, but he hates all mailmen. For the past three years our mailman has lived in constant fear that someday Lobo would chew' his leg off. Mrs. Smith was fearful he would, too, so one day she decided to have Lobo make friends with the mailman. She took Lobo by the collar and insisted that he shake hands w'ith the postman, who in turn patted the animal gingerly on the head. It w'as a very friendly meeting, and all the humans concerned were hopeful that rela¬ tions would be more amicable in the future. The reconciliation looked so promising, as a matter of fact, that Mrs. Smith let loose of Lobo’s collar. As she did, the dog lunged at the mailman and ripped his pants, from thigh to shoetops. Of course, we don’t get our mail deliv¬ ered any more — I’ve had to rent a post-of¬ fice box — but what’s a little inconvenience? I got a whole short out of the incident. Writers Musi Develop Humor Once the idea is decided upon, it’s up to my writers — O’Brien and whomever he happens to be collaborating with at the mo¬ ment — to develop the idea and put it on paper. This process is probably the most f painstaking part of laugh getting, for no matter how' good an idea you may have, if it isn’t developed properly, an audience won’t think it’s funny. In my case, it’s doubly difficult because * my pictures are made without dialogue. In a dialogue picture, you can always throw' in a joke or an amusing line to save a weak situation. But when you’re working w'ith pantomime, the action must speak for itself. ' Not only must it be funny, but we try to give every situation — even an old one — some semblance of originality. Good props are also important in laugh getting — especially in a comedy which de¬ pends on sight gags rather than spoken jokes. A prop can be anything from a break-away door to a flower that squirts water. But whatever it’s supposed to be, the prop has to look realistic enough to create the desired illusion on the screen. For example, if you show a man taking a bite out of a telephone, you’ll probably get a laugh. But if it’s apparent to the audi¬ ence that the telephone is really made of chocolate, you are not likely to get even a snicker. There’s nothing funny about any¬ one eating chocolate; you and 1 do it often. That’s why I’m a stickler when it comes to realistic props. For the ending to a sun¬ bathing sequence in Keep Young, we wrote a routine in which a bee landed on I O’Brien’s neck, craw'led up under his tou¬ pee and stung him. Accustomed to the w'ays of eccentric producers, the prop department soon fig¬ ured out a way to make a live bee harmless —by sealing its stinger with rubber ce¬ ment — so that O’Brien wouldn't really get stung. Then the prop men rigged a device to control the action of the bee w'ith an in¬ visible thread. The contraption w'orked like a charm. But when 1 saw' the scene on the screen, I discovered the doctored bee looked like a fly; that killed the whole point of our gag. I decided to try again — this time w'ith a bumblebee. But bumblebees, unfortunately, were out of season, and would be for the next eight months — at least in our part of southern California. I refused to w'ait that long. I advertised Collier’s for January 31, 1933

Page 319

rhe plot of his latest was in the papers, offering a cash reward to any¬ one who could tell me where to get a bum¬ blebee. Pour months later I got word that someone at Desert Hot Springs, in south¬ eastern California, had a bumblebee in captivity. I dispatched a studio car to Des¬ ert Hot Springs, and within six hours I bad a genuine bumblebee in a box on my desk. I was delirious with joy — we would shoot the scene the next day. Hut that night the janitor, while cleaning my office, threw out the bee, box and all. i had to wait the full eight months lor another bumblebee, but finally we got the scene on film. On the screen it ran approxi¬ mately ten feet, or h1 2 seconds. Not a very long glimpse of the bee, but the sequence got a very healthy Number One laugh. After the picture is on film, it is cut, edited and put into sequence. Whether or not a gag gets a laugh frequently depends on just how effectively the editing is done. When we were editing How Come?, a short about good deeds which go wrong, we came to a scene in which O’Brien walked into an open manhole. Should we let the audience sec the manhole before O'Brien falls in, or should we let them discover it at the same time O’Brien does? Up until then 1 had always believed that it was better to let the audience in on a gag; they like to feci smarter than the man in the picture. So 1 suggested that it be done that way, and we showed the manhole first. The manhole got “ohs” and “nhs,” and O’Brien falling into it got a big fat nothing. The next time we did a similar routine, we had O’Brien reappear with a flounder in his mouth. That got a laugh. Two of the most important touches in any Pete Smith Specialty are the narration and the sound effects — each good for a few extra laughs when used correctly. Explaining Isn’t Always Easy As I mentioned earlier, our pictures are shot silent, without dialogue. It’s up to me to explain on the sound track what’s taking place on the screen. The explanation isn’t always easy, because frequently Pm not sure myself. Once a year, for example, 1 make a pic¬ ture called Football Thrills, in which I re¬ cap the best plays of the previous season. Now I can tell a drop kick from a hot dog as well as the next fellow, but believe me. I’m no expert on the game, so when 1 write my narration 1 try to remember that most of the people in the audience don’t know much more about the sport than 1 do. Con¬ sequently I try to keep my remarks on a comedy level so that even if you hate foot¬ ball, you might enjoy the picture. Another trick that pays off with laughs is synchronizing my narration with the ac¬ tion. In Reducing, for example, I showed a close-up of a fat woman about to put a forkful of salad into her mouth — while on the fork, unknown to her, was a juicy cater¬ pillar. As she raised the fork to her lips, my voice over the sound track cried out, “Lady!” The audience yelled at my ex¬ hortation, but if it had come ten seconds . earlier or later, it would have been mean¬ ingless — or should 1 say laughless? Comedy sound effects can be used to the same good advantage, Friends often accuse me of employing this device too freely in some of my pictures, but, again, audiences love it. Show a football player skidding ten yards on his back, and you’ll get snickers; add the sound of automobile tires screech¬ ing, and you’ll get howls. I learned the importance of amusing nar¬ ration and sound effects when I made my Collier’s for January 31, 1933 contributed bp his dop first picture. Wild and Woolv, back in 1931. Until that time I had been head of the M-G-M publicity and advertising depart¬ ment. But alter the death ol loe I arnham, who had just stalled the first series of M-G-M short subjects with sound, I was asked to take over his job until he could be replaced. I or my first assignment, I was handed a couple of cans of newsreel footage on ro¬ deos and told to make a short out of that. 1 decided that the only way I could get by with it was to trick it up. I went to the sound-effects library, dug out all the effects that bad nothing to do with rodeos, and synchronized them with the rodeo action. 1 used auto brakes when a bronco came to a sudden stop, glass breaking when a cow hand hit the dust and gunpowder explosions when a steer rammed into a fence. For good measure 1 employed every trick cam¬ era effect in the book; slow motion, speeded-up motion, stop action and running the film in reverse. And in one scene I even ran the film upside down. Rodeo Thrills was so successful that 1 was given Joe l arnham’s job permanently. Two of my shorts have won Academy Awards in the field ol live-action onc- rcclers— Penny Wisdom in 1937 and Quicker ’n a Wink in 1940. Both were comedies— but the subtle kind. Penny Wisdom dealt with cooking hints, and Quicker ’n a Wink specialized in ultra-slow motion, showing such things as the impact of a football player’s toe at the exact mo¬ ment it kicks the ball and a golf ball being batted off a tiny wooden tec. Two Oscars out of 300 or more shorts may seem a pretty poor average. But 1 think I’m safe in saying that, Oscars or no Oscars, most of my pictures have been suc¬ cessful at the thing they were designed for — getting laughs. At any rate, they’ve topped the popularity polls conducted by the Showman’s Trade Review and the Mo¬ tion Picture Herald lor the past nine years. 1 got my biggest single laugh back in 1936, at the preview of a picture 1 called Audioscopics. Perhaps you remember it. It was the first third-dimensional picture ever made, and it had to be viewed through grccn-and-red gelatin glasses, which were passed out to the audience. In one scene in the film, a stick with a live mouse on the end of it was extended out toward the audience. The third-dimen¬ sional photography made it seem as if the mouse were being shoved into your lace. Just as that happened, a young woman in the preview audience let out a blood¬ curdling scream which set off a thunderous roar of nervous laughter. The incident, properly exploited by a publicity man, created a stir which wound up on many front pages in the nation, and it helped make Audioscopics the biggest money grosser in the history of short subjects. But it wouldn’t have happened if di¬ rector George Sidney, w ho was my assistant then, hadn't pinched his girl friend just at the opportune moment and made her scream. ^ ^ ^ Left: Synchronizing the narration with action also can pay off with laughs as in this scene from Reducing. Narrator cried, “Lady!”1 just as woman appeared about to eat a caterpillar. Audience screamed at the exhortation. Right: Just falling into manhole as actor did in Pete Smith short called Bus Pests was not enough to produce a laugh. Rut when lie came up with a flounder in his mouth, the audience really roared 27 T.. * . 'm. — “ l

Page 320

Bv HANNIBAL COONS In which Dear Ceorge has to manage a rich old lady and some king-sized beauties, und again makes hard work of child’s play federal pictures Hollywood, California From RICHARD L. REED Director of Publicity you can handle it — the whole thing being the work of a moment, a simple matter of inviting a single, deserving citizen to a real peachy party. And now that you have agreed to do it, let us hasten to the details. You have perhaps heard that wTe have just completed a very tall production out here called Sky High, based on the activities of the noted Skyscrapers, the famous nation-wide club January 17, 1953 Air Mail Special Mr. George Seibert Special Representative, Federal Pictures 'Ha, ha, ha,’* Abigail said to me ‘’Your contract called for me to attend this press party. Well, I have attended it. I will look forward to the payments' Hotel Conrad Hilton Chicago, Illinois Dear George: George, old friend, I have a small job for you. One that a child could do. In fact. 1 would have a child do it except that they’re all back in school now. But in this case, 1 have every confidence that composed of young ladies over six feet tall. The amazing thing is that a lot of them turned out to be not only tall, but also beautiful: then we added the comic talents of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis to the proceedings, and the result is a picture that is a real smasheroo of entertainment. Also, since we got all the lady Skyscrapers to work for practi¬ cally nothing, the whole thing didn’t cost much, 28 ILLUSTRATED BY GILBERT DARLING

Page 321

GUARD AGAIHST THROAT-SCRATCH enjoy the smooth smoking of fine tobaccos . . . the finest quality money can buy \ 4mr $ - c\ : ' v »v t,

I I

Page 322

30 pic t u i s j( s \\i confidently expect v> ni.i k l June .1 s. tchel on it. \rd it' .r k heaven without the pub- I \ kkj . i-nent having o he. it out its 1 1 « _i f#s to he hi i nit VI I have to do r,.oti I' out . lew standard ttds showing n diese uvelv hie gaK in lovclv small „ i o Kissinj Mr I i\\h and other in c ti/elo oi the t ol the head. ■ id wc i l m I Iil customers will see at unve di i we a r c oiler me not only com- t l\ ho. ho I i' hut . Iso the large l.i i oi«i\ si/e in i lie lenia'e foini dome, «nd they wi I rush to the ticket wicket ni eiL i numheis In tact, except lor a Aeepihj cpiden-ic ol choleia. there is jvt \ i) way liu us u miss on this one. \\ e I then, win mil vou out ol vour hv'iimowk .it this unea t hi \ houi? Because , GlU1 ge things ou t here ha\ e heel . hit c sliv !i we s,t\. unsettled, and theic is in truth . n air ol great serious¬ ness all o\u town Cjone aie the days when an horn m luikish hath was e on side i ed a good mornings work. I lungs are so had that we are even stai t- iij to w ste monev onlv in small e|uan- lilies, which wrll show you just how des; ct *te things have become. Holly - .vi od is ii other wools, prettv well tightened up lor scjuiriel, and no mat¬ ter who vou aie. the best wav to insure the continuance ol the pa\ check is to do eveiv thing possible lor the good ol (he Iii m At all times. In the com sc ol publicizing this Sky H eh, therelorc. I have decided to throw in a small volunteer executive coup. O le that wil not onlv make the bosses love me lorcvei more, but one that might even gain me rather a bouncy bonus And though I know von’ re not one to think ol monev, George, a little i I it might come vour wav. and vou could give it to vour favorite charity. Here hoy, is the pitch. For seveial li.mtie months now, the studio has been trving to beg. bonovv oi steal the lilni lights to the current Bro. dwav hit. Moi ev Isn t I vciv thing. as they figure, quite nghtlv. that it ought to be just what the doctor ordeied lor our present escapist tux-we.iry audiences. Cieorge. it we can )iist get hold ol Monev Isn't I veivtli ng. and soon, we e\u make a jillion dollars oil ol it But so tar we have got exact K nowhere, as the film lights aie all tied up like a package lor I urope bv Miss Abigail Gieen ol New \ in k C itv . (icoi *e. does the n une \bigail Cjrecn mean anv thing to voiH At the i isk of insulting vour almost limitless general knowledge, allow me to recapitulate. Abigail is the elderlv spinstei sister ol 'he late A i thin Cueen. the noted Bioad- wa> piodueer. When Arthur died about live vears ago. Abigail inherited all his various theatrical properties, and she h. s since been guarding the estate like a starved Dobeiman pinscher. Actu- allv. she has turned out to be an even cannier angel than Arthur himsell. at this moment being the backer ol the three biggest hits on Broadwav. Which I must sav rather supports the long-rife rumors that old Abigail was realK the brains ol the Arthur Green setup all along. But let us hop on down to the im¬ portant stilt! — us. Because it is dear Abigail who now, bv a whim of fate, has the strangle hold cm the rights to Monev Isn't Every thing. And while it muv not be every thing, word ol that fact has evidently never reached Abi¬ gail. By now that old girl has more monev than Howard Hughes, but all she does m this world is continue to pile it up. She lives all by herself in a big shack up in Connecticut, and accord¬ ing to rumor the moat is alive with alli¬ gators At any rate no one has person- a 1 1 v seen hei lor some vears. She iiist sits up there in the woods and pulls strings bv telephone like an octopus plav ing lour harps. And. George, that isn't right. I hat poor old girl ought to get out and have some tun. Nobody in this world, rich oi poor, really wants to be a recluse; it's just that nobodv has ever offered them a lift to town. Hither that, or tliev have some real or fancied problem that makes them slum their lellow man. And. Cieorge. in easting about lor some possible wav to crack this Abigail nut. I have just discovered what her trouble is. Cieorge. that old woman is six leet three' And right there's her whole problem. When she was a girl, we didn’t have all these tall dames we've suddenly got now. and her lile must have been an utter bell. People asking her how the weather was up there, possible hov friends arriving on stilts whv. Cieorge. she must have been miseiuble. I hat's the amazing thing I've learned from working with these gal Skv scrap¬ ers. I hey were all miserable till some- bod v thought of forming their blasted club. I he g*il star ol the picture, Vivian Blythe. who today is the happy chair¬ man ol the membership committee, is not onlv lovely ol feature, but stacked like the complete works ol William Shakespeare. Yet that girl sat right in this olhee with tears in her eves and told me that until she got in the club she'd lelt that nobodv loved her. W hich I think vou will agree gives us the key to a really brilliant maneuver. At one tell. swoop I can do everybody concerned here a terrific lavor. So follow me closely. Some months ago, as the opening gun in the cam¬ paign on this Skv High picture, I scheduled a big New Vork press party to he held in the main ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria on next Friday after¬ noon. the twenty-third. Vivian and a lot of the other wonderful Skyscrapers will be on hand, and the feature ol the afternoon is to be the public induction into the club ol various tall and famous lady citizens of our land. People like Mrs. Henry Hartley, the wife ol the head ol the City industrial Bank of New York, Sybil Morgan, the dress designer, and a dozen or more other prominent women 1 have found who are themselves overly tall. We are go¬ ing to give them gold cards a? honorary life members of the Skyscrapers, and they arc to do great things in the worthy work ol helping this splendid club lor tall girls. The astounding thing is that they not only all agreed to participate in this great publicity mishmash, they were extremely happy to. evidently hav¬ ing felt the pinch of tallness, all. Well, George, I need hardly go on. Our next step would seem to be self- evident. Rush posthaste to New York, swim Abigail's alligator-filled moat, and get that old girl to the party. Induct her. boy, induct her. And be just as nice to her as a boy can be. The gal Skyscrapers will also naturally be nice to her — they're nice to everybody — and in a matter ol minutes you will sec a new and happy Abigail. Gold eard in hand, deep in the hearts of her fellow Skyscrapers why, George, it will be one ol the happiest afternoons of her whole life. And after she sees what swell folks we are, she can’t help but realize that we are just exactly the right bunch of line boys to film Money Isn't Every¬ thing. And she will hand it over, at something approaching a decent price. And when the bosses here learn of my brilliant part in the proceedings, they will naturally all crowd around, kissing my hand and forcing on me their best cigars. Isn’t it a beauty? Go, boy, go. As ever, Diek RIC HARD L. REED EEDERAL PICTURES HOI LVNVOOD CALIF WOULD LOVE TO JOIN IN THIS SIRATOSPIIHRIC SOCIAL WORK. BUT TXL C I II.C K I I) ALL OX I R TOWN, AND ANY DLCLNT SThPLADDER AT ALL C OSTS AT LEAST MX E DOLl ARS. SO I GUSS I CANT MAKE IT. WHAT ELSE IS NEW? GEORG E GEORGE SEIBERT HOTFL CONRAD HILTON CHICAGO ILL EM GLAD YOU ASKED WHAT ELSE IS NEW TED BURNS, WHO HAD BEEN WITH US 1 OR EIGHTEEN YEARS, WAS MRLD IMIS MORNING. RICHARD L. REED RICHARD L. REED I I DERAI PICTURES IIOLI YWOOD CAUL IS I HAT A FACT? LEAVING FOR NEW YORK IN TWENTY MINUTES. GEORGE HOTEL WALDORF-ASTORIA. New York, New York January 20, 1953 Air Mail Special Mr Richard L. Reed Director of Publicity, Federal Pictures Hollywood, California Dear Diek: Well, 1 am here. But beyond that simple word of successful navigation, the rest of this report isn't going to be very thrilling. Dick, believe me, I’ve rushed around this town like a man trv ing to find a rest room, but this thing of trying to work Abigail Green in on this Friday shindig just isn't going to work. That's why 1 tried to discourage you by telegram even before I left Chicago. I agree that your purpose is, in a way. worthy, and God knows I, too, love my fellow man. Aboil Ben Adhcm had nothing on me. But Dick, you ean't just go about these things as though everyone else in the world were a complete idiot. I ad¬ mit that an astounding number of peo¬ ple are, but sonic aren't. And whatever old Abigail Green may be, she is not a fool. Apart from her somewhat unusual love of solitude, she is evidently sharper than a lumberjack's razor. All bv hcr- sell she has sat up there on that hill in Connecticut and made about three mil¬ lion dollars in the last five years, and even with a good start you don't do that if very many of your marbles are miss¬ ing. Even if I could get to talk to her. which seems impossible, she would sec through this scheme of yours as though it were cheesecloth. Those other promi¬ nent lady totem poles you have got into your toils have no connection with the theatrical business; old Abigail would know instantly that you had something ulterior in mind, and she would put her finger on it with the speed of Mr. Rand McNally pointing out Chicago. All vve could possibly succeed in doing would be to make her mad. and then she wouldn't sell us Money Isn't Every thing for any figure whatever. Believe me. she doesn't need the money. She's got more gold buried on that hilltop up there than they have at the Chase National Bank — with more pouring in every sec¬ ond, like wheat into a grain elevator. And w here did you get this naive idea that she’s so unhappy? From what I hear, she's practically beside herself with glee. She counts her money several times a day, with a scoop shovel, and her cackles of pleasure can be heard clear down in the village at the A&P. I say recognize a happy woman when you see one, and leave her alone. At any rate, Dick, believe me, she seems like too tough a nut for us to tinker with in this amateurish fashion. In this time of economic peril, going out of our way to fiddle with this woman is just asking for the ax. There is nothing in this world worse than a left-footed volunteer. The sort of well- meaning ass who says, “Having a little trouble with the carburetor?” and then proceeds to rip out the entire engine, cylinder by cylinder. Old Bill Fields used to do that so wonderfully, and when he did it, it was funny; when we do it, it isn't. Collier’s for January 31, 1953 4, \\<»w, dear. I don’t want you to buy anythin'' expensive for my birthdav. IN e taken care of that* BILL YATES

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31 Richard, i beg of you, desist. This is the kind of a setup that could suddenly find us both in the deep end of the pool, with lead watei wings. I.et us. in other words, get back into the publicity business. Without delav. As ever, George GTORGE SEIBERT IK) I EL W VI DOR1 -ASTORIA M W M)RK W GEORG E. WHIN I NT ED YOU TO CAI I OI I ANY OE MV PROJI C I S, I \\ II I SI I TO II I 1 1 A I VOL ARE PRO- VIDID WIIH A W I IIS 1 1 I l NIU THEN. II VOL' DON I MINI), DO WHAT YOU'RE TOI IX YOU Jl Si IX)N I KNOW I III SI SW ELI SK vs; RARER KIDS. GITTING I 1 1 A I WOMAN TO MI IT I HEM C AN I III I P BI T HAVE A GOOD RESUET. IHIS IS ONI CASE WHERE WE LAN HAVE I FIE SI RI N(, I H OE II N, BEL VISE OUR 111 A R I IS PURE SO GE I I 1 1 A I OI D I ADV I O THAI PARI V II YOU HAVE IO KNOCK HER ON I1IE HEAD. II YOU'RE SIRE SHI TL SHY AWAY I ROM I L AS K I- EKilll C AMERAS. HAVE HER MEET IIIE SK V SC RAPI RS PRIV A 1 1 I V . EVF N IN A BASEMENT. BUT HAVE HER MEET THEM. PI RIOD. THAT'S I IN VI GOOD-BY. RICHARD L. REED HOTET WALDORF-ASTORIA New York, New York January 22, 1953 Air Mail Special Mr. Richard L. Reed Director of Publicity, Federal Pictures Hollywood, California Dear Mr. Reed: Well, when I first got to town here I cheeked into the Waldorf, figuring that the slight extra tariff would be more than justified by the importance of be¬ ing right at the scene of action. But in the future, no matter what town I’m in, 1 think I’ll just stay at the Y. Then when I get one of your cheery telegrams, like the one yesterday, it will be so handy just to go downstairs and drown myself in the pool. In other words, at ten thirty this morning the future looked bleak. But just about then Fred Tuppcr, who's handling the basie details of the press party, called and said did I want to go out to the airport with him to meet the Skyscrapers? Well, why not? I might just as well take one last look at a few more of na¬ ture's phenomenons before hurling my¬ self under a cross-town bus. So I went. And, Dick, I don't know when I've had such a thrilling surprise. Why didn't you tell me what wonderful girls they were? Why, they're all so pretty and pleasant, and all so just tickled pink over their dandy club, that they couldn't help but sell anybody they meet on it. Why, Dick, after knowing them for no more than thirty minutes, there’s only one possible thing for us to do — get that Abigail over here to meet them without delay. It's the chance of a lifetime. It'll give her a completely new view of Holly¬ wood — one that she couldn’t possibly get any other way — and in no time at all she is just bound to love us. Dick, if you would just tell me these basic facts at the start of these projects, it would save me so much torment. But at any rate, now' that I've had to puzzle it out for myself, to business — the problem at hand now being how in the devil to get that Abigail woman out of that barricaded bailiwick of hers, and over here to enjoy the charm of these lovely girls. That Vivian in par¬ ticular is just delightful, and in fact my Collier's for January 31, 1933 one regret in this world at the moment is that I'm not a girl, and six feel tall, so that 1 could join her club. But, as I say. to business the point being that any means neecssary now seems justified to get that old woman into town here to meet these splendid girls. But just what can we possibly bait the trap with? From everything I can learn here, that Abigail has in the last five years not even bothered to an¬ swer at least ten thousand invitations to the dandies! events imaginable. Every¬ body had by now just given up and stopped sending her invitations to any¬ thing. But that, of course, doesn't stop me. If old George decides that somebody should conic to a party, come to the party they will. And even as I speak, 1 have it. As follows. What is the only thing that seemingly has ever had any attrac¬ tion for Abigail? Gold. I will there¬ fore forget any childish social approach to this matter and lure her to the Fes¬ tivities with a siren song ot cash. Just as so on as 1 mail this I will sit down and whip up some sort of a phony money deal. Say a little contract, just enough of a thing to fool her tor the moment, olTenng her maybe five per cent of the net profits of Sky High, in return for her lending her mighty presence to the press party. And she will forthwith put on her best black organdy and hasten over. Believe me. she'll do it. That old woman would fight Rocky Marciano if the terms were right. And as soon as the Skyscrapers have charmed her to the gills with their girlish freshness. I'll apologize for the little ruse I had to pull to get her to the party, and she ll say, “Oh. that's all right. George, glad you did it.” and we ll all head for the nearest Italian restaurant, just one big happy family. At any rate, please don't give this one another thought. It's in the bag. As ever, George GEORGE SFIBERT FIOTEL \\ At DORF:-ASTORIA NEW YORK NY GEORGE, I DON’T KNOW. I'M BE¬ GINNING TO CHILL ON THIS WHOLE THING A LITTLE MAMIE THE ONLY WAY WE COULD ROPE HER IN TO START WITH WOULD BE WITH SOME SORT OE PHONY FINANCIAL DEAL, BUT SHE'LL SEE THROUGH THAT CON¬ TRACT THING l IKE A YOUNG OSTE¬ OPATH WITH A NEW X-RAY MACHINE. AFTER ALL, SHE'S NOT A COMPLETE FOOL. EV EN II SHE BELIEVED IT, THE I IRST TFIING SHE'D DO WOULD BE EO WIRE OR PHONE LOU BENTLEY, OUR PEERLESS PRESIDENT, TO CHECK ON IT, AND THE EAT. WHAT'S LEFT OE OURS, WOULD BE RIGHT IN THE EIRE. ACTUALLY I THINK WE BLUER JUST HOLD OFF ON TFIIS WHOLE THING TILL WE CAN THINK UP A GOOD ONE. DICK RICHARD L. REED F EDERAL PICTURES HOLLA WOOD CALIF DICK, DON'T WORRY, I TELL YOU. AS IN SO MANY OTIIFR WAYS, YOU HAVE GREATLY UNDERESTIMATED MY TALENTS AS A FORGER ALSO AS A RISING YOUNG ATTORNEY. MEAN¬ ING THAT ABIGAIL HAS GONE FOR MY PHONY CONTRACT, HOOK, LINE AND SINKER. THERE'S NO FOOL I IKE AN OLD TROUT. ONE OF HER UN¬ DERLINGS HAS JUST RETURNED THE C ARBON COPY. DULY SIGNED, AND SAYS THAT SHE'LL BE AT THE PARTY THIS AFTERNOON RIGHT ON THE Each Battery Carries This Guarantee; "If your flashlight is damaged by corrosion, leakage or swelling of this battery, send it to us with the batteries and we will give you FREE. a new comparable flashlight with bat¬ teries.” Only genuine Roy-O-Vac LEAK PROOF flashlight batteries are sealed in steel! Keep this Ray-O-Vac 2-cell flashlight hondy in yaur home. Strong, spot-light beam. You can see and feel the difference. Just hold a Ray-O-Vac leak proof flashlight battery in your hand. See how sturdy it looks . . . how strong and substantial it is . . . because it’s sealed in steel. This sealed -in-steel protection that only Ray-O-Vac provides means these batteries stay fresh for years. So always get genuine Ray-O-Vac leak proof flashlight batteries that give you ... 0y RAY* O- VAC COMI • APlSO*. WtS . >OA,

Page 324

32 DOT AM) IM\NKS VIRY MU II SO K1 Si I XSX W I Rl IN WII I WIKI XOL AO XIN HIGH 1 AI ILR Till PARI X . G I ORGL K1UI\HI) I Kill) I ! !)! K XI Pit H KI S not I x wood ( xi ii I \ I KX I IIING I IM Jl SI I |N| XIR M XII SKI v I XI I Ol I OWS WI III I l I I 1)1 I XII S GI ORGL HO I I I VV \l DORP AS I OKI A No a X oi k. New X ork Jiiiuittrx 23. 19S3 Air Mail Special M 1ntingenc\ in this world includ¬ ing the possibility ol a hvdiogen bomb JoMo.mg the Mississippi River. I he i I l ■ me to the mailer ol how to sign it Sign it nn sell > Maybe put your name on it* No it should n.ituiallv be signed bv I ou Bentlev. the head ol our mightv studio So I tried his signature a lew times but it uist didn't come oil. It chon t ku k am more like I ou Bent- lev s sign itui e than it looked like Ma¬ hatma Gandhi s signature. 1 hen 1 icmemhcicd a little thing I'd u.d \eais ago. in Popular Mechanic's. I 1 a' s aiiv ther scNiet ol im success, wide gv.nci.il readn g \nd il vou ever h id I'eeasion to forge a sign, lure, they said, simple turn both the signature you w e i e eopvmg and the paper \yui were writing on u;>\ command. 1 accordingly began pacing up and down that hotel room like a tiger. No seventy-year-old woman was going to lick me, even if she did have the reach on me. Let's see now — what to do, what to do? It was at about this point that I got your other heartening telegram and dis¬ patched my spur-of-the-moment return wire mentioning the making up of fur¬ ther contracts of some sort. And for a time there I did think that possibly I could pull us out of the hole with a rash of my newly found talent at legal documents. But I didn’t really like to compound forgery upon forgery. A man can get into trouble that way. And then I paused with one foot veri¬ tably in midair. Why, of course. Maybe we didn’t need any other contracts at all! The only reason for a second contract is if the first one should prove inadequate. And though I by no means remembered all the stuff I’d poured into that first Collier’s for January 31, 1953

Page 325

one, me being as good a lawyer as 1 am, it no doubt covered quite a bit of ground. Like a man possessed, I sprang for the copy she’d signed. And sure enough, there it was, right in the midst of page thirty-two: . . and furthermore and whereas, the party of the second part agrees not to become involved in any entangling foreign alliances without the express permis¬ sion of Congress, or to bear arms at any time against the United States, and furthermore and whereas and to wit, agrees to sell to Federal Pictures the film rights to the current Broadway hit. Money Isn't Everything, for the sum of one dollar. . .” A -ha! She was so smart-alecky she just hadn’t read that far! Dick, always read every line of any contract you sign; there are a lot of smart lawyers in this world. At any rate, it was with some relief that I grasped the phone again. “Miss Green,” I intoned, “1 know you’re a busy woman, but f wonder if I could trouble you to read carefully page thirty-two of your copy of our contract? There’s a stray line in there 1 think you will find of interest.” And / hung up. Well, in a matter of minutes she called back, sputtering like a short- circuited electrical cord. “Why, you miserable whelp!” she cried. “You know I never intended to sign any such thing as that.” “But you did sign it, didn’t you?” 1 said, setting off a burst of violence as though lightning had struck the in¬ strument. “It’s a foul conspiracy!” she cried. “Even my own lawyer says 1 am bound by this ridiculous contract, and that I should somehow settle with you. I’ll settle with you, you — you — ” “Now, now. Miss Green,” I said, “harsh words will get us nowhere. The only important thing is that if anybody has got anybody over a barrel, we have got each other over it, and if you'd care to drive into town here, maybe we can work out a way for both of us to get off.” Which she did. Not over ten minutes ago we met at her attorney’s, tore up my original all-eneompassing contract and replaced it with a simple new one, calling lor us to give her no percentage whatever of anything, and calling lor her to sell us at once the film rights to Money Isn't Everything, and at the last cash offer we made her for same. Which, if it’s anything like our other preliminary bids for things, should give us a rousing bargain Also, she's going to see immediately about getting you those other little things of hers you want. “You know, George,” she said — she calls me Geoige now — “I'm really very happy that this has all worked out so pleasantly. Actu¬ ally, meeting those lovely young women yesterday afternoon was a most en¬ lightening experience. It took me a little while to admit it, but it did show me just how far into my shell I’ve gone and how foolish it's all been. From now on, 1 intend to get out and have a little fun.” “You are so right. Miss Green,” 1 said. “After all, money isn’t every¬ thing.” Which it of course isn’t. But don’t tell Lou Bentley till after you've discussed our bonus. Money may not be every¬ thing, but there’s nothing wrong with a little of it. Oh, by the way, speaking of money, one last little thing. You may fear that we owe Miss Green’s lawyer a small sack of it for his timely intervention in the proceedings. Well, fear not. He came in for his little drum solo only because of the very luckiest of acci¬ dents. This very morning he had a call from Miss Green's personal physician, who was genuinely worried. For a woman of her age, he said, Abigail was getting much too wrought up over this latest contract hassel, and for her own good he thought the thing should be brought to some sort of conclusion, and as rapidly as possible. Actually, it was this call that swung the deal. And so what do we owe him? Again, nothing. Because it took very little of his time; in fact, none. Not wishing to take him away from the care of the sick and wounded, 1 really just made the call myself. As ever, George AAA 33 America's Finest Low-Cost Adding Machine PRECISION-BUILT BY VICTOR, WORLD'S LARGEST EXCLUSIVE MANUFACTURER OF ADDING MACHINES dea/e, n Payrrient, Especially Designed for Businessmen, Merchants, farmers. Ranchers, Doctors, Dentists, Lawyers, Investors, Home Users tftfor 10-fcEY MODEL (7-6-0} mimburs just at you rood thorn, total* 7 columns. 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34 Why Not Let the People Elects By U.S. SENATOR ESTES KEFAUVER with SIDNEY SHALETT - r The crinic-lnisling candidate who won 14 of the 17 Democratic Presidential primaries in 1952 — hut then lost the nomination — tells how we can thwart the bosses who ignore the people’s vote i E*tes Kefauver think* he couhl have made a better showing in 1952 Presidential election than Adlai Stevenson. But he says he found only humiliation at the Democratic convention Dwight d. eisenhower, as he goes into the office of President of the United States (an office that 1 myself sought long and hard), has my fervent wish that he will give us an administration which will make our country strong and secure. Though he is a Repub¬ lican and I am a Democrat, he will have my support as a United States senator whenever I believe he is right. This is no time for narrow and petty partisan politics. There is a second equally fervent wish on my mind at the start of the administration of the man against whom I might have run had it not been for the rather peculiar brand of politics within my party: Whether Eisenhower is re-elected in four years, or whether the Democratic party returns to power, I hope he will be the last President to be chosen by the now prevailing undemocratic process which gives the people no real voice in the nominations of the Presidential and Vice-Presidential candidates. The election system in this coun¬ try is bad enough, pegged as it is to the antiquated electoral college tra¬ dition which makes it possible for a candidate to receive a minority of the popular vote and still be elected President. But the convention system is a mockery of our democratic proc¬ esses. The system — as was demon¬ strated by the 1952 Democratic National Convention — is an easy tool for the political bosses, the slick manipulators and the unscrupulous kingmakers. Boss-ridden Republican conventions, of course, have been no¬ torious in American politics. There is nothing particularly new about this situation. Students of pol¬ itics have known for a long time what a weak reed the convention system is for our democratic government to lean upon. What is new, however, is that now, thanks largely to television, the people are on to it, too. TV has brought the national convention into the living room of the American home, and has exposed it for the un¬ democratic spectacle that it is. Those of us who are interested in good national government long have felt that election reforms are needed, if we ever are to break the hold of the bosses and others who make decisions in smoke-filled rooms. Our efforts so far have been fruitless; we try, but the political bosses of both parties — those smug, self-satis¬ fied advocates of the status quo — won't listen. Last year, for instance, long be¬ fore the convention, I joined in a bi¬ partisan movement with Senators Douglas, Smathers, Tobey, Hunt, Murray, Aiken and Margaret Chase DRAWING BY SAM BERMAN

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35 Our President ? Smith. We wanted a simple bill, au¬ thorizing the U.S. Attorney General to make agreements with all the states to conduct preference primaries for selection of Presidential and Vice- Presidential candidates. We couldn’t even get our bill onto the Senate floor for a vote. Similarly, 1 have joined repeatedly in bipartisan moves to re¬ form the electoral college along twen- tieth-eentury lines. All have failed. Hope for Election Reforms This year, however, thanks to greater knowledge of the people, who now have seen for themselves what shabby performances the national conventions really are, we have new hope. Nineteen fifty-three may be the year of decision, the year to get something done. Toward that end, I already have introduced a resolution — and similar legislation has been in¬ troduced by others — calling for a constitutional amendment on election reforms. I purposely have made my bill flexible. If Congress will pass it, there will be a national referendum to de¬ cide whether there shall be a na¬ tion-wide primary for selection of Presidential and Vice-Presidential candidates by the major parties. If legislatures of three fourths of the states vote “yes,” it then will be up to Congress to work out the details and enact such legislation. Obviously, I have more than an impersonal interest in the subject of convention reforms. In seeking the Democratic nomination for the Presi¬ dency last year, I knew in advance that most of the big-city machines would be against me, so I took my case to the people. Even though 1 made a good showing with the voters, the boss-run convention machinery had me stopped in Chicago. Because the archaic convention system makes it so easy for the bosses to control the show, I could not win, despite my popular support. 1 sought the nomination, I might add, only after thoughtful, serious consideration, in which I took into full aecount the difficulty involved in running against such a distin¬ guished adversary as General Dw ight Eisenhower. It was not a frivolous impulse. I worked hard for the nomination. Democratic primaries were held in 16 states and the District of Colum¬ bia. I entered all but one of these primaries, and won 14 of them. Out of a total of some 4,600,000 Demo¬ cratic primary votes east, I received 3,140,000. The second-placing can¬ didate received only 370,000 votes. Just before the Democratic con¬ vention in Chicago, the Princeton Poll showed that, in the preference of Democratic voters, 1 led the field. I went to the convention — the winner of the primaries, the choice of the polls — with the largest number of delegates. These delegates held firm Collier’s for January 31, 1933 to me for two ballots — and then the power of the machine overcame us. What happened? I had aroused the implacable enmity of certain politi¬ cians, including some defeated hacks and various political yeomen who were taking orders implicitly from the outgoing Truman administration. There were a number of reasons for their enmity, none of them very in¬ spiring. Some resented my call for new, young, vigorous leadership in places where the party had fallen into stodgy and selfish hands. Others were angry because I had announced for the nomination before Mr. Tru¬ man made his intentions known. Still others were irked because I did not withdraw from the New Hampshire primary after Mr. Truman decided to let his name be entered. My vic¬ tory in New Hampshire, of course, didn’t help. Then there were those who were angry with me because, as chairman of the Senate Crime Investigating Committee, 1 carried out my sworn obligation to uncover facts where I found them, without regard for party politics. I might say that, regardless of what my policy cost me at the convention, nothing in my public ca¬ reer brings me greater satisfaction than the fact that our committee didn’t consider the polities of a man before we exposed his crookedness or criminality. So far as we were concerned, a Democratic crook was as bad as a Republican crook. The Man Who Was Drafted Being thus committed to “stop Ke- fauver!” these “machine stalwarts,” who were all-powerful behind the convention scenes, disregarded what the people and largest bloc of the del¬ egates said they wanted. They chose a man who was virtually a political unknown on the national scene; a man who publicly insisted he did not want the job, and who had refused to enter a single primary. His selection was said to be a “draft,” but some observers have remarked that it was a mighty peculiar draft, with such stalwarts as Truman, Jake Arvey, Sam Rayburn, Scott Lucas et al. blowing on the fire, and minor wood carriers tossing in their little bits of kindling. As it turned out, Adlai Stevenson showed himself to possess many at¬ tributes of greatness. He spoke with moving eloquence, displaying cour¬ age, vision and nobility of purpose. I would not be honest if I denied my disappointment at not receiving the nomination which many observers felt was denied me not by the peo¬ ple but by the party bosses. But I put down my disappointment and campaigned vigorously for Governor Stevenson. I campaigned in good conscience, believing that the country would be best served through his election. I do not think that Stevenson him- The Home Model Hommond Orgon is illustroted obove. Price on requea. 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All over America, from coast to coast — it’s new-car time. And as the 1953 automotive creations make their entrance — many car owners will use a familiar device to guide their choice — the Body by Fisher emblem. For to them that insignia means ‘'the best body built.” And for several reasons — beauty of design, perfection of appoint¬ ments — and the carefully engineered construction which enhances comfort and safety. So, in making your own selection, remember that only five cars — those favored five: Chevrolet, Pontiac, Oldsmobile, Buick, Cadillac — give you in 1953, as always, the added luxury of Body by Fisher. Body by On the five General Motors Cars- CHEVROLET • PONTIAC • OLDSMOBILE • BUICK • CADILLAC i

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38 Let’s force parties to choose their Vice-Presidential nominees from among the fi self altogether liked the company he was bound to by the circumstances sur¬ rounding his nomination. He tried to rise above it and 1 suspect he genuinely wished he could have done so. 3ut it could not be done. Would the election have gone differ¬ ently tor the Democrats had I — a candidate not obligated to the adminis¬ tration — been nominated instead ot a candidate hand-picked by Truman & Co.7 1 would not be so immodest as to predict that, with the temper of the country as it was, I would have beaten the formidable General Eisenhower. But I will quote what an old friend, ex¬ perienced in politics, said to me just be¬ fore the convention. “Estes,” he said, “I don’t see how you’re going to lick the Democratic bosses, but, if you do, I think you've got a good chance, at least, against Ike.” Certainly, I thought that by putting on a vigorous nation-wide campaign, by frankly discussing the issues with the voters and presenting a positive pro¬ gram for achieving peace, international security and morality in government here at home, I stood a chance to be successful. 1 felt my candidacy offered the change in government the voters obviously wanted. If I had thought it impossible for me to win, I would, not have done my party — and myself — a disservice by seeking the nomination. Stesonson at a Disadvantage Quite possibly, with the demon¬ strated reaction against the recent ad¬ ministration, 1, too, would have been defeated by the general. However, I would have had fewer burdens to carry than Governor Stevenson. For one thing, through my participation in the state primaries, my views and what I stood for weiL better known to the vot¬ ers than those of Mr. Stevenson, who entered no primaries. For another thing, I would not have had the handicap of having such en¬ thusiastic support from Mr. Truman, whose campaign placed the efforts of the Presidential nominee himself into such a peculiar and undignified second billing In retrospect it is obvious that the give-em-hell whistle-stop tour by the outgoing President was a mistake. In tact, when I went to Springfield at Governor Stevenson’s request and dis¬ cussed campaign strategy with him, one ot the principal pieces of advice I gave him was to disassociate himself from the apron strings of the White House. In this opinion, Charles Necse, a Ten¬ nessee attorney who had covered the entire United States as principal or¬ ganizer of the ketauvcr-for-President Clubs, heartily concurred. Mr. Stevenson was to go to Washing¬ ton the next day for his first briefing at the White House. He asked me what 1 thought, and I told him the best thing he could do was to come down with a sudden threatened attack of appendici¬ tis or something and cancel that trip to Washington. At least, that was my opinion, and I still think he would have been better served at that point had he stayed in Springfield and run his own campaign. While future history may applaud — and rightly so — many of the sound accomplishments of the Truman administration, it was an obvious fact that the President’s popularity and the prestige of his administration were in a decline. 1 believe the proposal for a national Presidential primary has a greater chance for success if we advance it first as a general principle, then work out the details after the reform has been approved by constitutional referendum. For this reason, I purposely kept my resolution simple and nonspecific as to details. 1 have in mind, however, a pat¬ tern for a nation-wide Presidential pri¬ mary, and I will work for adoption of a bill along such lines if the basic idea is adopted as a constitutional amendment. A Primary for Every State My plan is as follows: Step One — There shall be a primary in every state , provided for by federal law, to determine the popular choice of the people for President. In each pri¬ mary, , delegates shall be elected to cast their votes at a streamlined national convention for the choice of their state's voters. Discussion: There have been Presi¬ dential primaries in various states since Wisconsin passed the first such state law in 1903. Currently, 19 states have primary laws of one sort or another. The laws, however, arc not uniform, and in some states arc not even binding on the delegates; the lack of uniformity, plus the fact that most of the states do not have primaries, leads to a helter- skelter pattern that prompted Mr. Tru¬ man, just before the New Hampshire primary, to brand Presidential pri¬ maries as “eyewash.” With a uniform and binding law ap¬ plicable to every state, Presidential pri¬ maries no longer would be “eyewash,” but would be meaningful. Mr. Truman, incidentally, has endorsed the principle of national primaries, as did the late Woodrow Wilson. Step T wo — No candidate shall be placed on the ballot in any state pri¬ mary without his consent , and he must file a qualifying petition signed by not less than one per cent of the total num¬ ber of voters who voted for the Presi¬ dential candidate of his party in the last election. Discussion: This provision would make it necessary for a man to be a willing candidate and to work for his nomination. I believe it is a good princi¬ ple, and a democratic one, for “the man to seek the job” — particularly under the proposed new system where the voters really would have something to say about selection of candidates. It also will eliminate many of the non- serious candidates — “favorite sons” and others. Step Three — A uniform nation-wide system of choosing delegates , based on the vote of the political party of each state in the previous Presidential elec¬ tion, shall be adopted. There shall be provisions to limit the number of dele¬ gates so as to avoid the present un- wieldly size of national conventions, and there shall be no split votes — such as one-half and one-third votes. Discussion: It would be politically healthy to peg a state’s delegates to the total votes mustered by the party in the last election. For one thing, the system would strike a blow at local bosses, who sometimes actually connive to keep down the total vote, because of the greater dictatorship they can exercise when only a few citizens vote. 1 suggest that, instead of the present 1,200-odd votes at a convention, with some of them split between two and three delegates, the total be limited to no more than 600, wath no split votes. It is impossible to conduct an orderly convention with some 2,000 (counting the split votes) delegates — not to men¬ tion their alternates — milling about. Step Four — Delegates shall be firmly pledged to cast their votes on a propor¬ tional basis geared to the state vote re¬ ceived by the candidate. As a simple illustration, if a state has 10 delegates and Candidate A receives approximately 60 per cent of the vote, he will receive six votes at a convention. (To avoid un¬ desirable fractional ballots, machineiy can be set up whereby the division of delegates is calculated by round num¬ bers, rather than by exact fractions.) The delegates will continue to vote for the candidate to whom they are pledged as long as he receives as many as 10 per cent of the total vote cast at the conven¬ tion (with certain provisions in case of deadlock). Discussion: I gave thought to the al¬ ternate possibility of having the candi¬ date who receives a plurality of the state vote capture all the state delegates. I believe, however, that proportional division is fairer, and would reflect the wishes of the voters more accurately. Such a division is more in line with the belief of many legislators, myself in¬ cluded, that the electoral-college vote should be divided proportionately, rather than letting the candidate who gets the most popular votes in a state take all of the state’s electoral votes. Another possible alternative, which might be considered as an interim meas¬ ure pending reform of the electoral- college machinery, would be a federal primary law patterned after the excel¬ lent Wisconsin state law. In Wisconsin, the candidate receiving the largest state¬ wide vote wins a certain number of delegates running as the state delegates at large, while winners in various Con¬ gressional districts get the votes of dele¬ gates for those districts. As a means of breaking an early deadlock, a candidate should be given discretionary authority to release his delegates when he feels he cannot win. The law should be written to indicate strongly that the delegates, once re¬ leased, are free agents, at liberty to exercise their best judgment as to preference among the remaining eligi¬ ble candidates; the practice of trading delegates to accomplish private politi¬ cal deals should be discouraged. When Delegates Are “Freed” Step Five — Nomination for President shall be by a simple majority of the to¬ tal number of votes cast by delegates at the convention. If no candidate has a majority, and has not released his dele¬ gates, after 10 ballots the delegates shall be considered free of their obligation to vote for the winner of their state primary , but must vote for one of the candidates receiving the top three total munber of votes in the national primary. Discussion: This step provides a key which makes the proposed system prac¬ tical. In combination with Step Four,- it would mitigate the “nuisance value” of any surviving favorite sons, who could not hope to hang on for 10 bal¬ lots, but would try to trade delegates for favors. The provision for picking the Presidential nominee from the aspir¬ ants who placed first, second and third in the nation-wide primary popular vote is a means of respecting the will of the voters. It also has constitutional prece¬ dent, for the Twelfth Amendment pro¬ vides that, in the case of a deadlock in the electoral college, the House of Rep¬ resentatives shall select a President from among the top three candidates. Step Six — Finally , after the Presiden¬ tial nominee is chosen, the Vice-Presi¬ dential nominee shall be chosen by a vote of the delegates from the three candidates who polled the next highest number of votes in the nation-wide primaries. Discussion: This proposal is made in Collier’s for January 31, 1953 r i

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•reside* * tial a Iso-runs, an effort to respect the wishes of the electorate; if adopted, it would keep nonentities out of the Vice-Presidential office, and effectively curb the practice of degrading the office of Vice-Presi¬ dent to an object ol political barter. It would mean that the Vice-Presidential post would go to u man sufficient!) in¬ terested in public service to get out and work lor his nomination in a primary, and that the post would be filled by a man whom the people knew, and who was of sufficient stature to have placed at least fourth in the national Presiden¬ tial primary. With all respect to the Republican and Democratic Vice-Presidential nom¬ inees ol 1952, can anyone say they were the choice of the people? Under the system I propose, there w'ould be an opportunity for any political skeletons hiding in the closets ol the eventual Presidential and Vice-Presidential can¬ didates to be brought into the open — before, not after the nomination. If Senator Richard Nixon, for ex¬ ample, had wanted to he Vice-Presi¬ dent. he would have had to expose himself to the electorate as a serious candidate for President. The facts about his qualifications, and presum¬ ably such issues as his $18,000 private fund, then would have come out, and the Republican voters would have judged whether they wanted him in a critical post. We must remember that a Vice-President always is a “sc »ous candidate" for President, for seven times in our history Presidents have died in office. The office of Vice-Presi¬ dent always should be filled by mature, capable individuals of whom the voters have full knowledge. We should not take chances on political accidents ele¬ vating unknowns and mediocrities into the highest office of the land. A “Cumbersome Procedure*' One of my colleagues. Senator George Smathers of Florida, who also has introduced a bill favoring Presiden¬ tial primaries, has proposed that, if a Vice-President succeeds to the Presi¬ dency by reason of death, there shall be a special Presidential election at the next general election to choose a new President. This procedure, in my opinion, would he cumbersome. The system b> which one of the top four choices of the victorious party would become Vice-President would eliminate the necessity for such a special election. Another healths reform that could evolve naturally from such a program would he a shorter campaign period for the men finally chosen by the major parties as Presidential nominees. The party candidates would fight it out in the primaries, which would he held simultaneously throughout the country on a fixed date in August. The national conventions then could be held in Sep¬ tember. Assuming that the successful candidates would take the usual amount of time to map out their campaign, the actual campaigning could be limited pretty much to the month of October. That plan would be good life insurance for our chief executive. Personally, i would like to see all campaigning elevated to a less strenu¬ ous, more intellectual level, with less w'ear and tear on the candidates. I have never seen any sense in practi¬ cally killing off our Presidents before we elect them, and I do not believe Collier’s for January 31. 1933 Sen. Kefauvcr says. Neve's his election reform program 39 the American people really want that. From my own experience in the pre- convention primaries and on the cam¬ paign trail for Stevenson. I can testily that national campaigning is a rugged ordeal. I'm a reasonably durable physi¬ cal specimen, hut the grind got me down at times. I’ll never lorget the day I was campaigning with Nancy, my wife, during the New Hampshire pri¬ mary. We passed from one snowbound town to another, and ever) time I saw' a crowd of prospective voters 1 auto¬ matically left my car, went over to them and started talking. In one town, I approached such a group, saving: “I'm Fstcs Kefauvcr, I'm running for President hovv'm 1 doing here?” One fellow answered me dry iv : “You're do¬ ing line here, hut you'd better get hack to New Hampshire where the primary is -this is Ver¬ mont.1” Without knowing it, I’d crossed the state line. While campaigning for Gov¬ ernor Stevenson, I used the same chartered airplane in which I covered the country in my own campaign — only the coonskin cap and the “Kefauvcr for Presi¬ dent" legend were painted out. Once in Willmar. Minnesota, we had to switch to a smaller private plane to make a landing on a small field: Dick Wallace, my administrative assistant, and I actually had to help the pilot chase cows off the runway before vve could take off. Anyone who wants my support for a federal fencing law covering airports can have it. Another time, I was supposed to fly hack from an o\ roast given by my friend. Representa¬ tive Wav no Hays, at Wellsvillc. Ohio, to debate in Cleveland with a Republican senator on a nation-wide IV hookup. The plane provided tor me was of ancient vintage, and I kept pok¬ ing the pilot ful ilcly to try to go faster. The telecast already was on the air when vve landed, and Cleveland po¬ lice took me through the city streets at a terrific pace to catch the tail end ol the program. I almost became the sub¬ ject ol a crime inquiry myself, insti¬ gated by the justly irate local chief of police. I felt obliged to write him. ask¬ ing him to blame me. not his officers. Critics may argue that the strain of running in 48 separate primaries might kill a candidate. I do not think so. par¬ ticularly with the advent of television. I he campaign in each state need not he as intense as the full-dress Presidential campaign. And. when the successful candidates of the major parties finally enter upon the shorter campaign to de¬ cide the election, both they and what they stood for would be so well known to the voters that the campaign actually would he easier. It could he conducted on a higher plane, involving issues rather than personalities. Others may contend that, with a na¬ tional primary system, the race might go to the candidate with the biggest or¬ ganization and the most money. Again, 1 disagree. Certainly with scant organ¬ ization and very little money. I fared well in the primaries I entered. How well that was demonstrated in Ne¬ braska! I here, my opponent. Senator Kerr, was able to blanket me with cam¬ paign literature, professional workers. entertainment, newspaper advertise¬ ments. radio and IV time. In Omaha. I remember, the opposition even bought up all the advertising space on the sides ol the city trash cans. Yet. even with the trash cans against me. I captured more than 60 per cent of the votes. My own experience at the Demo¬ cratic convention demonstrated how easy it is for the faction that controls the convention machinery to operate unfairly against the candidates it op¬ poses. l et me cite some examples: On the platform committee, several members favorable to my candidacy felt the convention should have the oppor¬ tunity of voting on a stronger anticor¬ ruption plank; also a plank advocating Congressional reforms to mitigate the effects of “McCarthy ism.” Colonel Phil Whitaker, a distinguished Tennes¬ see attorney, and Jimmy Roosevelt, son of the late President, made the neces¬ sary arrangements to present the minor¬ ity reports and to offer amendments. I hey were told to take seats on the rostrum so as to he available to speak in support of the amendments. We had eight other speakers on the rostrum to back them up. The platform, which contained a pious “vveVe-against-sin” plank, was read. I hen chairman Sam Ray burn hurriedly came to the podium and. with his well-known finesse, put the motion and declared the platform adopted. Colonel Whitaker and others protested his speedy action. Finally, Mr. Rayburn allowed Colonel W hitaker the grand to¬ tal of two minutes to “explain" the pro¬ posed amendments. Since the deed had been done, the belated recognition was quite academic. W;e were angry about it and said so. Our anger only made Mr. Rayburn rougher Irom then on when my supporters sought recognition. On the Thursday night of the conv en¬ tion, when a recess was obviously in order, the distinguished senator Irom Illinois, Paul Douglas, who was one of my supporteis. did everything hut tear out his hair and throw it at the chair¬ man in a fruitless attempt to make a motion to recess. Senator Douglas' scat in the convention hall was squarely in front of Mr. Ray hum’s pemh un the rostrum but despite some highlv ath¬ letic maneuvers on the senator's pa t. the chairman couldn t qu tc recognize him. “He looks me straight m the lace hut he can't seem to sec me' ’ Sen tor Douglas exclaimed in a broadcast Irom the Poor. It linallv took a tire in the con vention hall, and an ultimatum from the Chicago lire marshal, to get the recess F inal Gesture of Contempt Some disillusioned delegates have commented that the most undisguised demonstration of contempt lor the men and women who were supposed to represent their home states . t the con¬ vention was the Scott I ucas- Clurence Cannon act. staged on the Friday evening belore the convention closed. All the in¬ trigues had been played out. the “ins" had had their way . The ex¬ hausted delegates wanted merclv to vote lor a Vice-President for any Vice-President and go home. I he powers that he. however, hadn't quite got together on who would he tapped. Up stepped former Senator I ueus. who blames my investigation ol Illi¬ nois polities lor his ret ire men I from public life, to present a mo¬ tion to recess until Saturday morning. Acting chairman Can¬ non, the parliamentarian of the convention, banged his gavel and put it to u vote. Almost to a man. the delegates junmed to their toot and roared. "No!” Brother Can¬ non gave them his famous scowl, banged the gavel again and de¬ clared the motion carried! 1 he most aggravating per¬ sonal humiliation that those who ran the convention tried to heap upon me came when they denied me the privilege ol taking the floor to release my delegates and end the long light for the Presiden¬ tial nomination. Had they shown me this courtesy, much intraparty bitter¬ ness and several hours ol a useless roll call would have been saved. Though I did not enjoy the physical and emo¬ tional strain of sitting on that platlorm lor several hours while they played out their game. I could be philosophical about it tor i am reasonably hardened to some of the strange ways of politics. What was harder lor me to take, how¬ ever. was their attempt to stop my wile. Nancy, and my father, who were be¬ wildered by the turn of events. Irom even reaching me on the platlorm to inquire what was happening. There is not the slightest doubt in mv mind that the electorate is fully awake to the need for election reforms. Public- opinion polls already have shown an overwhelming majority in favor of se¬ lection ot the President and Vice- President by national primary. I he era of boss rule in American politics is fading. F.very time the issue of bossism versus the American people is tested at the polls now. the bosses take another licking. Let's hand them a death blow by taking the Presidential elections out of the smoke-filled rooms and the rigged convention halls, and placing them, v ia the national primary method, firmly in the hands of the people,

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40 R-O-M-A-N-Y REVISITED B. DIANA IIIKSII MICHAEL FARNAM Utrr hi" inciiioruhic appcaranc'e at C.O.P. convention. former Judge Mareelino Romany (I.) got Idg welcome at I Toy, Y\ FFeiilio wer rail> . With him and Ike are Douglas Hudson and Troy Mayor Edward Fitzgerald (r.) San Juan, Pnnio Rico > 1 S1DF.V1 S ot this ancient walled \ capital find it fitting that a mere stone's throw separates the Plu/.a de C olon with its impressive marhle statue ot ( hristopher C olumhus. from the modest law offices of Mareelino Romans on neighboring San F-run- iwisco Street ( oUimhus. the\ point out. discov¬ er *d Puerto Rico 4>9 vears ago. but it took Mareelino Romans rcullv to put the lsk-nd on the map. Ron.anv, as no American with a IS set needs be lenunded, is the re- douhtabtc little Puerto Rican who stole the show at the Republican Na¬ tional Convention in Chicago last Julv with the ringing demand that his three-man delegation be polled on the C redentials C ommittee’s minority re¬ port favoring the seating of pro- \ isenhowei forces from the state of Cieoi gia Hantam-si/ed Senor Romans, who bears both a facial and voeal re- semhk nee to Jimmv Durante, now knows at firsfh aid what a beautiful Channel \win i i e r or Hollvvsood starlet goes through when the Ameri¬ can public decides to clasp her to its bosom, the nature of the phenome¬ non became evident to him at once alter his unforgettable d unrehearsed debut on millions ot 1 \ screens. First came a flood of wires to his Chicago hotel room CONOR A 11- 1 A I IONS ON VOI R V Fs, one Ohioan put it. Some self-stvled "ad¬ miring Rhode Islanders” echoed: MANY 1 HANKS FOR STICKING TO IT. Next came an astounding variety ol personal encounters. Old ladies in elevators pumped his hand; strangers interrupted his meals in res¬ taurants to demand his autograph. Commercial IV offers poured in: Would Mr. Romany accept $250 to appear tor only five minutes on v ideo -—to talk on anything, just anything? Mr. Romany would not — tor pay; with considerable dignity, he ex¬ plained that he was a lawyer and preferred to make his money that way. But he did appear, gratis, on some television shows to discuss a subject dear to his patriotic heart — the problems of Puerto Rico. Mail Piled up Hack Home Senor Romany spent three weeks in all in the States alter the conven¬ tion. visiting friends in New York and in. Philadelphia, where, as a grad¬ uate of the University of Pennsylva¬ nia 1 aw School, class ot 1914, he has many sentimental associations. Then, on his return home, came the real (and pleasant) shocker: an ava¬ lanche ol mail awaited him — from Maine to Texas, from Democrats as well as Republicans, from R.F.D. numbers and big cities. Fully half a year has elapsed since what he calls “the Chicago incident,” but he has yet to dig out from under. Bewilderment still occasionally as¬ sails him, as well as a feeling that per¬ haps his leg is being pulled. At such times he leafs through a fat clipping- book or a Manila folder marked con- vcncion and draws reassurance from letters such as this one from Omaha, addressed to him simply at “Purito Rico, West Indies,” and saying in part: “Please believe that the laughter following y our demand for a roll call was born not of ridicule hut of ad¬ miration. ... In our peculiar manner we were expressing our approval of your action . . . the laughter was in¬ tended as a big ‘ ole ’ from the United States.” Or this one from an Army first lieu¬ tenant stationed in Seattle: “To us in the service of our country, it is a con¬ solation to know that we can depend on men such as you.” Or this one from Minneapolis: “You certainly displayed your cour¬ age and persistence under somewhat trying circumstances. Occasions like this draw us even closer together in our united effort for world peace.” Senor Romany's office walls dis¬ play, framed, tw'o other tokens of American esteem. One is a citation from the National Association of Gagvvriters “for creative humor in the best American tradition.” The other is a newspaper ad of Zimmcr- mann's, a Glenside. Pennsylvania, children's clothing specialty store, which appeared shortly after the con¬ vention and heralded a sale with this preamble: “Not even Romany would question these reductions.” The senor concedes that there was seeming humor “in that I should ask lor a poll of such a miscroscopic dele¬ gation of three.” But his own view of the incident which brought him con¬ tinent-wide fame is sober, although he considers the event far from the “heroic stand for the rights of the in¬ dividual” which many of his admir¬ ing correspondents have called it. As Romany tells it, Senor Gonzales Blancs, spokesman for the Puerto Ri¬ can delegates and a Taft supporter, told his colleagues that he was going to vote “no” for the whole delegation when the question of seating Ike's Georgia contingent came up, al¬ though Romany had previously indi¬ cated that he wished to vote “yes.” Warning Ignored Iiy Rival “He thought he W'as going to get away with it,” Romany recalls with flashing eyes, “even when I warned him I would grab the mike and de¬ mand a poll. He thought I didn't have the nerve. He should have known me better.” Time has not dimmed the senor’s ■ memory of his classic exchange with temporary chairman Walter Halla- nan; he can, and obviously likes to, repeat it word for word, and in the same stentorian tones. “First I said, ‘Mr. Chairman, I call for a call roll (sic) of the delegation!1 The chair¬ man replied, ‘Will the gentleman who has requested that the delegation be polled give his name to the chair?1 And so I said, ‘My name is Romany — R-O-M-A-N-Y!1 . . . Then he said. The roll call can only be demanded by a member of the delegation whose name appears on the temporary roll.’ Then I told him, ‘My name appears on the temporary roll. My name is Romany— R-O-M-A-N-Y!1 ” Although to the convention at large Romany proved a much-needed re¬ lief from mounting tension, and to the rest of his owm delegation only a brief irritant (disqualified as a per¬ manent delegate, he left the floor for good that night), to Romany himself his performance meant no more than the logical assertion of his rights un¬ der the convention rules. “After all,” he says, “anyone who could put the whole Puerto Rican Cabinet in jail could do a small thing like challeng¬ ing the delegation's vote.” The senor did, indeed, once put the island's entire Cabinet in jail — even if only for an hour. Romany, who for years had been a crusading district attorney, was by 1944 a judge of the San Juan district court. The island’s governor at the time was Rex- ford Guy Tugwell. Romany issued an injunction ordering top officials under Tugwell to cease and desist from spending war emergency pro¬ gram funds not yet appropriated by the island legislature. “They were using the money for political pur¬ poses,” he says. For disobeying the injunction the officials in question went to jail, until they were freed an hour later by a court w'rit. Collier’s for January 31, 1953

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What’s happened to the roll-call-demanding delegate from Puerto Rico who convulsed the nation and eased the tension at the Republican National Convention? 41 Subsequently retaliation came when Romany’s judgeship was legislated out of existence. He returned to pri¬ vate law practice, becoming what his son and law7 partner, Jorge, describes as an “outcast.” The memory of those bitter years made all the sweeter Romany’s triumphal return to the island from the convention last sum¬ mer. Friends unheard of for years flocked to the airport to give him a latter-day conquistador’s welcome. Thus another by-product of the Romany rhetoric in Chicago has been to make him, once more, a social lion back home. The lean years of his personal unpopularity arc past; his home in the fashionable suburb of Santurce has again become a focal point for well-wishers. Senor Romany is now much in de¬ mand as a speaker at such places as the Rotary and Lions Clubs (the theme, naturally, is the Chicago inci¬ dent), and his frequent nonoratorical appearances at the baseball games at the Sixto Escobar Athletic Park pro¬ vide further opportunities for demon¬ strations of how warmly his fellow islanders feel about the local boy who made good. A Family Baseball Feud In baseball as in politics, Romany happily confesses: “1 am also a dis¬ senter.” A feud as classic as that of the Dodgers and the Giants exists in Puerto Rico between the teams of San Juan and Santurce. The Ro¬ many family — wife, son, daughter and grandchildren — are stanch San Juan rooters. Romany is a Santurce aficionado , and when his team loses: “I go home after everyone is in bed. The next morning I get up and go to the office very early.” Since making history at the G.O.P. convention, the senor has been back to the States only once — at the invi¬ tation of Congressman Dean P. Tay¬ lor of New York to appear at an Romany won a place in history during healed credentials bailie Collier’s for January 31, 1953 Eisenhower rally in Troy. “The con¬ gressman thought,” Senor Romany explains, “that on account of my pop¬ ularity in the States I could be a big attraction. At that time we didn’t fully realize what a big attraction the general himself was. He didn’t need anybody!” The rally took place on October 22d, Romany’s sixty-first birthday. As he entered the hall at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute with Taylor and Mayor Fitzgerald of Troy, thunder¬ ous applause and cries of “Poll the delegation!” greeted him. Romany responded with a rousing attack on the Truman policies in Korea. No Introduction Needed General Eisenhower came in late with Governor Dewey. After the gen¬ eral had spoken, Mayor Fitzgerald turned to Romany and asked if he did not want to meet the man on whose behalf he had so audibly labored in Chicago. “General,” said the mayor, “I want to introduce to you — ” Ike interrupted: “That man doesn’t need an introduction! I know7 him!” He grinned and put his arm around Romany’s shoulder, and the photog¬ raphers snapped away. Romany recalls: “Then I said to the general, ‘General, this has been the biggest honor of my life, having my picture taken with you.’ The gen¬ eral riposted, ‘Oh, no. The honor is all mine.’ Wasn’t he nice?” Right now the Romany future looks pretty busy. He plans to con¬ tinue a fight, begun before Chicago, to get G.O.P. National Committee recognition of the Eisenhower fac¬ tion of his party in Puerto Rico. And he certainly plans to attend the next Republican convention in 1956 — not as a national committeeman, but as a delegate. “I’d rather be a delegate,” he smiles. But most of all he aims to keep on fighting for Puerto Rico's inclu¬ sion in the Union as a state. Senor Romany’s pride in his American citizenship would give pause to any resident of the continental United States. “My grandfather, my great-grand¬ father, and my great-great-grand¬ father were all born in Puerto Rico,” he says. “When the Americans landed in Guaniea in 1898 during the Span- ish-American War, I was a small boy and living in nearby Yauco. I watched the Spaniards march out, bands playing and flags flying, to fight the Americans, and along with the rest I shouted, 4 Viva Espana!’ Who was to dream then that some¬ day I would be a full-fledged Ameri¬ can citizen? “I’d rather be back under Ameri¬ can military government, even, than independent. The United States has built this country, and we’ve learned a lot from it. I only wish we could have an electorate as good and as capable as the American elec¬ torate.” AAA For the short hop. . . . . . or -the /ong jump When your next move is out of town, you can relax in tension-easing Pullman comfort, whether you're going a short or longdistance. "Take it easy Go Pullman COMFORTABLE, CONVENIENT AND SAFE CO*r*IQMT 1»SJ, THE PULLMAN COMPANY

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44 1 ituehelor Surrounded CONTINUED FROM PACE 15 jbuse ‘Airs Skinner,” I said firmly, U was i List a little stag poker party.” Drinking and carousing until all Hours’ "Nonsense. ' I said, “pcrlecilv re- Vpec table Don't tell me.” old lady Skinner aid I saw the super earning out the empt\ beer bottles. Ne\t time I'll call the police He* ten ag. in. 1 went cravenly into nn apartment down the hall As usual, I lelt the door open Win * I asked my- selt. Piob.ibK old lady Skinner had looked like Susan sometime back iro' md the ( imI War. \ I \ apartment was a mess. I had a cleam lg woman who took « dvantage of me I paid her seven bucks to come once a week, leaving the money on the kitchen table I think she spent the day looking at mv television set and drink- ul e up mv liquor. Once 1 put a chalk mark on a bottle ol rv e in order to trap her. She erased the chalk mark, and the lollowine week she said she'd have to have more money. I went into the bathroom to wash up belore going out to eat, and when I came back into the living room, the dooi was shut. I figured it had blown shut. 1 started over to open it. and something went “wool.” There was nobod) living in the apartment but me, and it wasn’t me. SL DDF \l Y the ragged little black cocker Ironi the pet shop came out ot mv bedroom and bounced over to me his ears Hopping It looked as it he'd walked into mv apartment and shut the door alter him. ’ How did vou get in here?” I said. ' M iss H i 1 1 c rest anil old lady Skinner wiM make mincemeat out ol vou. Dogs aien t allowed here.'' He sat there looking wistful, and I was living to ligure it out, when there was a tap at nn door and mv next-door neighbor Susan C hairnets, darted in. "I'm lemblv sorry,” she said; but I was desperate. Come here. Topper. Come here.” Susan picked up the dog, and rubbed her eheek against his fur. F or a minute I was speechless, sc rt ol putting nn sell in the dog’s place " I he super called to say he was coming up to fix a leaky fau¬ cet. ’ she said "I was terrified. I was alraul 1 upper might bark if I put him in the bedroom. I lien I i omen 'bored that voui door was son et lines open, < nd on the spur ol the moment I shoved lopper in and shut your door. I he su¬ per just lelt ' A oil got that dog in the pet shop down the wav. didn’t you?” I said. "Yes.'* Susan said. “1 go by there about lour times a dav, and I just couldn t stand seeing him in that window anv longer. I bought him this evening " “Women alwavs do things on impulse,” I s.«id "Now the dog will think he Inis a home, and m a dav or so the super will dis¬ cover him. and the poor dog wll end up in the pound. It would have been better to have lelt him in the pet shop.” Susan stared at me, her cheeks Hushed. She looked lovely. I couldn’t believe old ladv Skinner had ever looked like that. Maybe Su¬ san was dilferent, I told myself. I sup¬ pose every married man has said that to himself, at one time or another. 'Aon think you know a lot, don’t you?” Susan said. 1 avoided answering that. “I’m just going out to eat,” I said instead. “Come with me. We'll get a steak and give I opper the bone.” “I’ll go. but only for Topper’s sake,” Susan said. “See il the coast is clear.” i lOOK her to Rod’s, about a mile out ot town. I knew the dog would be a problem, and I was hoping it wouldn't be iny problem. Alter we'd ordered. I said, ‘‘I was sorry for the pup myself. But you shouldn't have bought him.” “Just like a man,” Susan said, her eyes flashing. “They’re so smug, so smart. They know everything. What good did your sympathy do him? It takes a woman to act. You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you? Well, it just so happens I'm going to give Topper to my nephew, and his birthday’s the day after tomorrow.” “How old will your nephew be?” I asked. “He'll be two.” she said. “Well,” I said, “that’s the end of the dog. The kid will think he’s a toy and take him apart.’’ “I disagree with you completely,” Susan said. “Timmy’s a well-behaved child, not a monster. I just have to keep the dog until tomorrow night. You have nothing to worry about.” ”1 hope so,” I said. “Would you like to dance?” She was a very good dancer. She looked good and smelled good, and as we danced I mentally contrasted her with my secretary, my cleaning woman. Miss Hillcrest and old lady Skinner. We finished our dinner, wrapped the remains ol the steak in a paper napkin and went out to the car to let Topper *()Ii yes, Coo liad a certain amount of normal resentment when Mike first arrived, hut lie’s perfectly reconciled to the situation now” LtERS STANLEY A JANICE BERENSTAIN become a man and chew on his first steak bone. “How cute,” Susan said, and I agreed, but I was looking at Susan. This girl really was different, I told myself. She had bought the dog, which indicated a warm heart, and she had figured out what to do with him, which indicated a mind. We drove home, and 1 sent Susan in ahead of me. When her door was open 1 hurried down the hall with Topper in my arms. “I’m going to call my sister,” Susan said. “She’ll be thrilled.” I stood at the door and listened. I heard her say, “Hello, George, is Betty there? Well then, I’ll tell you. I’ve got the most exciting news. I've got a little puppy for Timmy.” There was a silence as Susan listened. I saw' her swallow. “But, George,” she said. “He's so cute — but. George — ” Another silence. “All right, George,” she said, finally, “I’ll get him a dump truck,” and she slammed down the re¬ ceiver and kicked at the wall. “Thdt big jerk,” she said. “A girl as pretty as my sister, and she has to throw herself away on that big lug. Get the boy a real, live puppy, and he says F could give dim my a dump truck. Says he isn't old enough to have a dog. He’s just too tight to buy dog food.” She stared at me. “Think y ou’re smart, don't you? Stop looking so smug.” “I’m not smug,” I said. “I've always had woman trouble. Now it looks like I’ve got dog trouble, too.” “This does not concern you in the least,” she said. “You’re as free as the air, and you’d better take some. Thanks for the steak.” She practically pushed me out the door. If that was how she wanted it, that was the way she could have it. In my own apartment I lighted my pipe and turned on the television. It began to rain outside, and I sat there in my bachelor's quarters, feeling com¬ pletely relaxed and comfortable. Suddenly I heard a suspicious noise. Turning down the sound, 1 went over to the wall and put my head against it. I could hear Topper, very faintly; he was whining and scratching at Su¬ san's door. I went to the window and opened it a few inches. The rain was slanting down hard. It’s un¬ fortunate, I thought, but that's what she had to expect. Dogs have to go out once in a while. Besides, I said to myself, the rain wouldn't bother her as much as it would me. The scientists have proved it. Women are much tougher and have better resistance, I told myself as 1 put on my rubbers and my trench coat. I went out into the hall and knocked at her door. She opened it two inches. She had her raincoat on. “I'll take Topper out,” 1 said. “That dog can t be housebroken yet — ” “He’s not.” Susan said. “I’ve had a busy evening. But I can't let him bark. It’s my responsi¬ bility, I'll take him — ” “No, let me. I'll hide him un¬ der my trench coat,” 1 said. She snapped a leash on Topper, and I started down the hall. It was lucky Topper was hidden. The door of I A opened -as 1 was passing it, and old lady Skinner, ever on the eager lookout for scandal or vice, peered out at me. She stared hard at the bulge under my trench coat. “Palsies,” 1 muttered under my breath, and only when I got outside did I notice that I was trailing the leash. I hoped the old lady hadn't seen it. Topper and I huddled under a pro¬ tective tree down the street for a few minutes, and because I was afraid Mrs. Skinner’s door might still be open, I didn’t dare go back in right aw'ay, I got my car out, and drove downtown to a delicatessen, and bought a box of dog biscuits. When I got back it looked as though old lady Skinner had given up. At any rate, her door was closed as I saw by peeking through the glass of the front door. Topper and I made the dash for safety. I unlocked the main door as si¬ lently as a burglar, then raced on tip¬ toe down the hall. Susan’s door flew open, I handed her the dog, shut the door, leaped sideways and was inserting my key in my own lock when Mrs. Skinner lunged into the hall. “Good evening,” I said, bowed and went inside. I put down the dog bis¬ cuits, which I had forgotten to give to Susan, hung up my trench coat, and set¬ tled down again in front of the tele¬ vision screen. No sooner had I done so than my doorbell rang. It was the super. “Mind il I come in?” he said. “I want to take a look at your stove. Thought I smelled gas outside in the hall.” He sounded as phony as a three-dollar bill. Old lady Skinner must have tele¬ phoned him. “Come ahead,” 1 said blithely, HE WENT into the kitchen and pussyfooted around like a stage detective. “While I'm here,” he said, “is there anything I can do for you? Bath¬ room fixtures all in order?” He took a look around, but he came back empty-handed, his suspicions ap¬ parently allayed. “Guess everything’s all right,” he said. He started for the door, then stopped as though he’d been shot, and stared grimly at the telltale box of dog biscuits. “All right,” he said, “where is it? Where’s the dog?” “A friend of mine left those biscuits in my car,” 1 lied. “You can see for yourself there’s no dog here. Have an¬ other look if you like.” Suspicious but baffled, he left. I went to bed and put in a restless night. . . . I was up at seven. Glancing out my bedroom window', I saw Susan's head come round the corner of the garage and then disappear. Then Topper’s head poked out and was withdrawn just as quickly. The super appeared on the scene, struggled with an ash can, and was gone, and then Susan and Topper came flying from their sanctuary around to the front door. Susan showed a good burst of speed, and excellent under¬ pinning. I tapped on Susan's door on my way to work. She opened her door a bit and looked out at me. Her eyes were big with apprehension. “That dog’s going to make a wreck of you,” I said. “Any plans?” “I’ll sell him,” she said. ‘Til put an ad in the paper.” She had no right to look that nice CollierN for January 31, 1933

Page 337

so early in the morning. Fascinated by her face just above the door chain, 1 bent toward her lips. I’d never kissed a girl at seven twenty in the morning. 1 didn’t then, cither. “No, you don’t,’’ she said, and closed the door against my chin, f went outside and found Charley Gordon waiting. He lived around the corner and had no car, and I drove him to work regularly. I didn’t like him much, but it was one of those things that’s easier to start than stop. He walked down to the garage with me, and just as we got into the car he said, “You know where I can buy a dog cheap? My wife’s got a crazy notion she wants a dog.” A miracle! I looked at him in amaze¬ ment, then hauled him out of the car. “Your problem is solved,” I said, and took him back to Susan’s apartment. “Man wants to buy a dog,” 1 an¬ nounced. Susan looked at me in awe. Charley Gordon looked at Topper quietly chew¬ ing a corner of the rug. “Give you twenty bucks if he’s a thoroughbred.” She’d told me she’d paid thirty. Getting out from under W'ith only a ten-dollar loss was nothing at all. She’d be eternally grateful to me for coming to the rescue. SUSAN looked straight at me, then shut her eyes. “The price is one hundred and fifty dollars,” she said. Charley almost collapsed, but he was no worse ofT than I was. Sore as a boil, he strode out of the apartment. I shut the door after him. “What’s the matter? You crazy?” I asked Susan. “I didn’t like him,” Susan said. “He didn’t even pat Topper. He wouldn’t be nice to Topper. So I put the price out of reach. And as for you, stay away from me. Don’t you try to kiss me.” “Who’s trying?” I said. “I w'ash my hands of the whole affair. I never want to see Topper again.” “You won’t,” she said. “Or me, cither. Beat it, or I’ll scream for the super.” “No, you won’t,” I said. “Not with Topper here. Even if I did kiss you, you wouldn’t scream for the super,” She looked alarmed, and I turned and walked out. I was through with that girl forever, I got in my car and backed into the street. “That crazy dame,” Charley said an¬ grily. “Trying to hold me up. Playing me for a sucker. Stands there with the big comc-hither smile on her face. Gives me the eye and tries to hold me up. Nothing but a gold digger — Hey, what’s the idea?” I’d pulled over to the curb. “You can ride the bus, Charley,” I said. “You crazy?” he said. “You in with that holdup artist?” “Nobody can talk that way about my girl,” I said. She wasn’t my girl, but suddenly I wanted her to be. He shouted insults after me as I drove off. It was a bad start for a day’s work, and my secretary was worse than ever. I took it on the chin for eight hours and came home beat. When I rang Susan’s doorbell, she opened it and looked at me from be¬ hind the door chain. “Let’s go to Rod’s,” I said. “Let’s get a steak for Topper.” “Topper and I prefer to eat at home,” Susan said. “I'll walk him for you.” “That’s not necessary.” “Well,” I said, “I’ll bring over those dog biscuits.” “Thanks, I bought some,” she said. “Eat them yourself.” Collier's for January 31, 1953 I lunged, and made it this time. I kissed her. She stared at me for a min¬ ute. “Okay,” she said, “now we’re even. You're paid off,” and slammed the door. I went into my apartment, but the evening wasn’t much better than the day. I he next morning I was up even earlier than usual to watch Susan and topper play hide-and-seek behind the building. But this morning the super made an unexpected trip to the garage, and she was trapped in no man's land. She had only a few seconds in which to act. I whistled and she saw’ me. She came running to my back window and hoisted Topper up in the air. 1 hung out over my window ledge, grabbed him, and hauled him in and out ol sight just as the super came in view. All he saw was me leaning out the window talking to Susan. Topper had disappeared under the bed. I shaved and began getting dressed. I took out a clean shirt. It was as starched as a board. I'd told the girl at the laundry about a dozen times that I didn’t like much starch in my shirts. I think she did it deliberately because I was a bachelor. I put on my clothes and reached lor my brown shoes. I put on the right one; the left one was miss¬ ing. I searched in the eloset to no avail. Then, bending over, I saw something under the bed. Topper looked out at me, my shoe cradled in his paws, bits of leather sticking to his tongue. At that moment the doorbell rang. I limped out to the door. This time I’d really end it — I’d tell Susan off. I flung open the door, but it wasn’t Susan, it was old lady Skinner. I stared at her, paralyzed. “I just discovered I’m out of coffee,” she said in a very phony voice. “Could I borrow a little from you?” I left the door open and hurried her into the kitchen, praying that I might get her out before Topper investigated. In my rush I spilled coffee all over the table. The old bat was trying to look in four directions at once, but I got the coffee into her cup and got her outside, and there had been no sign of Topper. “Good old Topper,” I said weakly. “Smartest dog in town. Come on out, kid, the old bat’s gone. NOTHING happened. I looked un¬ der my bed. My chewcd-up shoe was there, but no Topper. He’d van¬ ished. I tried to puzzle it out, and sud¬ denly I heard a scream from dowm the hall that made my blood run cold. I jerked open the door. The hall was empty, but the super was running up the front steps. Suddenly Topper came out of Mrs. Skinner’s apartment, fol¬ lowed by Mrs. Skinner. It was my op¬ portunity if I ever had one, and I took advantage of it before she could open her mouth. “Well, well,” I said, “fine thing. I didn't know' you had a dog, Mrs. Skinner. I didn’t realize you were an animal lover. When did you get the little dog, Mrs. Skinner?” Her face got purple. “It was in my apartment—” “How’d he get in the building?” I said. “How’d he unlock the front door? Whcre’d he get a key?” I wagged my finger at her. “A likely story!” I thought she was going to burst. The super, popeyed, clutched at the regula¬ tions in his mind and said, “Dogs aren’t allowed.” I went over and picked up Topper. “Too bad, Mrs. Skinner,” I said. “Would you like me to dispose of him for you?” The answer was a slammed door that shook the building. 1 tucked I opper under my arm and started jauntily for my apartment. Hey!" the super said, coming out of it. “No dogs.” “It takes time to dispose of a dog,” I said. “ 1 he wheels have to turn. I here's red tape. I'll handle everything.” I shut my door and put I opper down. “ I opper,” I said, “you have freed me from female tyranny. You are a dog ol dogs.” Feeling like a man reborn, I went to the telephone and called Miss Hiilercst at her home; that was something she hated. “Miss Hillcrcst,” I said, “this is Mr. Shelton. How long do you expect me to put up with an obsolete refrig¬ erator? When I rented this apartment I w as promised a new one. T hat was eight months ago. This model doesn't hold enough beer for my poker parties, and I refuse to serve warm beer to my guests, Miss Hiilercst. I expect action immediately.” I should have left for work, but a new exhilaration had taken possession of me, and it was the day my cleaning woman was due. I was waiting for her when she came in. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw me. “Twenty-live minutes late,” I said. “I want a word with you. I can't put up with this kind of thing any longer,” and I drew my finger along the dust of the kitchen window sill. “I am not operat¬ ing a rest home.” She just stared at the new Shelton, flabbergasted. All you needed to do. I realized, was to take a firm stand with a woman. I got up, put on my hat, and snapped on Topper’s leash. We walked out to find Susan at the door. “I’d have come earlier,” she said, “but the hall has been full of people. Thanks so much. I'll take Topper now.” “Not now or ever.” I said. “From now' on, Topper is my dog. Heel,” I said, and marched down the hall. I put him beside me on the car seat and drove to work. My secretary was admiring her image in her compact mir¬ ror w'hen I arrived. She did a double- take at Topper, knocked over her chair and backed into a corner. “I don’t like dogs,” she said, her baby-blue eyes wide open. “That is an unfortunate addition to your other dislikes, such as spelling,” I said, looking at Topper for approval. “This dog is a fixture, and if you don’t care to associate with him and walk him two or three times a day, I suggest you would be happier elsewhere.” She flounced out of the office. 1 patted Topper on the head, and tele¬ phoned the employment agency to send over a new girl. I had routed my enemies, but sud¬ denly 1 felt uneasy. I had a notion that, though I had won several skirmishes, the war was not yet over. At noon 1 decided to drive home. “We will reconnoitcr the battlefield,” I told Topper. I parked in the street out¬ 45 side the budding ,ind we went in. ti lind our worst Icuiv rc, i/ed Mv apartment door was wide open Miss Hiilercst was inside Beside her virtue triumphant was old lady Skin¬ ner. My cleaning worn n, leaning on the mop in the kitchen, was ready to at¬ tack on my Jett Hank. I^ \ h\ 1 opper gave up He sat down J on my leet and looked up at me with the whites of his eyes showing, 1 could feci him tremble. “Something wrong. Miss Hiilercst*'" I inquired, trying to sound defiant but with a quaver in my voice that gave me away. “Just one question," Miss Hiilercst snapped. 'Is that or is that not your dog. Mr. Shelton?” My cleaning woman leered at me “Course it’s his dog," she said. “I found dirty dog hairs all over the apartment.” Like a trio of witches they had us surrounded, and Topper and I hacked into a corner, beaten. “You'll have to vacate this apart¬ ment at the end of the month.” Miss Hiilercst said. I was nodding abjectly, completely routed, when Susan burst into the room like an avenging angel. “He will not,” she said reck¬ lessly. “Because that happens to be my dog.” “It it's your dog — ” Miss Hill- crest began shrilly, and 1 tensed, waiting for Susan to he com¬ pletely overwhelmed. “We ll discuss that later.” Su¬ san said. “In the meantime this happens to be Mr. Shelton's apartment, and he’s entitled to privacy. And may 1 ask what you arc doing in here, Mrs. Skinner?” Old lady Skinner had met her match. She slunk out of the apartment, tol- lowed by Miss Hiilercst. “Golly, Su¬ san,” 1 said, “you’re sensational.” Susan paid no attention to me. “And just what is your interest in this situa¬ tion?” she said to the cleaning woman. “Just scrubbing the kitchen, ma’am,” she said, and tumbled back out of sight. While I gazed worshipfully at Susan, she said, "You've been terribly sweet, but I won't let you do it. I ll get you out of this.” “Nothing will ever induce me to part from l opper.” I said. “You really like him?” she said. “You weren't just trying to make an impres¬ sion? What can you do? W here will you go?” “On the way home just now.” I said, “I took a different route, and passed a newly completed garden apartment house on the edge of town. I saw some¬ one walking a dog out front, and there was a vacancy sign on the lawn.” “Oh, 1 know the house.” Susan said. “There's a big field out back. Topper will love it.” She picked up the dog and hugged it to her. “How can 1 leave you, Top¬ per?” she said. “I'd move into that apartment mysclL hut I can't afford it." The strain was telling on me. “Top¬ per and I,” I said hoarsely, “are hoping you’ll come over olten. We're hoping that someday you'll move in with us — damn it. put that dog down and listen to me! I’m trying to propose.” Susan put Topper on the floor. “I heard every word.” she said. “I think I’m going to love the apartment.” “One side, Topper,” 1 said, and put my arms around her. Her hair tickled my nose. Being a bachelor. I thought, has its good points, but when a man finds a girl who's really different, there's nothing in it. AAA Whatever Happened To Good Old Swing? Tliis hop has pot me all confused, IV1 y mind's completely hazy; They call it cool, instead of hot — Now, man, that's really crazy! — BARBARA REA RENW1CK

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46 MY PET BEAR By WARD MOREHOUSE The story of a lucky critter from Thailand learning to live in Southern comfort Bangkok. Himalayan hear. liN New \ ork owner I OW N a hear. I’ve never met anyone else who does, but I do. I got him in the mysterious and irresistible city of Bangkok, I hailand, while flying eastward and homeward lrom an around-the-woiid spin last spring. I paused in eolor- ful Bangkok, crossed the muddy Choa Phraya River, and spent an attei noon in the sales yard of the Boon Vanit Company, I td., merchants ol jungle animals, on Burapa Road. 1 got the cash-and-carry prices on a baby elephant ($400), a baby tiger ($400) and a black panther ($350), but it was a playful Hi- W aid Morch(»u-<‘. theater eoluinniM-critic of VY. W orld-Telegram and Sun. plays with bear lie brought bark from Thailand and left on mother-in-law's farm in Register, Ga. malayan bear eub at $35 that caught my fancy, and I left the outdoor menagerie with the cub in tow. He was about the size of a full-grown Seotty, six weeks old and fed on goat’s milk. I carried my pet to Bangkok’s Hotel Oriental and later, with considerable difficulty and with the help of wide-eyed airline attendants, got him to New York via the airways, not as regular air freight, but along with me in the planes on which 1 rode, making hectic stopovers in Hong Kong, Tokyo, Hono¬ lulu and San Francisco. In San Franciseo he made a wreck of the bathroom in the elegant Hotel Fairmont, He did like¬ wise in my apartment at the Plaza Hotel in New York, 1 then took him by car to the 700-acre Franklin farm in Bulloch County, Georgia, near the tiny village of Register, and introduced Bangkok, as I was now' calling the cub, to my some¬ what alarmed brother-in-law, H. V'. Franklin, Jr. He mumbled something, glanced at the health certificate 1 had brought all the way from Thailand, and told a boy to run and get some milk — eow’s milk. That was in May of 1952, Well, during a recent holiday from my job as a theater columnist-critic for New York’s World-Telegram and Sun. 1 returned to Mrs. H. V. Franklin s acreage and found that my little Thailand cub has changed startlingly. He is about ten months old and weighs around 125 pounds — 1 was told in Thailand that he will get to weigh 400, His home is in an elaborate nen built around a tall syeamore tree. Bangkok has become king of the Georgia farm and pet of the village of Register, to which he is frequently taken on a leash. Bangkok has also become a tireless actor; the larger the audience the better his show. He is never savage unless mo¬ lested during a meal; try to take an ear of corn or a ehieken wing from him and his growl is that of an animal of the jungle. But it is gentle treatment that he gets from the Franklins, lov¬ ing attention along with the best food any bear ever had. He will eat and drink anything and his appetite is enormous. No goat’s milk since he left the Orient, but every day he has plenty of milk from fine eows and six pounds of dog food in three regular meals. He also gets, in generous handouts, Southern fried chicken, soda pop, potatoes and tomatoes, biseuits and bread and coconut cake, peanuts and oranges and catfish. He will stand on his hind legs for candy, grapes and lump sugar. Bangkok is allowed out of his pen frequently, but never without being watched. He’s had one fight with the Franklin’s solemn chow, hut he gets along amiably enough with John, the bird dog, and Florabelle, a white kitten. Beauty, the saddle horse, is quite terrified of him and stays well out of his reach. 1 was told out in faraway I hailand by the animal man, one Luang Visal Bochanakich, that Bangkok would probably like eandy of all kinds, and 1 saw evidence of it in Georgia when we got him to the big crossroads store of Moses Jaekson Bowen. He ate a large assortment of penny eandies, in many shapes and colors, but when he reached Main Street in the village of Register he was still hungry and gobbled up a pint of ice cream in the H. H. OllilT drugstore. Farmers of Bulloch County drop by. ostensibly to talk with my brother-in-law of cotton, wheat, corn and soybeans and of the spring planting, but they always turn their gaze toward Bangkok’s pen and ask: “How’s that bear getting along?" Such a question had just been put to “H,” as my wife's brother is called, at a filling station on Route 301 one afternoon when a Franklin farm hand drove up and rushed toward him, greatly agitated. “The bear's gone, the bear’s gone,” he said, “Got out of his pen and we ean’t find him — we’ve looked everywhere." “Why," “H“ said, “you couldn't run that bear off the farm," He got into the car with the man and they drove to the house and made a tour of the nearby woods, looked into the barn and the cowshed, and the tool shed and the kennel and finally entered the house, via the back door. There, upon the kitchen table, sat Bangkok, with a sugar bowl in his paws. He looked up unconcernedly and then went along with his licking of the bottom of the bowl. “H," in his Georgia drawl, observed quietly, “That bear is more fun than anything this farm ever had — and we’d like to keep him . . . but someday we might sell him to a eireus or a ear- nival or something. Either that, or let my Broadway brother- in-law keep him in his New York apartment. We’ve heard tell that Mr. Morehouse likes to bring ’em back alive.’ i PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY CARL PERUTZ

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Bangkok now weighs ahout 125 pounds, is sometimes given run of farm. When he ean, he sneaks to kitchen, steals sugar. He'll someday weigh 400 Morehouse’s pet has duplex apartment built around sycamore tree. To go up to second floor he climbs through chute and up ladder leading from pen >llier’s for January 31, 1953 i I I On porch of Moses Jackson Bowen's big general store near Register. Jerry Price, a visitor from Walterboro, S.C.. tries to look brave near Bangkok

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I of Irish blood in Just about everyone with a drop Ids veins wants one day to make a pilgrimage to the old sod, to see for himself that green paradise, land of heroes, kings and leprechauns. The author, w ho’s half Irish, tried it — and received a few surprises PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY ELAINE STEINBECK A • <»*vj»y - |.t H i«) (M t *1 »«**

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49 IRELAND The Hamilton house, now overgrown with weeds — and, worse, owned by strangers Miss Elizabeth Hamilton's prized roses, neglected and choked by lowering grass Collier’s for January 31, 1953 THERE must be a kind of apprehension in the sleepy little villages of Italy, Germany, Eng¬ land and Ireland in the summer, when the descendant of the native comes hack to discover the seat of his culture. 1 suppose Ireland suffers more from this than any other land. Every Irish¬ man — and that means anyone with one drop of Irish blood — sooner or later makes a pilgrimage to the home of his ancestors. 1 here he crows and squeals over the wee cot or the houseen, pats mossy rocks, goes into ecstasies over the quaint furni¬ ture, and finds it charming that the livestock lives with the family. He wouldn’t live there if you gave him the place. And the locals don’t think they’re quaint — they think they’re perfectly normal. To them, it’s the American descendant whose speech sounds outlandish, particularly when he puts on a nos¬ talgic brogue, which he usually does. The natives must think the pilgrims are crazy. I have just made such a pilgrimage. I am half Irish, the rest of my blood being watered down with German and Massachusetts English. But Irish blood doesn't water down very well; the strain must be very strong. I guess the people of my family thought of Ireland as a green paradise, mother of heroes, where golden people sprang full-flowered from the sod. I don’t remember my mother actually tell¬ ing me these things, but she must have given me such an impression of delight. Only kings and heroes came from this Holy Island, and at the very top of the glittering pyramid was our family, the Hamiltons. My grandfather, who had come from there car¬ rying the sacred name, was really a great man, a man of sweet speech and sweet courtesy. He died when I was quite young, but it is remarkable how much I remember about him. His little bog-trot- ting wife, I am told, put out milk for the lepre¬ chauns in the hills behind King City, California, and when a groundling neighbor suggested the cats drank it, she gave that neighbor a look that burned off his nose. Anyway, we grew up feeling singularly favored because of even our demi-Irishness. There was very little running back to Ireland for a look; there was none, in fact. My grandparents never went home to visit, I can recall only two relatives who did. One was a cousin of my mother’s who was a judge of the Supreme Court in California. He went back, I guess, mostly to impress the Irish relatives with the importance of the American branch. They must have cut him down to size, because he rarely spoke of his visit. Later, one of my uncles made the trip. He re¬ ported that he had wept out of pure sentiment the whole time. He also reported that the family was just about played out; there remained two sisters and a brother — Katherine, Elizabeth and Thomas — children of my grandfather’s brother, all old and all unmarried. They lived in the “new house” (the old house had burned down several hundred years ago) . After my uncle’s return, we had an occasional letter from Elizabeth. She wrote a thin, elegant hand, and her English had an exquisite quality, reminiscent of the eighteenth-century writers. We felt good about that; we didn’t really believe any dull or illiterate Irish existed — in Ireland, at least. We knew plenty of that kind in this country, but perhaps we thought they had degenerated here. I should have gone to visit long ago, but I didn’t. During the war, I landed at various Irish airports and could have gone, but some curious, powerful reluctance always came over me when 1 got close to the home place. Meanwhile, the letters had stopped and we heard nothing more. Last summer, my wife and I finally went there. By J OIL'S STEINBECK It’s green, all right — but so is Scotland. It seemed to me a different green, but 1 wouldn’t submit the two greens to a color test We rented an automobile to cross from Belfast to Londonderry — an extravagance which outraged even the man who owned the car, a Rolls-Royce of sneering gentility, a little younger than Stonehenge and in a little better condition. Summer was full-blown in Ireland and the grain was bowing golden-headed ready for the cutting. Then we crossed and came to Derry, and it’s a dour, cold city to an outsider — dark, angular build¬ ings and uncrowded streets, waiting for something — a city of protest against the rolling green of County Derry and the lovely hills of Donegal across Lough Foyle. There was no home feeling in the bleak hotel, that carried its own darkness with it. The girl be¬ hind the desk would not smile nor pass a cordial word, no matter how' much we tried to trap her. In the bar there was no gaiety. I don't know whether laughter was there before we went in for a drink or after we left, but none was offered for us to share, and curtains of rules brushed against us. So Many Things Were Not Permitted A drink in our room? Not permitted. Two min¬ utes late to the dining room? Not permitted to serve after hours. A London paper, then. All taken. There was a hush on the people like the hush on the city, and the feeling that eyes brushed over you and dropped when you looked up. We were strangers. The porter — not the real porter, he hastened to tell us, the real porter was away — said he would get us a man to drive us into the country the next day, a man who knew the countryside. This not-the-real-porter was nice to us. He was sorry he couldn't have some clothes pressed for us; it was after hours. He wanted to bring a drink to us. He looked sadly at the bribe in his hand. He would try. In a while he came back. The liquor was locked up, the manager had the key, and the manager was gone. A sandwich? The pantry was locked up. I don’t know who had that key, A copy of the Lon¬ don Times in the morning? They were all or¬ dered and it was too late to order another one. He looked as though he wanted to return the bribe; he was a young, dark, sad-looking man. I found myself trying to explain to him, “Does the young lady at the desk never smile?” I asked. “Rarely.” he said. “Is no rule ever broken at all?” “I don't understand,” he said. “Look,” I said, “my people came from here¬ abouts, They were law-abiding people, but there was a filament of illegality in them. My mother wasn't above putting too much catsup on her plate and sopping it up with a piece of bread in a restau¬ rant ” “Catsup?” he asked. I said, “One of my uncles had a major difficulty in college for stealing chickens. Another of my uncles had to be disarmed when he had murder in his heart, and I, myself . . I stopped, because the not-the-real-porter was looking at me helplessly, trying to make out my meaning. My voice was rising against a wall of frustration. “What I am trying to say is this,” I said. “Has all illegality gone out of this rebellious island in three generations?” “Sir?” he asked. “I mean, if I should give you in your hand more than enough — twice more than enough — to buy a bottle of whisky, a loaf of bread and a sausage.

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50 Xobotly remembered Steinbeck's grandfather ; “the tree of our culture had no roots ” ecu Idn’t you find some lawbreaker to u B i Ik rn to v on 1 be i ulus are \ery strict.” he said, I m sotrv 1 wish I co lid help you.” \h be >t t ht kc tor him * 1 in not the real porter.' he said. ( jood night s i I m sorr> . ‘ Citv Mon- Desolate on Sunday We sat in the window looking across llu street .it the angiv stone buildings o d tlie sm ib. locked-np shops. I he Oieci was deserted and a desolation e t'k over us I told my wile how brave ,ii t open inv ancestors wete. how lull • •i usi and courtesy and fine laughter. I bed ..hi ut them some I guess I had to I he Si nda\ d irk fell on that city a Inch is somber even on weekdays and in sunlight Now inv lelustanc'e came on me ten- b I and 1 wanv 1 to give up the pil¬ grimage and go avvuv quickly and torget it. because lealitv was violating evv.iv nheiited memory and 1 was sav¬ in » to my sell th.it it the old folks went awav trom heic, maybe they had good reason i put on a bathrobe and took the long deseited. green-carpeted hall to the b.ithroc m. f rom a room on the e i i idoi came an old woman carrying a broom and a long-handled dust¬ pan I said good evening to her and her lace wind led up into a smile that lighted the dark corners of that deso¬ late eoi i idor. ‘ Good evening, sir,” she* said. I stopped in front of her. because this w.s a tone 1 had not heard. “I kn >w before 1 ask that the irons are locked up.” 1 said, “but can you steal an non . nd take the wrinkles out ol a pair ot pants Joi me ,“ ‘What room'” she asked, and then, “Yo i 11 have smooth pants.*’ 1 lie front was broken. In an hour die had the tiousers hack, still steam- i tg a little and 1 tipped her until she begged for meiey. We slept better be¬ cause ol her. In the morn ine. we had our driver, a'l right he who knew the country¬ side .t rakish man in a torn cap. who issuied us that lie knew every nubbin of a lull m all directions. He didn’t, but lie was willing Ills ear was so old tfi.it it chimed and clatteicd and a blue sullov. itmg smoke came lrom it We vveic looking toi a place called Mmkeiaugh >011 can spell it half a do/cn wavs . nd it isn’t on any map. I knew Horn hall -inemoi y that it was near to Ballvkellv. which is near to 1 miavadv. and 1 knew that trom Mul- keiaugh you could look across the lough t o the lulls ol Donegal. We clutteicd and smoked along IS miles t om 1 ondondenv. past thatched cottages and hedged little fields where the bbmk bundles ot the flax lav wait¬ ing to be K ken in 1 he country side was rolling and ®ovely and the blackness of the eitv went out ol us. I he Donegal lulls wete i emote and sunny across the broad water ol the lough We dune right through Bully kelly without knowing it was there, but at 1 imuvudv thev turned us ba*A. I guess I had thought of Bally kelly as a town: it isn't it's what they call m I c\us a wide place in the road. I \eept tor two churches, it wasn’t ditl'erent trom the cottage-lined highway we had been driving on. An old man stood in front of one of the churches. ’Mulkeruugh?” he said. “Second turning to the left — a quarter of a mile.” “Do you know any Hamiltons there'.' ” I asked. “I hey ’re all dead,” he said. “Miss I h/abeth died two years ago. You’ll find Mi Richey . her cousin, on the hill, though.” Mulkeraugh isn’t a place at all. It’s a hill and three or four farms near about. Mr. Richey came to the door of the house on the hill and he looked like some of our breed the pink cheeks, the light blue sparkling eyes. He said. “ I he Hamilton place is sold, sold to the ground. You can find out about it at the lawyer’s office in Lima- vady.” I said, “I'm the grandson of Samuel; he left here a long time ago.” “1 have heard there was a brother,” he said: “went away to America. But wasn’t his name Joseph?” It was the same everywhere we asked my grandfather did not exist. So far as Ireland was concerned, there was no Samuel Hamilton. Why should they remember? I he tree of our culture had no roots. Maybe I’d known that unconsciously . and that was why 1 had been reluctant to go back. Mv grand- lather's hi other, he who stayed, that was different. And his children, they were dill e rent. And how much land they had. that was dilTerent. And how improved it was and how much it brought when it was sold. I hese were immediate things, and who could re¬ member an old. old lact like my grand¬ father? Everyone knew the three children of my grandfather’s brother. Miss Kather¬ ine. Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Tom. It was a good I arm they had — about 200 acres and a good house of two sto¬ ries. I hese children never married, the two sisters and the brother; why? No one knew why. I hey were well-en¬ dowed. well-educated people, and they had more land than most. I hey had silver spoons and fine china anil little colTee cups, so thin you could see through them, and all the collected things ot the family for hundreds of years, pictures and hooks and records and lurmture. to make them envied all over the countryside. But they never married. They were well known, well liked. They grew old together. Miss Katherine was the efficient one, almost like Tommy’s mother, and I onimy did just what she said about the farm. He plowed when she said and he sowed when she said and he harvested when she said. Miss Tli/.aheth was more for reading and writing things, and she had a rose garden. She spent a great deal of her time cultivating her flowers. Tommy was a silent man, but good, and well liked everywhere. The three grew older on the farm and they never married. Then, about 12 years ago, Miss Katherine died. The directing head was gone. The farm went to pieces little hy little and month by month, so slowly that it was hardly noticeable. Tommy, with no one to tell him what to do, when to plow and when to sow. began to neglect the land, and he sold some of the cows and didn't replace them. When the roof leaked, he didn’t mend it. The hedges hegan to creep into the fields. When his lriends remonstrated, he smiled and agreed that he should keep up the land, hut the directing head was gone and there was no one to tell him. Elizabeth. the neighbors said, had her head in a book. She tended the roses and she and 1 onimy grew ever closer together. And then, about seven years ago, lorn my died. He got a scratch on his side lrom a nail and did nothing about it, hecause nobody told him to, and he died of blood poisoning. People who told us about what hap¬ pened next did so reluctantly, as though they didn't want to be gossiping. Miss Elizabeth, they said, grew strange after Tommy died — “strange” was the word they used. She’d be smart and clever as always, but there'd be things like this: she would be talking to a neighbor and at the same time listening to something far away. And right in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, she would sav, “ Tom is going to take out that tree stump in the lane. We need a new tree there.” And when neighbor women were having tea with her from those thin lit¬ tle cups you could almost see through. JEFFERSON collier's "I decided to make it easier for people** machamer Elizabeth would say, “I'll have to ask you to excuse me now, Tom’s coming in and he’ll be very tired.” And she would usher them out of the house. And then in the night they’d hear Miss Elizabeth walking in the lanes between the hedgerows and she’d be calling her hrother, telling him it was late and his supper was waiting. And several times she was seen in the night, searching through the fields. She was in a nightgown and her feet were bare, but she wasn’t sleepwalking, they said — she wasn’t asleep at all. She’d just turned strange, they said. It wasn’t as though she was crazy. Except for that, she talked as good sense as anybody, but she just could not bring herself to believe that her hrother was dead. And she did another strange thing that was unlike her, they said. She got herself a cause. She joined the party which resisted with all its strength the joining of the northern counties to Eire. She worked for her cause and she made a will in which she ordered everything she possessed sold on her death and every penny turned over to the party that resisted the join¬ ing of Ulster to Eire, and then she died. The neighbors said it was a sorrow to see the house torn apart. It was well known that the Hamiltons had beauti¬ ful things. On the day of the auction, the automobiles and the carriages came by the hundred, and people bought pictures just for the frames: and the beautiful silver went, and the fine china, and the hooks, hought for the binding only — and all hy strangers. Strangers bought the farmhouse. It was a sor¬ row, the neighbors said. In the Neglected Rose Garden I went to see the house and there was nothing of us there. The rose gar¬ den was overgrown with weeds and only the whips of the rosebushes showed above the grass, with haws still on from the last year. The ivy had nearly covered the stone paths. The new owners were kind. But they were stran¬ gers, and, what was even worse, we were strangers. The sexton of the church at Bally- kelly is an old. old man, lean and dry, and his speech is like my grandfather’s speech. I asked, “Did you know the Hamil¬ tons?” “Hamiltons?” he said. “I ought to — I dug their graves. I huried them, all of them. Miss Elizabeth was the last, two years ago. She was a bright one.” Wc looked at the graves, with the new cement coping around the plot. “Miss Elizabeth put it in her will about coping,” the sexton said. He didn’t ask, hilt we felt that he wanted to know. I said, “My grandfather was William’s brother.” He nodded slowly. “I’ve heard,” he said. “Went away — I forget where.” “California,” I said. “What was his name again?” the sex¬ ton asked. The rain was beginning to fall. He left us for a moment and came back, carrying a full-blown red rose. “Would you like to have it?” he asked. I took it. And that’s the seat of my culture and the origin of my being and the soil of my background, the one full-blown evidence of a thousand years of family. I have it pressed in Collier's for January 31, 1953

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51 HOW FIRE INSURANCE GIVES THEM us insurance engineers iia\e been working to redu local community prospers. 77 / /()W MUCH WOULD YOU LOSE IF YOUR FAMILY’S clothing were destroyed by fire? You’d be surprised. It could easily be several thousand dollars! Would your insurance cover its loss by fire? Your agent or broker is more than willing to talk this over with you— also to make sure you have adequate protection for your home and furnishings. AN ADVERTISEMENT SPONSORED BY THE CAPITAL STOCK FIRE INSURANCE COMPANIES, THEIR AGENTS AND BROKFRS, THROUGH THE NATIONAL BOARD OF FIRE UNDERWRITERS, 85 JOHN STREET. NEW YORK 38, N. Y. 5rr • . CL ' a»Y

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(';i ml Irhlou IkhI a gambling blister: a shell-cnerusted pearl that might make him rich it he played it right — or might get him killed By JOHN KRUSE THE monsoon rain slapped down, exploding in a line mist on the roadway. It hung like a head curtain across the doorway and splashed me where 1 sat inside. The smell of it was every¬ where. like warm, rotting vegetation, and it got in the collce. 1 was sitting in a water-front cafe in Colombo, Ccvlon, engaged m watching the scum bubble .♦cross the sidewalk and roll in a thick, oily swell along the gutter. The pace was killing me. The monsoon alwavs made a wallflower of me: 1 just had to sit it out ti 1 it quit waltzing with the sea. I he hig eomhets that came rolling in over the reefs dav and night churned up a tog underwater which m ide mv job spear hshaig— impossible. And the rain that made c\cr\tfun g impossible; everything except dunking collet*. that is. I was just wondering whei'her I should pack up mv gear and hitch cast to Tnnco. where they don't get me southwest monsoon, when a chunky, sun- wrinkled guv in a battered bush hat came in. I grabbed him hv the arm. “Candleblow!” He blinked his vvateiv blue eves at me. “By all that’s huh Mike Gardener! How are ya, cobber?” he said, seizing ms hand in both his and pumping it "Gos.i. it s good to sec you!” He peered short¬ sightedly ovei his shoulder, hooked a chair round with his toot so he could see the door, and sat down, still pumping mv hand. “How’vya been, Iclla y' ' Swell,’’ I said, thinking bow quickl) pearl div¬ ing ages a man. C andleblow had never got his voice back He spoke with only his breath, some¬ how in the Kick ol his thioat. with the noise a rasp makes on solt wood, fie had got that wav saving mv hte. \S e had been skin divers together a couple of veais back, up at the pearling grounds at Mannar. Smith, Ins name was then. You have to dive in [j,tii s up theie because of the sharks, and we were lown on tile bottom together, me lifting shell and him on guard, when a big hlaeklin took a lunge at me Smith plunged his spike up into the shark’s hellv. It did a hack lhp and slapped him across t he throat with its tail as it made oil. It did something to his vocal c holds. He‘d gone bv the name ol l and eblow ever since. tiling the bottle ” 1 shouted to the proprietor. *’ \h. ah Not today . pal.” C andleblow said. “I lust came in loi some tags.” I sc ubbed the ordei and stared at him. “Sick?” I he Australian laughed. ‘ Got to keep sober. Big things atoot ‘ \\ hat sort of things ?” “Oh. things. How are va, Mike? Still the lone spe.u fisherman’” 1 nodded wondering why he kept watching the door. “ \nd voii* Still diving?” * I’ve quit *’ “Quit' Since when?” ‘Since today 1 laughed “You quit at Mannar, remember? A on were going back to Australia, had it all saved up. remember? Aon never even got clear of the water front "Go ahead and laugh. I tell you I’m quitting. There’s a tub pulling out for Svdney tomorrow afternoon, and I’m going on her. 1 ain't even sniffing a cork till l‘m aboard ” “Say!” 1 said. “A cu really mean it. 1 wish to hell you would, Candleblow. HowYe the eyes?” “lerrible. They’re getting worse all the time. I’m all washed up, Mike. Pearl diving's all right when you’re young. But I’ve had too much sleep¬ ing wet, too much Tamil-cooked skilly, too much air from a rubber hose— or maybe not enough. My lungs taste like the inside of a rotten auto tire. 1 been diving drunk lately to keep out the cold, but hell, it don’t make no difference; 1 get the shakes -either way. No, cobber, when you’re past it, you’re past it, and I’m quitting.” I looked at him, knowing how it was with him, knowing how the thrill of it had caught him as a kid and how, as disillusion set in, the liquor had held him. Each time he drew his ten per cent of the pearl money, he had been going to quit; but by the time he’d paid back his advance and celebrated his having quit, he never seemed to have quite enough leTt for the fare home from Ceylon. When the pearler signed on his crew again, Candleblow would be there, rugged, just a mite unsteady on his feet, but determined that this positively would be his last trip. I looked at his friendly face, the color of a wal¬ nut, and his blue eyes, a little worried-looking, and hoped like hell that this time he’d make it. If he didn’t 1 knew — and lie knew — that sooner or later he'd wind up like the rest, minus a leg maybe, or an arm; or curled up like a leaf with paralysis. “Hovv're you staked, Candleblow?” 1 asked him. A queer look came into his face. “1 dunno,” he said. “Pretty good, if my guess is worth a bob.” “You mean to say you haven't got the dough?” “1 mean 1 don't know.” My impatience must have shown, because he shoved his hat back and scratched his head. That told me he was making a decision. He glanced about him, leaned toward me. “Look, Mike. I’m a pretty excited guy. I got a gambling blister!” That surprised me. A blister is a swelling that occurs sometimes on the inside of the valve of an o>ster. it is caused by a pearl becoming overlaid by the continually forming shell nacre. Sometimes the nacre builds up Hush all around and buries the pearl completely, and you can’t tell it’s there. But if the pearl is big enough, it forms a blister in the nacre. It is a “gambling” blister because it’s often auctioned blind. “1 can’t flash it in here,” he said, sideways, “hut it’s a beaut!” “Say, that could be worth some tidy dough— if you play it right.” “I’ll play it right.” “How did you get it?” “I got to be ruddy careful, Mike. Could you promise not to blab? No. Don’t answer that. I’ll tell ya. 1 been diving for Olaf Peterson.” “That bastard!” “That bastard. I been with him ever since you left. We just got off a trip.” “But the season ended in mid-April.” “That's right.” 1 stared at him. “Poaching, huh?” He nodded. “But how about the customs?” I said. “Do Slowly, before our eyes, the pearl dawned. Batliwallah didn’t stop working, and it was impossible to tell if there were any spots on her. \Ye watched each stroke of the file ILLUSTRATED BY MARTHA SAWYERS

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54 . ' n . v - 1 4 to toll me they let a hilly . 4 1 1 ' ; ■ f ■ - • ,r*oarl i g lugger put in to Co- I ♦■n!'o Aiih | cargo ol shell in the nmJ- ■ . \L \ 1 Who ijJ tin thing about a lugetr? \\ l- ji i a motor crui^ei. \iul we weren’t ^ . r \ lie in) shell Pearls on!\ were .•I r i r !• is I tell \oi . cohhei this was me setup M\ j lie ss is Olal has one r t| - 1 ig ( * 'ombo bmeis behind bun When we lit [nut Olal was lounging 1 vV. t^li Je-ek smoking a ciy.ir as lhiek - . nr wrist, with si\ hie tuna strung [t . o i r i him I fie b t was cluttered w ill fishing gear we weie the cicwv. I he customs looked us user, but there .. is nothing to see ” But how about the air pump, the h m j. ee.* r r In a submarine canister towed un¬ derneath C andleblow explained. "It’s still there reads tor the rest trip the »rc u. that is I he pump s built into the c-njtne ” I whistled "So that’s how it is. That Wnll s not tor sou. ('.mdleblow You el on t have to tell mo. cobber. I didn't find out till I’d spent the ad- sancc then it was too late. Answay Trn tlircugh ssith all that now.” /'Ol’ hope. I thought. Quitting wasn't so eass when sou sscie in that deep. Moss d d sou pick up the blister?” 1 as ,ed. "You'll neser guess. Oil the bottom.” "De.d shell? Are sou sure it's not ssorm-cj ten "Nope. I ise shell. 1 been trsing to do it lor sears. She hadn't closed up. Quick as light I nipped the toe of my bin t m and held her. How mans times does a gus do that/ Mas be twice in a rctir le And wh. t arc the odds against there hung ansitmig inside her.’ A tf I isalld to one. But cobber, it hap¬ pened. When I saw that blister. 1 kness it ss as a sign Irom heasen telling me to pull out ” ‘A on didn't turn it in to Olal’” " I ui i it m ’ 'i Cuh . sure I tinned it in light into ms close' Oal makes liis oss m c \ 1 1 as tsso-iirnmg us on our per¬ centage.'' A on knoss ss hat’ll happen to soil it the ^iew linds out sou got something alld didn t split it!” "I hose dirts I , mils' look. Mike 1 been m this game too long not to knoss I m » a kmle-cdcc I loifi noss oi es- ersilnhg’s set dead ae’amst me It the e ^ ss linds out. tiles II shi me open like a sack of eorn Ok i ssill he* nunc smile, lie’ll just ii\ it so 1 slarse. I he peai I doctor 1 lake it to will trs and blackmail me and the husers will jang together and not bid against one an¬ other I tell sou. Mike, pulling out from lieic is going to be just abo it the toughest ioh ot ms life ” "fill glad sou realize it,” I sod Noss I II tell sou something I in not leu me sou out id ms sight till sou climb that gangplank lomorross . Iter- noon I m going to ssatch esers niose sou ill ike \nd it sou suess it up I'll hie. k s oui neck'” C’and ehloss s face ssnnkled all oser like a sea nou s nevk "Good on s,i. cobber’ Watch me. I ss.mt sou to. I’m going to pkis this like solid plas a game of chess, mosc !n niose I'm eo- mg to plas ibis real good.” Going cun into the rain ss. s ike step¬ ping under a watertall. With one slap, it plastered our clothes to our skin. The streets svere empts. ”1 suppose sou knoss it's Sunday, Candlcblow." I said. “We're going to his house.” We went up through the tort district and on into the poorer quarter. Once svhen tsvo figures came toward us through the rain. C andlebloss said: "In ease sve run into an\ of the eresv, re¬ member the> 're Iamils. nearls black, broad, short. The tender has a mus¬ tache oser a harelip. The shell opener is older, ssith gra> hair handsome, kind of.” Presently, without ans ssarning, Can- dlebloss turned up a flight of steps and into a house. 1 got a glimpse of a con¬ crete front streaked ssith rust, then we ssere m a dark, narrow hall. I here ssas a lot of noise coming from upstairs. Candlebloss peered about for the apart¬ ment bells, but there weren't any. so sse went on up the stairs, svhich svere made of stone and ssere vers wet. The paint was scraped oil all the way up. and the air ssas sickly with the smell of ghee. On the first landing thice Indian ssouien in saiis ssere splashing about ssith buckets. I he i . in ssas coming in last Irom somess here. A thin I el loss in a crumpled alpaca jacket and house slippers ssas flitting about and jabbering i list i uctions. "Where can 1 find Mr. Batliw allah?” C andlchloss called up to him I he Indian turned shaipls. He score gold-i mimed glasses, ami Ins checks, which sscie dark, looked as though they had been gouged out ssith a chisel. “I am he." he said in a finicky soiee. “You wish to see me?” “It you got the time.” 1 he Indian issued a final burst of in¬ structions and came downstairs. He glanced sharply troni one to the other ot ii s as he passed. He led us hack to the ground floor. “'I enable bad busi¬ ness.” he said oser his shoulder. “We are quite flooded out.” He took us into a small, dark apart¬ ment and shut the door. "You are sery wet I \ciise me.” He kicked hack the Afghan rug. looking up penetratingly a s he ssas doing it. "I don’t believe I knoss you tsso gentlemen.” "You don’t.” C andleblow said, and that was that. He glanced round the room at the hair sota. the screens, the cheap Indian furniture, felt in his pocket, and brought out the blister. The Indian adjusted his glasses svith one hand and took the blister with the other. He turned it slowly between his lingers. 1 hadn’t seen it before. It was big all right. Candlehlow had cut asvay the surrounding shell, leaving a rough knob about the size of a walnut. It was black and dirty-looking. 1' he Indian carried it over to the svindow. C andleblosv svent svith him. "Why are you bringing this to me?” Batliwallah said, holding it up to the light. “I heard you were good with these things.” The Indian said nothing. He shook it. chipped at it ssith his thumbnail. He had craftsman’s hands, large, pre¬ cise. ssith surprisingly fresh-looking lin¬ gers. I here ssas something strikingly dexterous about them. I he rest ol him was nothing elerkish. svasted. faintly disreputable. It ssas as though the hands had drained the goodness from the rest of his body. He handed the blister back to Can¬ dlebloss and looked at the pair of us without any expression. “Well/” the Australian said. “Well, ss hat?” “What do you think of it?'’ “Really indeed”— the Indian smiled and shrugged — * sshat does one think of such things? Merely that they are gambleis’ toys. Sometimes they are containing a pearl of svorth; nine cases out ot ten, they are not. If you mean, ssill I buy it I ssill gise you three hun¬ dred rupees for it. You svill not get more.” "I haven’t come here to bargain, Batliss allah.” Candlebloss said. "If 1 svanted to sell this nut. I’d have gone where the money is. I came here to hase it scraped.” "Really/” 1 he Indian pretended to be surprised. "But 1 do not do private svork. Is too dangerous. If you arc wanting it done, you should have gone first to Mr. Ganga, the jeweler. He is my employer.” “1 thought you Indians were smart,’’ Candlcblow said. “If I took it to Ganga, you’d have to do it on salary. This way you'd get a commission.” “A commission svould be no good to me in prison. I will give you five hun¬ dred rupees for it, though I am proba¬ bly a fool.” “You are no fool,” Candleblow said, “and I’m not either, so let’s quit fencing around. If you’ll agree to work on it, I'll give yory five per cent of what the pearl fetches.” Batliwallah finhooked his glasses and breathed on them. “And if it is a ba¬ roque. letching nothing?” Candlcblow hesitated. “I’ll pay you a hundred rupees for the work.” The Indian replaced his glasses with a mixture of reproach and contempt. “I see that you arc not understanding about the work. One man in millions can do it. It requires the highest skill.” He paused. "Five hundred rupees and twenty per cent.” Candlcblow looked at me. The In¬ dian was interested; that meant the blis¬ ter had promise. The two of them started to bargain. I kept out of it; Can¬ dlcblow had it all figured out how much he was prepared to pay. It took twenty minutes. The Indian settled finally for ten per cent and a guarantee of two. hundred and fifty rupees — about fifty dollars. They wrote out a contract and both signed it. They were eagev as a couple of mountain cats. Ten minutes later, work on the blister began. We sat on two chairs in front of the desk. We were too excited to feel cold or wet. BATLIWALLAH flicked on a work lamp, laid a piece of white card on the desk, and emptied a roll of files and blades onto it. He changed his specta¬ cles for a pair with thicker lenses and started to work. First, with a knife, he scraped away the serrated remnants of the outer shell. They came away quite quickly, leaving him with a slightly oblong, discolored ball. He exchanged the knife for a file and began to erode the protruding ends. He worked quickly, turning the blis¬ ter from end to end, until he had worn it into an almost perfect sphere. He rolled it about on the card, evened it up some more. When he was satisfied, he straight¬ ened his back and took a breath. It had taken hint half an hour. 1 don’t think either of us had moved up till then. We shifted our cramped positions. Batliwallah eased his glasses down his nose to increase their magni¬ fication. glanced quickly at us, and went on. He worked now with a polishing movement ol the file, rotating the blis¬ ter continually in order to maintain its roundness. His face was set in a look ol concentration. No part of him seemed alive but his hands, working with mi¬ nute precision in the strong light, turn¬ ing the discolored lump between his forefinger and thumb so that the file moved over all its facets. I he ram kept up a continuous tattoo on some ash cans out in back. A clock struck two somewhere. We hadn't eaten. I wondered how- long this sort of procedure took. Suppose it was a dud — misshapen, or ringed or baroque? Candlcblow wouldn't pull out, that was all. not now or an\ time. I watched the Mur of the file. It was crazy that our lives could depend on such things. Mrs. Batliwallah brought in some tea from the kitchen. She had put on her Colli* rN for January 31, 1953 ”1*111 m> glad you came South with rm*. dear. ItN nnirli nirrr than collier s writing \oii lor mono all the time!" jack markow

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55 best sari, and was all drapes and eve- brows and smiles. She asked ust speak¬ ing in a whisper, whether we took milk, and we answered her quietly, as though we were in church. Presently she went out. and the business went on, with the noise of the file vibrating through the desk, and the rain beating on the cans outside. The whole of the outer crust had gone now, leaving a grayish ball about the size of a marble. Candleblow’s eves never lelt it for an instant. I had never known him to go so long without a cigarette. By five o'clock Batliwallah had some¬ thing that looked more like a pearl. It was much reduced in size, still gray, but with a silver sheen to it. He was using the finest file I had ever seen in my life, and the work was much slower. An hour passed, and the sphere dimin¬ ished still farther. Suddenly I caught a whitish gleam breaking through the gray. Candlcblow saw it too. “It is only the underskin,” Batliwal¬ lah said. We watched the spot slowly spread under the file until the whole pearl gleamed an unnatural silvery white. The Indian stopped, took ofT his specta¬ cles, and inspected it minutely through a glass. Presently, he handed it to Can¬ dlcblow. The Australian took it. Ilis hand was shaking. “Is it going to be all right?” he asked. “She is clean," the Indian answered. “So far." He took hack the pearl and went on filing. Candlcblow controlled himself very well. He had lived with pearls long enough to know that a lot of things could happen yet. More tea arrived, this time with wheatcakes. The food was cleared away. Seven o'clock, eight, nine, chimed the distant clock through the rain, with all the time the steady scratching of the file. Slowly before our eyes the true pearl dawned. No other W'ord can describe the process. She came up out of the silver with a creamy glow which brought the two of us to the edge of our scats. Batliwallah didn't stop working, and it was impossible to tell if there were any pinholes or spots on her. We watched each stroke of the file with the agonized fear that it would reveal some discoloration. A single daik spot would halve the value. Batliwallah worked around her care¬ fully, his face showing nothing. I hen he was finished, and there was again the business with the glasses. I le turned her slowly under the magnifier, turned her again, passed the pearl and the glass across to us. “You arc usually so lucky?" he asked. “She is perfect; not large, but perfect.” Candlcblow uttered a sort of stran¬ gled grunt, as though somebody had slugged him. 1 hen he was hunched over the pearl with the glass, trying to look at it. but he was shaking so much he couldn't get the focus. He thrust them both toward me. “Oh, Gawd! Here, cobber, you look. Oh, Gawd in heaven!” THE polishing, the final rolling be¬ tween oiled palms was over. We stood around the desk and gazed at the dewy luster of the finished pearl as it lay in the tray of the scales. Batliwallah was working out some figures. Finally he said, “Approximately eleven hundred pounds sterling.” Candlcblow punched one hand into the other palm, and shook hands with us with his lips turned in as though he w'crc going to cry. Batliwallah asked us if we would like some beer. The Aus¬ tralian would have accepted if I hadn’t cut in quick and refused. He gave me a grateful look and quieted down a bit. “As an interested party," Batliwallah said, smirking, “might perhaps I know' where you are intending to sell?” Candlcblow hesitated. The Indian hurried on. “It is a personal thing. You sec, i should like for Mr. Ganga to have first chance to buy. He pays a very good price.” Candlcblow looked suspicious. “Are you after more commission?” “My dear sir! He is my employer. It is merely a matter of etiquette. If you are not having objection, I could speak with him tomorrow morning." Candlcblow considered. “Tell him,” "But Why The Candles, Holy Water And Beads?” “It looks like hokus-pocus to me, ‘ Dave Smith said to Father Crane. Dave was expressing a quite common view held by many non-Catholics. . . that the Catholic use of such articles as beads, crucifixes, medals and holy water is un¬ necessary in religion and even smacks of pagan superstition. "Wluu good does it do," Dave asked, "to light a candle or burn incense? And how can a little medal around my neck protect me from accidents?" Unfortunately, too many people out¬ side the Catholic Faith have a complete misunderstanding of these religious articles and the use to which they are put. There is nothing pagan or super¬ stitious about them, and they do have a very real religious meaning and value. "Actually," Father Crane told Dave, "religious articles used by Catholics are meant to be helps to their religious life — nothing more. The value of such articles is not in the metal, wood or wax of which they are made, nor in the form they may have... but in the prayer of the Church and of Christ, in whose name the Church prays in blessing them ... as well as the fervor of the user’s own prayer and his good disposition." But Dave was still not convinced. He argued that religion is a spiritual thing . . . that it requires no external manifes¬ tations. "Yes," the priest agreed, "it is spiritual. But isn’t it the natural thing for a human being to give outward ex¬ pression to the things within his heart? How, for example, could you be sure that your mother loved you if she gave no sign that she did?" Our Lord, Father Crane added, could have cured the blind man (John 9:6) it merely by willing it. Instead, he first made a salve of clay and anointed the man’s eyes. In blessing litre cl ildrcn. He did not have to lay His Hands on them — but he did Many people. Father Crane added, think the Catholic practice of kneeling to pray is unnecessary... yet Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, “kneeling down . . . began to prav" ( Luke 22:41). Many Catholic practices which seem strange to you now’, would make a deep and convincing impression upon your mind and heart if you really understood them. And this is your invitation to investigate. Te& \ We will gladly send yoU without cost or obligation a highly interesting pamphlet explaining such things as the Catholic use of crucifixes, medals, in¬ cense, holy water, candles, and special Cath* ohc prayers and practices such as the Rosary, Devotion to the Sacred Heart, and. Lent. It costs you nothing to learn the truth about these things . . and the truth will be most interesting. For your free copy, write today. Ask for Pamphlet No. C’-sN. SUPREME COUNCIL KVHGHTS OF COLUmBUS RELIGIOUS INFORMATION BUREAU 4422 LINDELl BLVD. ST. LOUIS 8, MISSOURI WANTED: Men and Women in every community No matter whether you live in a city or small community, you can make extra income in spare time. Use the telephone, mail and personal calls to take care of new and renewal subscriptions for COLLIER’S and ALL other popular magazines. For money-making supplies, mail a postal card with your name and address to — Independent Agency Division THE CROWELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. Collier’s for January 31, 1953

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56 he- ' JiJ th.it when he opens up, I I* h. jncre on his dooistcp. IK Indian smiled “Ah. very go ou ( ,i!dlehli>N\ demanded, it wr I he sale here tonight j * - 1 * j now it will he waning for ,m 1 \I ! Ganga s.“ Dm l make me laugh." ( an- ■ i • h*w s. id with a dangerous 1' i w I ( ome on. Batliwallah. Ill d tnu. ' ' But \ot ma\ take the key if ■.(■ l wish. See it is quite sale." Stue suie ( ome on, Hath- ■k . liaii Quick!” r|MU Indian looked scared. 1 ' But how may 1 be sure I will • cr see w u again/ 1 am not c.cii knowing >oui names. I must protect mxsclt.” ( andlehlow took a pace for- vV rd I he Indian opened the di.-wc tumbled lor the bag. Aery we 1. \ cry well.” he agreed uuckK "But please. I must ask soil to a ci e thine " lie brought out a safety p nd stuck it through the neek of the h. g Pin it to the inside of your pocket. P case ‘ ( arrdleblow grunted, took the hag. scow led at Batliw allah and stuffed it mto Ins pocket. “ I omorrow." he said As we went out into the night and Hie rain, the Indian came to the door awl watched us go. He stood in the sh dow with only his hands catching the lirht of the street lamp, and when I looked hack 1 saw just two hands. 1 oldcd in the darkness of the dooiway As soon .is we weie nurnd the coiner. ( andlehlow took out the hag and pinned it lo the inside o! his shirt ( .'n’t tiust 'em a loot ” he said. “If I'd a let him keep it. he d have tinned up tomorrow with a substitute, ringed as a coon most likeK . from now on we got to expect trouble, cobhei Icn lo one Batliw allah's on the telephone this minute trxtng to find out who we are. Hell find out, and inside a couple of hours al I the pearl boys in ( olombo will l now what’s cooking, and that could include Olat. We might c\cn get .! \ ISlt ” ‘ Better come to nn place.” 1 said I here’s ] ust a chance they won’t link me up with this.” We got , taxi to the Galle Pace and walked the rest of the wax. with the sea wind blowing the rain, down a narrow track with bungalows among the palms. I he track became sand, and there was m\ shack si houetted against the white breakers. We skilled round it hut couldn’t see am one. so we went inside, closing the shutters before we lighted the lamps. We got into some dr\ clothes and rus¬ tled a meal on the oilsioxe. It was late by then, so we tossed up lor the camp- bed. C andlehlow won I rolled lip in some blankets on the floor, and we lay in the darkness, talking tor a while. C andlehlow was pi city excited still, and it made him chatt\. He talked about Batliw allah and about OI.it and about what he was going to do in Aus¬ tralia. 1 lay there listening to the soft rasp of his \oice. The sea and the rain made wild, sad sounds outside Some¬ thing was troubling me. I lax there trying to think what it w.is. Something that had happened. Somehow we had slipped up. 1 went back through the events of the dax carefully, but the trou¬ ble eluded me. I he more I thought about it. however, the more I was cer¬ tain that something was wrong. ( andlehlow s monologue tailed oil eventually. Presently I heard him snore. I lay awake a long time with suspicion nagging at me. It mustn’t go wrong now. I thought. He would never get a chance like this again; somehow we had to strengthen our hand. I worked on it for about an hour; then suddenlv I knew what would have to he done. It was risky, but it was the only wax. 1 got up silently-? slipped into my swimming trunks, collected my knife and fins, and let myself out the back. The rain was like an electric shock on my skin. I he sea was pounding furiously along the beach, and for a mo¬ ment I felt like turning hack — but only for a moment; then I remembered a certain afternoon in Mannar and a certain black- fin shark, and I started off along the sand. I moved parallel to the sea, trotting to keep warm, past the Galle Face Hotel with its lights, and along past the Esplanade. I ran till 1 was as close to the town as I could get on the beach; then I stopped and put on my fins. The sea looked angry and cold. Getting out through the surf would be the tough part; after that, nothing hut sharks could stop me. 1 stepped into the water, tak¬ ing the waves sideways. They were warm after the rain. I waited until there xvas a lull, then struck out into the darkness. [GOT hack just as dawn was break¬ ing. I was tired and cold. When I entered the shack, Candleblow was standing in his shirt making coffee. “Where in hell you been, Mike?” he asked, looking me over. “For a swim.” I said. “In a bucket of tar. looks like,” he said, and his eyes were full of suspicion. ‘The beach is filthy,” I said. “Sleep well?” “Uh-huh.” On that note we ate breakfast. Can¬ dleblow was unusually silent; 1 caught him looking at me a couple of times. He’d probably been up for some time, I thought, and knew damn’ well I hadn’t just been for a dip. I considered tell¬ ing him the truth, but my fears of last night seemed suddenly ridiculous by daylight. Only a big fool would have done on spec what I had just done. 1 kept quiet and didn't say anything. When we were ready to move, Can¬ dleblow said to me, “Look. There ain't no need for you to come traipsing all the way into town.” “Well, I’m coming,” I said, “so relax.” We took a bus into Colombo. The markets were full of early shoppers dodging the rain from awning to awn¬ ing. We moved warily through the crowds. Candleblow pinching the pearl tightly under his shirt in case he should brush against a pickpocket. Ganga's was already open. We paused on the steps outside and took a look around the street. We saw nothing particularly suspicious. “Well, this is it!” Candleblow said. He pushed open the swinging door. It was a typical Colombo jewelry shop. The walls were lined with show¬ cases: big fans hung in rows motionless overhead. At the back stood several screens. A half-caste, with skin the color of parchment, came whispering across the marble toward us. “Good morning?” “We've come to see Ganga.” “You are Mr. Smith0 Oh, yes. Come, please.” Candleblow raised an eyebrow at me. We followed the old man behind the screens to a door at the back. He knocked and went in, closing the door in our faces. A moment later it opened again, and we were looking into an office. A tall, well-nourished Singhalese was standing behind the desk. (^ANDI FBLOW advanced warily. ^ Batliwallah was in there; three other men sat in easy chairs. Ganga came around the desk to us, smiling with rub¬ bery, polished-looking lips. He xvas younger than I had expected, about thirty-eight, with a black mustache and cheeks that looked as though he were sucking a couple of boiled sweets. “Mr. Smith, I believe? And — ah — Mr. Gardener?” English public school, I thought. And he knew our names. Suddenly I knew7 that we were going to have to be aw¬ fully smart. “this is Mr. Sin, Mr. Rashid Beg and Mr. Krishna.” There was a nod¬ ding of heads. “They are in the trade. 1 have invited them here to have a look at this pearl Batliwallah speaks of so highly. They may bid for it if they wish. That is.” he added, with a side- lone glance at Candleblow, “if you have no objection. Cigarette?” He lifted an ivory box carelessly by the lid. Candleblow took one. What the devil, I thought; why is Ganga pass¬ ing up the chance of a private deal? “Smoke, Mr. Gardener?” “No, thanks.” Ganga's eyes looked into mine for an instant. “Well,” he said. “To work.” Retiring behind his desk, he cleared a space on his blotter and looked up ex¬ pectantly. Slowly , almost reluctantly, Candle- blow unpinned the chamois hag from inside his shirt and turned it upside down on the pad. Collier's for January 31, 1933

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57 There was complete silenee. The pearl before us was a piece of baroque, as blind as an upturned eye. Candleblow gasped. The dealers, who had leaned perceptibly forward, sank back, looking at one another. Ganga did not move. He glanced at the Australian as if to sec how he was reacting. “This is perhaps some kind of joke?” he said. T KNEW instantly, then, what it was JL that had slipped my memory last night. When he had fumbled in the drawer of his desk, Batliwallah had switched bags. The one he had pro¬ duced had been darker than the one he had put in. I turned on him angrily. But at that moment he stepped for¬ ward. There was a smirk on his thin mouth as he pocketed the baroque and emptied the real pearl from its bag onto the blotting paper. “A slight precau¬ tion,” he murmured, glancing at Can¬ dleblow over the tops of his glasses. “Why, you dirty — ” The Australian took a step forward. “Please!” Ganga held up his hand. He was smiling. “Batliwallah was aet- ing in my interests, weren't you, mera dost? You must forgive us our little comedy. Our lives are so dull.” He hid his smiles with a folded, spotless hand¬ kerchief and looked at the pearl. Can¬ dleblow made a baffled sound and stood opening and closing his fists. Completely the master of the situa¬ tion now, Ganga said: “You know, this is quite perfeet, Smith. A really lovely thing. Do you mind?” He handed it to the dealers. They examined it minutely with the lens he passed them. Ganga sat on the desk and hugged his elbows casually. “I should be interested to know where you picked her up.” The Australian grunted. “Around.” Ganga looked him up and down, with one beautiful nail pressed against his lip, and nodded. “May we weigh it?” Mr. Sin asked. Ganga pointed to the scales. Batli¬ wallah applied the weights. There was a moment of calculation. “I, myself, will offer one thousand pounds sterling,” Ganga said, to start things going. “One thousand fifty,” Mr. Sin said. “Eleven hundred,” Krishna said. I glanced at Candleblow. The sullen look on his face was giving way slowly to triumph. “Eleven hundred fifty,” Mr. Sin said. I he bidding was brisk and to the point. Ganga did not bid again. I here was something mighty screwy some¬ where, I thought, watching closely. The Indian, Krishna, reached thir¬ teen hundred and stopped. No one raised him. In a fine humor, Ganga shook him by the hand. “She is yours.” he said. “You are too rich for us. Or perhaps I should say your customers arc, eli?” There was a ripple of laugh¬ ter from the other two. “I will make out the bill of sale.” He sat down at the desk. Krishna brought out his eheckbook. “To whom shall I make it payable?” “Richard Ganga,” the Singhalese said, “and Company.” Candleblow jerked upright as if he’d been knifed. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “What’s the big idea?” Ganga looked up at him coldly. “Sit down. Smith, and eontrol yourself. Show Mr. Peterson in, Batliwallah.” Candleblow wheeled around to me. “If you’re baek of this, Gardener, I'll kill you!” he said. BEFORE I eould say anything, the door opened and Olaf eame in. He stood in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of a sopping treneh coat, look¬ ing around — short, dark, a yard wide. He scowled at Candleblow and me. “Is this your fellow?” Ganga said. “That’s him,” Olaf said. Ganga turned to Candleblow. “You sec, it just can’t be done. You can’t double-cross us. But then you're not very bright. Didn’t it oeeur to you that as the biggest pearl buyer in Colombo I might also be Peterson’s backer?” “You?” Candleblow said. He looked round at the gentlemen in the chairs. “Don't concern yourself about them, Smith,” Ganga said. “They are fully in my confidence. I don’t know how you obtained the so-called gambling blister that Batliwallah operated on yes¬ terday, but sinec you obviously came by it during your trip with Peterson, you have unwittingly brought it to its right¬ ful owner. You have saved me the trouble of having you rounded up. I sup¬ pose I should be th.mklul. ceitamK you should you probably saved your hie.” He opened a drawer. In it was a short, black automatic. He didn't touch it. “We don’t want any violence. Just take your hat and go.” Candleblow swayed on the balls ol his leet. I thought he was going to make a grab lor Ganga’s throat. “Mold it, Candleblow!” I snapped. 1 approached the desk. “See here, Ganga. I've been riding in the back scat through all this. I came here for one reason to help Smith raise enough dough to pull out of this racket and go home. You’re plugging the line that all the pearls resulting from a certain shady trip are rightfully yours. Okay. Not that you talking legitimate isn't like a trollop getting married, but that's the pitch and we’ll bat it. If you have a right to the pearl, then the crew must have a right to their percentage. Divers get ten, Ganga, so pay the man his dough! One hundred thirty pounds!” Ganga stared at me; then he laughed. “Really. These two are absurd. I'm under no obligation, you understand. But I’ll pay you, just to get you out of my office. My checkbook, Batliwallah.” He started writing out the check. “Payable, if you please, to Batliwal¬ lah,” said the Indian. Even Ganga was surprised. “Pearl doctor’s fees,” Batliwallah ex¬ plained. “I have Mr. Smith’s signed contract here.” That did it. Candleblow was dum- founded, but there was no way round it. Ganga completed the check. Then he began to laugh. He laughed with a high-pitched nasal sound. “Oh, go away, you two,” he said, laughing and dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief. “Go on, push off. Run along home.” He closed his checkbook. “Don’t put that away,” I said quietly. Ganga looked up. “What’s that?” “1 said, don’t put that away. You're going to buy something.” “Such as what, you funny man?” “Some hose, a eouplc of diving suits, thirty fathoms of life line— all neatly paeked in a submarine container.” I he room was suddenly silent. Ganga sat absolutely motionless. His doll eyes went from me to Olaf. Olaf stood in the doorway — still as a flashlight photo¬ graph — with his bald bullethead thrust forward, his hands hooked as though ready to wring my neck. “What about it. Gardener?” he demanded. “I’ve got it,” I said. “I cut it loose last night and towed it away. It’s for sale: anyone can buy it. Anyone who has thirteen hundred pounds, that is. And the check, by the way, should be made out ‘cash.’ ” CANDLEBLOW got the boat. He was very apologetic about having mistrusted me. It seemed that the night before, he had waked up the moment I left the hut and when I didn’t explain myself, he thought I was in on the dou¬ ble cross. I stood on the dockside and watched him pull out. The rain had hauled off, and a bright light was showing out along the western sea. It looked eerie behind the filth of the quay and the four-rupec- a-day coolies and the blistered barges — like gold plate in a kitchen. Candleblow forced his way to the rail and waved his hat. He was shout¬ ing something, but his rusty voice got mixed up with the cries of some sea gulls. Sounded like: “I grinned. I was glad for him, gladder than I had been for a long time about anything. TAYLOR’S PORT AND TASTE THE DIFFERENCE... IT'S “Any port” will never do— once you have tasted the hearty fla¬ vor of Taylor’s New York State Port! Rich, and ruby red— this proud port is perfect with des¬ serts, after food — proper any¬ time. Try Taylor's Port— or Tay¬ lor’s Tawny Port— next time you want a fine, all-purpose wine . . . WHAT TO GIVE? Taylor’s Port, available in a smart gift carton (where legal), makes a gift everyone appreciates! 4Tf you're right, this will be the first time collier s my wife ever arrived anywhere on time!”’ reamer keller Collier’s for January 31, 1953

Page 350

THE FAVOR By WALTER MALDAY A I I the w,is East on the plane. I thought about /A 1 d. He had driven me to the airport in ( hkago aiul. vis 1 h, d expected, at the List minute he had asked me to do him the favor. W Ik i \ou re in N^w Yoik." he said almost slnlv, Hill \ ou do soi i iet h ing tor me O eo u se. 'AS ill sou go and see Jean and little Mary? 1 hen when sou get hack, sou can tell me hos\ thes are." ‘ 1 d he g d to, 1 d.” He reached into his pocket and took out a slip paper ssith in addiess written on it. ' Her moih- he explained. I h ex ’re staving there now." I hen he said good-hv hastils, and Ed walked hack to his eai . . 1 liked V d. So did evervhodv else in our Chicago othee A tew months ear-ier he had been trans- lefied theie • rom oui New York branch, and right aw as he had become one ot the most popular men m the place He wasn't a glad-hander or a back* slappei . he Was |iist plain likable. I here ssas a little bar ne ir our office where most ot i.s stopped oil tor a beer oi tsso on our w, \ home alter s\o:k Soon alter 1 d came to the cits, we asked h m to join us there one evening At lirst he seemed a hnle hesitant he was on the wagon, he s id but wc petsiu ilcd him. and he came along. W c soon earned that he ssas a ssondeilul drink¬ ing co i". p itnon. C omp.iin stimulated him lar more tl ah rlie tsso or th ee beers he drank, it made him a stoistel-ei A lght would come into his eves, and he ss v hi I cl begin one ot his stones: 'I talked to this bus sluser once mas be sou read about him in the papers He got fed up ssith Filth Asenue and drove his bin all the was to I lorid.i. He told me . . .'* All ot us c , light on pretty quick that Fd ssas. well, not s ng exact's, but exaggerating, inventing tor our henetit these sii\ nge encounters, these odd turns ot tate. But I n taiitass amused us. and nearly esers das at Use we wou'd head tor that bar, like a bunch ol ch Idien heading tor the Saturda>- afternoon movie at the neighborhood theater. 58 Before I had known Ed very long, I sensed that there svas something beneath this unfailing good humor ot his, an undercurrent ot sadness. And I guessed what it was when 1 once asked him casually when his wile was coming to Chicago. "1 don't know.’* he said, "Jean isn’t too keen on the moved* And finally , one das w hen the two ot us were having lunch alone, he told me that they were separated, that his transler to Chicago had come when Jean ssas about to walk out anyvsas. He didn t sas it. but it was clear just trom the wav he said her name that he svas still crazy about her. And as the weeks passed, it became even clearer. He used to find occasions to mention her. Some¬ times we would pass a girl on the street, and he would sas . Jean's hair is just about that color,” or perhaps, "Jean used to have a coat like that,” Of course, to a prejudiced male esc, Fd looked like a nearlv perfect husband, and sve all figured Jean ssas a png or worse. But, again trom some stras remarks ot I d's, 1 gathered that his drinking hadn't alwass been limited to a lew beers. More than that, he had used some of his exaggerations and his stories to avoid some straight talk and ex¬ planations. Somebody trom Ness York said that he had been dritting around the field lor quite a while bet ore our firm gave him a chance. "A woman wants security,” he said to us once, and I knew he ssas thinking about lean. But he had made a tine showing in our office, and it ssas common knowledge that he was in line tor a better job as soon as there ssas an opening. So I really hoped that something would come of this visit I was going to make tor him in New York, [CAM ED Jean up and explained that I svas a friend ot Ed's. She asked me to come around that afternoon. When 1 got there she was alone in the apartment. "Mother has taken Mary, ms little girl, out tor a walk." she said. "Ihcy ought to he back in a tesv minutes.” I told her that I had heard a lot about her and about Mary, and that I had been eager to meet them both. k "How about some tea?” she said, and when I said that would he fine, she excused herself and svent into the kitchen. When she came back, I found myself envying Ed a little and admiring his taste. Jean was a tall girl with sott, sandy-colored hair and deep-brown eyes: the sort of girl who would always he attrac¬ tive. She had a distinctive, slow way of walking. Y'ou would pick her out in a crowd, 1 thought. We sat there, drinking tea and making conver¬ sation. She asked me a few polite questions about Chicago and about our work there; I answered them politely, disturbed because I felt there was a wall between us. that 1 was doing Ed no good at all. Though Jean had given me no opening, I came out and said how well Ed had been doing, and 1 told her about the likelihood of his being promoted. ufm glad,” she said, as if we had been talking of some old triend she hadn’t seen in years and re¬ membered kindly, but vaguely. THEN, as 1 was beginning to run out of sub¬ jects, the door opened and a little brown-eyed, sandy-haired, five-year-old edition of Jean ran into the room. ‘'Where have you been, Mary?” I asked her. ”Out for a walk,” she said. It was uncanny, 1 thought, hosv much she looked like her mother, "Did you see anything interest¬ ing9” I asked. We went to the zoo,” she said, “and I saw a lion and some monkeys and a tiger . , When she saw that 1 was paying close attention to her, she looked quickly from me to her mother, and a funny look came over her face; her eyes shone, and her mouth twitched with repressed laughter. “And . . , and then , . .” She said, almost bubbling with laughter, “I saw a funny little old man. He had green hair and green eyes and a green beard.” Her own joke was too much for her. She started to laugh, the way a child does, completely. And all at once she looked exactly like Ed, She w as irresist¬ ible. I svas laughing myself, I looked at Jean. Her expression was strange, a mixture of love, amusement and something else — regret. I thought. But she svas laughing, too. “Oh. Mary, Mary — ” she said in an odd voice, as if she were talking to somebody not in the room, to Ed, The wall around her had disappeared; my talk had had more effect than I had realized, and now Mary's sudden outburst, the sudden imitation of her father's fantasy had brought Jean’s lose to the surlace again. "Don’t you have anything else to say, Mary?” Jean asked, conscious, perhaps, of what I was thinking. Mr. Preston is a friend of Daddy's, and he'll he seeing him soon.” Mary looked at me with interest. "Well,” she said, her eves still shining with excitement and in¬ vention. "There was something else. That funny little man gave me a letter. It was from Daddy, and he said he was coming to get us in an airplane as big as this building, and he was going to take us to his new house that’s all covered with snow you can eat anil — ” Her grandmother called Mary, and she ran out of the room, "I guess she’s quite a handful,” I said, looking after Mary, Jean shook her head. "She always seems to be excited about something, but I wouldn’t want her any different. f ile would be pretty dull without her kind of imagination.” Then I svas sure Jean was thinking of Ed, miss¬ ing his stories and his liveliness, that all the security in the world couldn't make up lor. J looked at my watch. "It’s getting late.” I said. “I expect I'd better he going.” I got up. "It’s been a great pleasure to meet you and Mary.” ‘ We both enjoyed your visit,” Jean said, shaking my hand. And w ith a smile that recalled her laugh¬ ter ol a lew minutes before, she added, "When you see Ed. tell him we’re well, and — tell him we’ll be seeing him soon.” ^ ^ ^ Collier's SHOUT SHOUT

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59 Maybe / Look Like a Crook By Cl' RISKY \\ II. II SMS [f you fool ill at oaso when asking for oroa«£a of f ruslration and fo(d stiporior o NE morning last August my bank in a Massachusetts town to cash a check for $50 which she had signed against our joint aeeount 250 miles away. “Did you have any trouble?” I asked her when she returned to our rented cottage carrying six quarts of milk, two dozen cans of beans and a case of beer. “Trouble?” She looked puzzled. “No. Why?” “I mean at the bank. Did you have sufficient identification?” “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I just handed the man the cheek and he gave me the money, minus ten eents for a service charge.” “Well, 1 mean — didn’t you even have to write your address on the back?” I asked. “Of course not,” snapped the mother of our son, as she put the beans in the refrigerator and set the beer cans on a kitchen shelf. “Do I look like a rubber-cheek passer or a gun moll or something?” “No,” I admitted with a sigh. I was thinking back to the week before when 1 had obtained $50 from the same bank. After 1 had slipped the cheek (too furtively, I decided later) to the teller, he scrutinized it earefully, then went into the next cage to confer with a fellow teller. They examined both sides of the check, glanced at me several times and whis¬ pered something I couldn't hear. My teller then returned to his cage and asked me if I could iden¬ tify myself. 1 produced my auto operator's license, seven credit cards from various department stores and hotels, a commutation ticket on which was pasted my photograph and, lastly, a Civil Defense document bearing my fingerprints. The teller read everything, compared my signa¬ ture and photograph, asked me how long I was going to be in the vicinity, requested my endorse¬ ment and local address — and a dime. 1 licked my dry lips (a guilty gesture, I suppose) and shakily complied with his requests, feeling meanwhile as conspicuous as a guy in a nudist colony wearing a tweed suit and spats. As the teller finally doled out the dough, I got the distinct impression he felt it was going to be deducted from his salary. I must look like a crook, because no matter where I go, tor merchandise or service involving credit, I seem to be suspect. ( Before 1 hear loud screams from establishments with which I have been on the best of terms for years, this, boys, isn’t for you.) I don’t mean to carp overly about banks. But despite the fact l have a special cheeking ac¬ count in a Manhattan financial institution, when I want to cash a modest check 1 do so in our office The bellhop will probably warn the bouse detective accounting department. And 1 make sure to call out cheerily through the window at various ac¬ quaintances working at desks inside so the girl with the greenbacks will hand them to me without asking to see a birth certificate and a character ref¬ erence from my pastor. The first and only time I cashed one of my own cheeks drawn against the bank in question, the teller gave me a long look, glanced significantly at a pistol lying in the cashbox and had a protracted No matter where I go, I seem to be suspect telephone conversation with a book¬ keeper while two armed guards moved in with jaws clenched. To give the bank some credit, 1 did get the money. One of my unfavorite nightmares has to do with finding myself some¬ where without funds. This has in reality happened several times, no¬ tably when 1 once ran up a taxi bill of $1.45 only to discover I d left all my cash with the Bureau of Internal Revenue. “I’m sorry, Mac,” I told the driver, “but I'll have to run up¬ stairs here and borrow' a fin from a friend.” “That’s all right, Mae,” said the driver agreeably. “I'll go up with you.” This happened to my wife, too. The only difference in the outcome was that in her case the driver smiled, said, “T hat’s all right, lady,” gave her his name and address and drove away. Her fare was $3.25. You could assume from all this that my wife looks like a Conover model and that 1 have a sallow complexion, a shifty look and a five-inch scar on my right cheek acquired in a knife fight with a gang of counterfeiters who didn't cut me in on my share of the queer. Neither assumption is cor¬ rect. My wife is certainly attractive, and I have never been frisked by the police at midnight in a cafeteria; otherwise we’re pretty average. But although I have been married to Lois for 19 years, we can’t walk into a hotel minus baggage without my feeling I'm the No. 2 man on the FBI list and a forthcoming witness in a vice scandal. Hastily, I assure the clerk 1 will pay in advance; and when the bellboy shows us to our room, tests the tension of the window shade, makes sure the cold-water tap in the bathroom is in, oper¬ ating condition and drops the key on the bureau, 1 wonder if he is wondering why I didn’t sign the register “Mr. and Mrs. William Smith” or “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Jones” instead of the highly un¬ likely but quite legitimate — name 1 do sign. “I think you better tell Murphy to keep an eye on that bum,” I can imagine the hop adv ising the room clerk, even though — or perhaps because— I handed the lad a buck for a bowlful of ice cubes. “1 he dame looks okay, but him . . .” I can't figure out why I should feel guilty about asking people to trust me. I he other side of the picture is, I’m generally a soft touch. If a Skid Row character accosted me on the street and asked for $50 until Saturday. I’d probably give it to him — if I had it. (If I didn't have it, don’t lay any bets I wouldn't take him to the bank — I mean the olfice — and get the scratch for him.) Sometimes I think 1 haven't a brain in cither head. ILLUSTRATED BY VIRGIL PARTCH

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61 The Good Land Bn \\ ILUAM I I LLLU Ho loved this bountiful land be bad wrestled out of the* bai>h Florida jungle. Ju*l coolness of her flesh — almost but not quite because be was a stubborn, proud old f THE old man was awakened just after dawn on his eighty-fifth birthday by a hraee of crows squahhling noisily high in the branches of the slash pine tree just outside his upstairs bedroom window. He cursed the crows, mumbling llap- jawed and toothless in his anger He fumbled his store teeth from the Mason jar of water on the bed table, popped them into his mouth, clacked them into position and resumed his crow-cursing— this time more audibly. The crows cracketed and rasped in reply. The old man threw covers aside, swung spiky, work-gnarled feet to the naked pine floor, and, groaning, slowly straightened to his full height of six feet and four inches. His muslin nightgown flapped about his hony shanks as he made his way unsteadily to the closet across the room. He took his . 22-caliber rifle from the corner of the closet and creaked back to the bed, He sat cross-legged on his hed. aimed carefully at the farthest of the two crows, squeezed, and, rapidly swinging his sights, fired again and sent the second crow plum¬ meting to the ground alter the first. He grunted in satisfaction. He made a mental note to have Odum, the colored man who cared for his needs, patch the two holes in the screen against the mosquitoes. There were patches on almost every screen in the house, for the old man, Calhoun Sumpter, just purely did hate crows; he had hated them ever since he’d started snatching this place away from the hungry Florida jungle growth, away back there in eighteen eighty-eight. Away back there, the damage crows could have done to a man's corn and tomatoes might just have made the difference between hanging onto the place one more year, or creeping home, flat on his belly like a whipped feist, with his pa saying: “Well, now, hoy — I told you. But you was too danged stubborn to heed me!” He heard Odum calomphing up the stairs. He sat in his hed as Odum pushed, without knocking, into his room. “Lord God, Mister Cal,” Odum said, his dark face mournful. “You done shot more holes in the screen?” “My screen, ain't it?” “Yes, sir, Mister Cal, hut — ” The old man grinned impishly at him. A sud¬ den wave of affection for Odum swept him. Odum had worked for him for almost as long as he could remember — ever since that night he’d found him. a lean and hungry youngster, huddling under the hackdoor stoop like a seared puppy, with tw'o tweed caps on his head and the rest of his ownings in his pocket. He'd left home in a hurry after a beating by a drunken father. Cal’s wife Ophelia had complained, as usual, when he’d taken the boy in. He’d had to shush her whining with the threat of the back of his hand. Poor Ophelia, Cal thought, more charitable now in his memories than he had ever been — discount¬ ing the first few months of their marriage— while Ophelia was still alive, Poor woman, she had not heen able to take to sweating a living from the earth. She’d reluctantly borne him a son and a daughter and had then started disintegrating in the heat and the rain. He’d tried to get her to leave him in peace, to move to the nearest town rather than live away out here by the river with the near- ooL must hr Iravr it to a pa*>rl of fool*? cst meetinghouse fifteen sand-rutted miles aw. is But she had refused, declaiming in noble self* martyrdom that she had made her bed and would continue to lie in it. And so she had staved on straggle-haired, sunken-cheeked and resentful — until the quick Florida growth had claimed her. as it would claim an acre cleared in us midst, it na¬ ture were not fought hack and mastered. One thing Ophelia had done tor him, though; she had helped make him a rich man. She'd driven him early from his house, and she'd kept him late in his fields. He wouldn't waste much time warm¬ ing his hacksides at the health with Ophelia whin¬ ing and grumbling through her house chores. Yes. he had worked relent lessly in anger, and now his land— all fenced and seventy per cent in improved pasture — stretched farther than a man could see in all directions at noon of a cloudless day. His eight thousand odd head of cattle ran strong to the Brahma strain and were as fat, sleek and pretty as any in the Kissimmee River valley. ODUM was still mumbling and grumhling about the holes in the screen. Cal shook his head to rid it of thoughts and memories. A man of eighty - five with an ailing heart lived— for the most part- — inside his head. And the memories seemed to grow stronger each day. It seemed strange to him that he could remember some trivial thing that someone had said sixty years ago — could see the sunshine as it had shone that day, could sec the expression on the man s face as he had spoken — yet could not remember what he bad had for sup¬ per the night bclore. “. . . looks like yui might remember them Hcrc- fords. Mister Cal, when you start getting mad at crows,'’ Odum was saying. Damn the man’s impudence! If lie wasn’t so right. Cal thought, I’d crawl his frame tor that! The shooting ol the Herclords had heen a foolish, petulant, stubhom. sick old man's trick — though he would admit it to no one. now or ever. And it had lost him Jack, his grandson, the only one of his kin he’d ever cared a hill of beans tor — lost him, probably forever. Jack Sumpter was all of twenty-four or twenty- five now. Cal reckoned. He was as tall and broad in the shoulders as Cal himself. His hair was red¬ dish-brown, as Cal’s had been, and there was devil¬ ment almost constantly in his blue eyes. The hoy simply haled authority, couldn’t stand being cheeked any more than Cal’s prize palomino stal¬ lion Amigo could stand a cm h or hit. The hoy s hatred for authority had hurst for the first time into open rebellion when he’d left school at fourteen declaring that he was through with his formal education. He had hitchhiked to Lake Okeechobee and thrown in his lot with a group of hard-drinking, hard-cussing catfish fishermen. His father had had him brought hack. He had taken Jack to the modern equivalent of the woodshed— his three-ear garage- and had started giving him a belting. The boy had stood up to his father with his two lists and had. much to Cal's delight, whipped him fair and square. It wasn't long before Jack ran away again, lied to a recruiting sergeant about his age, was awarded a Silv er Star and a promotion to corporal on Guam, t I l ILLUSTRATED BY C. E. MONROE, JR.

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Collier’s offers both men and women an opportunity to make extra income in spare time tor household expenses, family vacations, taxes, savings bonds, or just to meet the high cost of living. I sc the telephone, mail or personal calls to take care ot new and renewal subscriptions lor ( OLLIER'S, THE AM I RK AN M AGAZINE, W OM¬ AN S HOME COMPANION and ALL other magazines. Accept this cordial invitation from the publishers ot Collier's to try this attractive money-making plan. For money-making supplies, without cost or obligation, muil ./ postul curd u ith your tmn/e and ad dreys to: Independent Agency Division, Desk C-63 THE CROWELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. a Purple Heart and a promotion to sergeant on lvvo Jima. He was court- martialed later lor going over the hill tor a week in San Francisco, reduced to the rank of' private, and subsequently discharged. Alter the war he refused to work for Ins father, whom he despised. Cal took him on at his ranch. Pen days later Jack broke Cal's foreman's jaw in a hassel over a crap game, and Cal was obliged to fire him. Much to his mother’s and father's horror - neither of them could under¬ stand why a young man would sweat himself lean and whip-hard grubbing in the earth, when lie might have gone into any one ol his father's successful busi¬ nesses- Jack negotiated a loan and started buying a hundred and fifty acres of virgin land along the river. He put together a tractor from junk-yard parts, moved into a falling-down shack on his pi opci tv, and stalled clearing land for his own spread. Cal had his own ways ot finding out things. The boy had his share of jukc-house brawls and Satur¬ day-night sprees, and when he was on the verge of losing his land. Cal hired him back. He settled down this time, though the wildness was still in him, and Cal was careful not to head him. The hoy had a real feeling for the earth, the grass and the stock. Eventually Cal made him foreman. And after Cal’s first sickness he gave over the buying and the marketing of the stock to his grandson. And then came the dehacle ot the Here lords. AS AN experiment. Jack had bought five registered Hereford steers. The old man hated the animals from the mo¬ ment he first laid eyes on them; the way they grazed together — fat, stolid, im¬ placable — irritated him heyond words. He took Jack to task for buying them. Jack reminded the old man that he had been authorized to use his own judg¬ ment in the purchase of stock. There were hard words, hard feelings. Cal, his authority outraged, was unable to sleep that night. Early the next morn¬ ing he took his .30-. 30, had Odum drive him to the range, and shot and killed the five Hcrefords as they stood, then told Odum that the meat was to be a gift to the colored help on the ranch. Jack came storming into the house an hour later. “You shoot those steers?” “My steers, weren’t they?” “I’m hired to run this place,” Jack said. “ I hat true?” “Maybe.” ‘Aou didn't ask me if you could shoot them, did vou?” 1 he old man's face hccamc mottled with rage. "Whose ranch do you think this is, you damned, ungrateful upstart, > ou!” Muscles twitched in Jack’s cheeks. “All right. It’s your ranch. You're a damned-fool, xtuhborn old man, and 1 should have had better sense than to try and work for you in the first place, lo hell.vvith vou and to hell with your job!" He wheeled and started toward the door. “Get off my property!” Cal shouted at his broad hack. And he hadn't seen Jack since then. . . . Odum was saying something to him again. Cal shook his head. “. . . help you get dressed. Mister Cal,” Odum was saving. “Folks’ll be getting here real soon.” The old man grunted. He had for¬ gotten that his kin were coming to celc- hrate his birthday. Fat lot they cared about him, either, the whole mealy- mouthed lot of them! They were com¬ ing to look at his stout barns and his green pasture land and to remind them¬ selves that they hadn't much longer to wait. “I don’t need any'' help,” he told Odum. “You ain’t forgetting what the doc¬ tor says, are you. Mister Cal?” Damn Odum's hide! Treating him like a hahy. They all treated him like a hahy. Just hecatisc his heart was fi¬ nally giving out. No more cigars. Two ounces of bourbon a day. No more work — except a few hours weekly at his desk. No more hunting, no more fishing. And, worst of all for a man who loved horses as he did — a man who had, until he was eighty-three, sat strong and straight and sure in his saddle — no more riding. That had heen the hardest blow of all. especially as he had just acquired Amigo, the finest, seventeen hands high of strong-willed, powerfully muscled, beautifully proportioned palomino stal¬ lion he had ever seen. “Cal.” Doc Grey had said, “that’s about all it would take to finish you off. A man of your age has got no business on a horse anyhow’ — had heart or no!” Why, Cal thought, couldn’t they let an old man die in peace? He sent Odum downstairs for a cup of coffee, bathed, and started shaving. As he scraped away at the stubborn, snow-white bristles, he damned his kin again for the misery they were causing him. Shaving in the middle of the week! That daughter of his, Dora, was prob¬ ably the worst of the lot. Dora was pretty much like her mother had heen: forever whining, forever complaining. “Father,” she'd told him once, “you're a disgrace to the family. Look at that beard! Look at those clothes! You look more like hired help than one of the richest men in the county!” “Nobody cares how an old man looks,” he’d told her. “Well, / care. I've got a position to maintain in this town, and so has Tom. Tom says he thinks you must lie right down and roll in the compost pile be¬ fore you come to town — just to be stubhorn!” Tom had been her hus¬ band, a doughy lump of a pale-skinned, pale-haired man who had surprised everyone, and won Cal's grudging ad¬ miration. by finally getting a bellyful of Dora's whining and complaining and leaving her for a buxom widow half his age. Tom and Dora had produced three pale-skinned, pale-haired, unimagina¬ tive children — all grown now, all living in town, all married and with children of their own. Cal couldn't even call the names of Tom's and Dora’s children and grandchildren — or pretended that he couldn’t. And he wouldn't have thrown in a can of stale fish bait for the whole passel of them. CAL had just finished shaving and was w iping his face when one of his bad times started coming on. They’d been coming oftener lately. First there was the numbness that started in his left shoulder and traveled down his left arm to his hand, and then came the constriction of his throat, the feeling of strangulation — and then the dizziness. He lurched, half falling, gasping, to the hed table where his white pills were. He choked down two of the capsules and sprawled, face downward, on his bed, waiting for the steel hand around his throat to go away, waiting for life to return to his arm and shoulder. The pills worked. He could breathe again, and the numbness was gone. He mopped sweat from his face and rose unsteadily. One of these times — and soon, too, he knew — the medicine would not save him. He accepted this fate calmly, with no fears, no real re¬ grets. He had lived his life — all he’d wanted to live, and more, too. His only real regret was that he had not died sooner, while he w'as still active. He'd much rather have gone doing the things he liked to do — working, riding, hunt¬ ing, fishing. This way, he knew', they would find him in bed or huddled piti¬ fully on the floor. He rose, crossed the room on shaky legs, and commenced dressing. “Coffee, Mister Cal?” Odum had re¬ turned and was looking anxiously at him. “You been sick again? You're looking mighty poorly.” “Never felt better,” Cal lied. “Folks has started coming.” The old man tried, and failed, to fight the concern from his voice. “Mister Jack here?” “No, sir.” Damn that Odum, Cal thought, Odum knew, and knew that Cal knew, that Jack wouldn’t come today — not after that Hereford episode. “Mister Henry and Miz Sarah, they're here.” Henry, the old man’s son, and Sarah, Henry’s wife, were Jack’s father and mother. “Dang fools.” Cal muttered. “Tell ’em I'll he right down.” Henry protend that yoiTre writing a novel about Army life. You*d be collier s surprised bow they' leave you alone*’ irwin caplan ' : i : / v c s' n !i r I i « Collier's for January 31, 1953

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63 BUTCII *T ran see now I shouldn't have said nothing hut it struck me funny, colliers find in* ten hneks in th* guy's shoe" larry Reynolds was one of the nearest town's most suc¬ cessful citizens. He owned a hardware store, a real-estate and insurance busi¬ ness. He operated a loan company that had been forced, during the depression, to take over a number of farms and ranches that were now highly produc¬ tive. He kept three large sedans in his garage and gave a hundred dollars each year to the United Drive. A solid, well- thought-of citizen — respeeted and ad¬ mired by almost everyone in town exeept the members of his immediate family. His wife Sarah ruled him with an iron hand. Cal disliked him in¬ tensely. rf^HE old man, dressed in his linen J. suit, which had onee been white but was now yellowed with age, made his appearanec in the living room. Henry, a full head shorter than his father, gave, him a limp hand and a flaccid smile. “Happy birthday, Father/' he said. “And many more of 'em.” The old man grunted, Sarah kissed his leathery cheek. Now she'll start talking. Cal thought, and she won't shut up until she's home in bed asleep. “Fa¬ ther Cal,” she said, “have you heard what Jaek’s doing to us now?'* Cal had heard. But he knew that Sarah would tell him anyway, so he shook his head. Sarah said, “There’s this dreadful, eommon, cheap woman — Ruth Some- body-or-other — who’s working in some roadhouse out in the eounty, and Jaek thinks he's in love with her and is threatening to marry her!” “Might settle him,” Cal said. “But a woman like that! What will our friends think? He’ll never bring a woman like that in my house. Not while Fm alive!” The old man closed his mind to Sarah’s prattle. He thought of Mary Bates. Strange, he thought, that he Collier’* for January 31, 1953 should think so often lately of Mary, who’d been dead for so many years. He had wondered many times lately what his life would have been like if he and Mary had married. He eould see her now; see the slim grace of her; see her shining black hair, her Irish blue eyes. They had really been in love, those two — and Cal reckoned he'd always loved her, still loved her, if a man of eighty- five with a sick heart within him is capable of love. He had met her in Tampa, when he'd been stationed there waiting to be transported south to help free Cuba from Spain. They had fallen desperately in love. He had known, long before that, that he would never be happy with Ophelia, nor she with him. But he had lacked the eourage to do as his heart dictated — leave his wife for Mary Bates. He hadn't been sorry for Ophelia; she had made lile miserable for him. He had eared little for his children. “Then, why, why — ” Mary had wanted to know. “I don't know,” Cal had told her mis¬ erably. BY THE time the war with Spain was over — and a sorry, mixed-up ex¬ cuse for a war it was, too — Cal had made up his mind to tell Ophelia that he and Mary were in love. But by then it had been too late — Mary had married another man. And Cal had learned from subsequent letters it had been an unhappy marriage. And so it was, Cal knew now, that because of his hesita¬ tion two lives had been without fulfill¬ ment. So many times nowadays he eould see Mary, could almost smell the fresh¬ ness of her hair, almost feel the firm¬ ness, the eoolness of her flesh — almost, but not quite. She was on the far side of a narrow, raeing stream, in a shaded, secret plaee surrounded by blood-red hibiseus. She was leaning against the COLGATE Chlorophyll Tooth Powder Releases The Full Benefits of Active Chlorophyll In Your Mouth! And only Active Chlorophyll does you any good! New Colgate Chlorophyll Tooth Powder re¬ leases active chlorophyll before your eyes . . . you actually see it turn from white to green as you use it ! V Destroys Bad Breath originating in 1 In- Mouth. (Ju rckrr-acttnx . more thorough ' Keeps your mouth fresh and sweet longer ’ V Fights Tooth Decay. Attacks harmful aeid.s reeogm/.ed by dentists as a eause of tooth decay ! V Checks Common Gum Disorders! ( ) i \ e^ you tile effective benefits of ehlomphvll to help you c are for sore, tender gums! ConliiiHH VVut«-r Soluble Chloropltvllms. " And Mildred , tell him the only cheques the parson accepts are American Express Travelers Cheques Honeymooners, and all other travelers, have a better time when they carry American Express Travelers Cheques— because they’re the only cheques instantly known and accepted everywhere. They’re just as spend¬ able as cash, and they re absolutely safe— if they’re lost or stolen you get a quick refund. Insist on American Express Travelers Cheques at any Bank. Express your preference for the best. Only 75^ per $100. 100% SAFE— EASIEST TO CASH American Express Travelers Cheques THE BEST-KNOWN CHEQUES IN THE WORLD/

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64 fi*sr a/d foi take AlkaSeltzer ffe/ieues The GENERAL ACHES FEVERISH FEELING HEADACHE ★ ★ ★ Soothing Gargie Too f Get A I ka -Seltzer for ACID INDIGESTION HEADACHE MUSCULAR ACHES DISPLAYED AT DRUG STORES EVERYWHERE U. S. «n - N i‘i >i > ! • • -t I'*, vi hunt i - I • \\. 1 i V. !>. I ,n I trunk of a giant magnolia and she was smiling at him, beckoning. . . . “Father Cal, you’re not listening to me,” Sarah was saying. l he old man sighed heavily. “1 said 1 don’t know what Henry and 1 have done to deserve a son like Jack. Sometimes 1 think he must be some kind of a throwback to — ” A throwback, all right. Cal thought a throwback to the days w hen a man could stand straight and proud on the land he'd cleared with his own two hands. A throwback to the days when a man’s strength and independence were of more importance to him than the cars in his garage and the money in his bank account. A throwback, all right — and Cal had lost him. DORA and a carload of her pale¬ skinned. pale-haired children and grandchildren arrived. They cluttered the living room and made it noisy with their cries of birthday greetings. Pres¬ ents were stacked high on a table by the door. Tomorrow, the old man thought, he’d give the presents to Odum. What could an old man of eighty-five possibly want or use? His life was done. All he wanted was to be left in peace for the few remaining days that were left him. “Odum,” he called. “Bring the bourbon!” Dora assumed the long face that re¬ minded Cal so much of Ophelia. “Father,” she said, “please re¬ member what the doctor says — ” Ignoring her. he poured three fingers of bourbon into the glass that Odum had reluctantly given him. “It’s my birthday, ain’t it?” He tossed ofT the whisky, cutting a sideways glance at Sarah. Sarah was always after him for using the word “ain’t.” He used it as olten as he thought of it when she was near him. Sarah hadn't heard him; she was busy running a caressing hand over the mahogany bookcase on the far side of the room. She had become quite possessive about many of the things in his house in recent years. “So much of your furniture is so dark and heavy. Father Cal,” she had many times said. “But 1 can have it refinished, lightened.” As wile of the oldest heir she naturally expected to have first say w hen it came to the distribu¬ tion of the house furnishings. Even as she would talk, endlessly, her eyes would dart from one piece of furniture to the other, sizing each piece up. mentally finding a place for it in her own home, or placing a cash value on it. Well, she’d get it all right — or half of it — the old man thought now. Henry and Dora were his only heirs. In spite of his contempt lor them both, the old man had a great respect for the permanence of things, for the passing down through the generations of worldly goods. 1 hat was the proper scheme of things. Sentiment — likes or dis¬ likes — had nothing to do with it. Henry and Dora would inherit. The good bourbon whisky he had taken was warming him. He had almost forgotten — with the piddling little two ounces a day that Doc Grey had allowed him since his sickness — how good it was. All his adult life he had admired and respected the hon¬ esty, the sincerity of good aged bourbon — and the liquor had been his friend. “Odum,” he called. “The bour¬ bon — ” “Father!” Dora said. - He grinned impishly at her. “Shut up,” he said. Henry w'as waving pale, soft hands. “Father,” he said, “you ought to come to some decision about that downtown business property before you — ” Cal poured bourbon into his glass. “Before 1 what?” “Well, you have been sick, and — ” “Go to hell!” the old man said. Sam Randall appeared at the front door. Sam was the family lawyer. He was in his early sixties, but Cal thought of him as a boy. He bored Cal with his stuffy' contentious legal mind — but Cal trusted him. Sam Randall was the only outsider who was included in all family gatherings. “Happy birthday, Cal,” Sam said from the doorway. “Come in. boy. Come in.” The adults other than Cal gathered around Sam, monopolizing him. Sam was treated with deference by most members of the family. Cal suspected it was because Sam was the only man — other than himself — familiar with the terms of his will. They seemed to hang on Sam’s every word, to search his ev¬ ery statement for some clue to the dis¬ position of the old man’s wealth. Cal closed his eyes and could see them all in Sam’s office as his will was being read. Henry, his soft hands fluttering, would be mentally estimating the extent of his new wealth. Sarah, silent for once, would be thinking of the envy ot her friends at her good fortune; she’d be the richest woman in town, the un¬ disputed social leader in spite of the dis- r- grace that Jack, with his wild and rebellious ways, had brought upon her. Dora, her face long, her eyes bright with greed, and Dora’s pale and listless p children, would all be hoping the old man had not forgotten them. They’d all be there listening to Sam’s dry and legal voice — all but Jack. Jack might be anywhere but he wouldn’t be there. Because with all his faults, greed wasn't in him — and he’d leave it to the vultures to pick an old man’s bones. No one was paying any attention to Cal at the moment. He finished his bourbon, left the house, and shuffled the two hundred yards of shell path to the stables. Amigo whinnied at his ap¬ proach, trembled, and tossed his great j head as Cal drew near his stall. “Ho, boy, ho,” he crooned, as he reached a lump of sugar toward the stallion. “Ho, boy — ” The horse calmed and took the sugar. Cal stood silently admiring the beauty of the animal. The stallion had been half broken when Cal had bought him, two years before. The old man’s sickness had come almost simultane¬ ously with his purchase of the great horse, and Cal had been able to ride him only half a dozen times. And — selfishly, childishly, per¬ haps — Cal had allowed no one j else to ride him. He remained the old man’s horse and no one else’s — a symbol to Cal of the days of his strength. Now he stroked Amigo’s quivering shoul¬ der, marveling at the play of sup¬ ple muscles as the horse moved nervously beneath his touch. w “Still think a lot of him, huh?” CAL turned quickly. Jack 1 ^ stood there, tall and straight. ^ Beside him was a slim and lovely Qj young girl: dark-haired, blue- c eyed, and so much like Cal's own memories of Mary Bates that his knees went rubbery. He ^ shook his head. His old man's mind, he decided, was playing him tricks. But Jack was here. A wave of exultation swept Cal. » But his pride was to he consid- j ered. “What are you doing here?” ^ he asked gruffly. “Well, old-timer,” Jack said, ^ “maybe I’m all wrong. But 1 fig¬ ured that maybe — in spite of the way we parted company last time — you’d like to meet my wife.” r “Your wife!” lack srinned. “Yes, since last night.” “Sarah and Henry’ll be mighty , upset about this, boy.” “Let ’em be.” “What’re your plans?” “We're leaving here. I’m sell¬ ing my place. It’ll take a few days to get the sale through, and then we’re heading West. Idaho, I “ Oregon, California — just head¬ ing out.” Cal asked the girl, “You want him to do this?” The girl looked at him with level, candid eyes. “He’s my , husband.” The old man’s heart sank. Jack, a drifter, cutting his roots, giving up land he’d sweated for. He would drift from job to job, probably. It was all wrong. Collier’s for January 31, 1933 Next Wech YOU’RE A SUCKER IF YOU CASH MY CHECK A veteran con man, an alumnus of two prisons, tells how he gypped trusting people of $100,000. His account of the tricks he used is certain to amaze you Where Are Baseball’s .300 HITTERS? There were only 17 of them in 1952. Here are the reasons why, as told by players themselves and other experts IKE’S PIPEFITTER a ' What kind of man is Martin Durkin, new US. Secretary of Labor? Read this full report on the humble, able — and tough — plumber who is the Cabinet’s most controversial figure

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65 fc4That fresh lieutenant won't bother us again. I made a clerical error collier s that transferred him out to Alaska” kate osann Cal wanted with all his heart to plead with him to stay, to ask his forgiveness for the words he’d spoken in anger, to beg him to come back and run the ranch, and keep his own land, too. But Cal had never in his life asked a favor of any man. And when the words came they were not at all as he had wanted them to be. “No use being a damn’ fool, boy. You promise to behave yourself and I’ll give some thought to taking you on here again.” Jack shook his head. “It won’t work. Maybe for a while, but it just wouldn’t last. We’re bullhcadcd, you and me. You had your say and 1 had mine. I want to leave you with no hard feelings. But l could never work for you again.” The old man said harshly to the girl, • “How about you?” THE girl’s eyes were bright with tears, and Cal sensed that hers had been a hard life — with little security — and that she wanted badly to stay. She moved closer to Jack, took his hand, and leaned her head against his broad shoulder — and Cal knew that this was her final answer. The old man glared at Jack. “Damn your stubborn hide, boy! She’s more than you deserve!” The anger in his voice gave way to weariness. “You coming in to tell your nia and your pa?” “All right.” Jack grinned. “We’ll get it over with.” “I’m not afraid,” his wife said. From the end of the long living room Jack said proudly, defiantly, “This is my wile Ruth.” In the openmouthed silence that followed Jack’s announce¬ ment, Ruth- — her body straight, slim, poised, her face a little pale— walked straight to Sarah and held out her hand. “I’m glad to know you, Mrs. Sumpter.” Collier’s for January 31, 1953 Sarah reluctantly took Ruth's hand. At a loss for words, she simply stared at her. Ruth returned her gaze steadily. Sarah dropped the hand and turned away. Ruth went to Henry. Before the girl’s straightforward and obvious sin¬ cerity, Henry giggled and fluttered like some gauche and self-conscious child, and Cal, watching him, turned away in disgust. Ruth met the others, and it was only Sam Randall who greeted her with warmth and sincerity. Then Jack said, “We'll go now. There’s lots to be done in the next few days. We're pulling stakes, Ruth and me. We're selling out and heading West.” Cal watched Sarah and Henry'. They both looked relieved. They thought alike, and Cal could read their minds. He’ll be back, they were thinking, as soon as he finds out that life with a cheap little tramp like her is no bed of roses. He'll be back — without this woman. And in the meantime Sarah would be spared the social awkward¬ ness of the situation. And Henry — who had a pretty good idea w hy women of this sort married the scatterbrained sons of wealthy fathers — would, quite possibly, save himself a respectable sum of money. Yes, it was much better that Jack and this woman went away. The old man walked to the driveway with Jack and Ruth. They all stopped at Jack's car. The two men, so much alike, victims of the same pride and stubbornness and independence, faced each other. “Well, you know what you're doing, I reckon,” Cal said. “Yeah,” Jack said. “I reckon.” Ruth stood beside them, sympathy for them both apparent on her face. If she would only speak. Cal thought. One word from her might break the barrier between them But in his heart he knew that she wouldn’t. Her husband’s wa\ must, because she Kned him, be her wav. ( al cursed the stiff pride within him that made it ph\ sica 1 1> impossible for him to reach out and embrace both of them. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I think you’re a look But good luck to you.” “Thanks, old-timer.” Jack grinned stiffly. “lake good care of yourself.'' He hesitated for a moment, then took Ruth’s hand, and turned. THE old man went hack into the house. Birthday festivities went on around him. He answered when spoken to, was even strangely polite to the group; he was submissive to Dora's complaints and patient with Sarah’s prattling, attentive even to Henry’s con¬ stant concern with the making ol more money. But his mind was not on the things that were being said. “Sam,” he whispered, as the others w'crc preparing to leave. “You stay for a few minutes.” He waved his family good- by, then led Sam to the library and made still bourbon highballs lor them both. Then he went to his strongbox, took out his copy of his will, and tore it up. “There's a pen and paper beside you, Sam,” he said. “I want you to make a new' will. You write down what I say. It won’t take long.” He started dictating. “Cal,” Sam said. “Think it over.” “I’ve thought it over.” “But—” The old man grinned, “it’s my prop¬ erty, ain’t it?” 1 he new' will — short and to the point — was made, and witnessed by Sam and then Odum, who had no idea that he was signing a document that would make him independent for life. When Sam had gone. Cal sat in the li¬ brary until Odum's room was dark. He reached for the bottle of bourbon beside him, tipped the bottle to his lips, and drained it. For months he hadn’t felt better, hadn't thought as clearly. Jack Sumpter, he knew, would never leave this land if it were his. And though Mary Bates had never lived here with him, Ruth, who in his own mind had come to resemble Mary so much, would live here in her stead. They would wail and moan, the rest of them, and they would say that he had been selfish, stub¬ born, contentious, right up to the end. And perhaps they would be partially right. He put the empty bottle on the floor beside him. He crossed the room to his desk. His white pills — Doc Grey had insisted that he keep a box of them in each of the rooms— were there. He dashed the box to the floor, and the pills scattered. Amigo stood strangely still for him as he bridled him and lilted the heavy- stock saddle to the animal's back. He quivered only slightly as Cal, his body wet with sweat and his mouth brassy, labored into the saddle. The corral gate was open, and, beyond it, the good land that Cal had cleared with his own hands lay shimmering beneath moon-shot, lowland mists. Beyond the cleared land, at the river's edge, were the hayheads. Cal closed his eyes and saw the great magnolia and the blood-red hibiscus among the bays. Mary Bates was leaning against the magnolia, and Cal could see her lovely smile and her outstretched, beckoning arms. He gave Amigo his head. The stallion gathered his massive strength and thrust forward toward the river. Jk.Jk.JL. IMPORTANT NEWS v ... IS A SPECIAL DENTIFRICE MADE AND GUARANTEED BY A DENTIST SPECIFICALLY “FOR TEETH HARD TO BRYTEN.” SAFELY ERASES “SMOKER’S SMUDGE”! The safe, sure way to remove smoKer s smud.ee’ from your teeth and restore their ■ natural sparkle is through the twice-daily use of lodcnt No. 2 a special formula dent: frice that provides a more thorough cleaning and polishing action' FIGHTS TOOTH DECAY! For over M) years, lodcnt No. 2 paste or powder has been preferred by millions of men and women as the outstanding dentifrice to brighten teeth and fight tooth decay. YOU’LL ENJOY ITS CLEAN, LIVELY FLAVOR! Best for every lighter! PoNSQN . redskin * flints; Super Spaiks! Instant Lights! | Last longer because they are longer! THIS SURE-FIRE TEAM MADE BY ItONSON MAKERS OF THE WORLD'S GREATEST LIGHTER

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Round the World with thei lion do MulaNUfi' like their basketball? V famed exhibition leant round out b\ living dit • » ^ 1NCF 1927, I’ve been the owner-coach of a professional basketball team. Once they ^ ' were called the Savoy Big Five, because they played their home games in the Savoy Ballroom on ( hicago’s south side. But then we had to move, and 1 changed the team’s name to the Harlem Globetrotters. That's what they've been called ever since— Harlem, to identify us as a Negro team, and Globetrotters because I hoped people would think we'd been around. But we hadn't been around, and for years that bothered me. Even alter we had barnstormed all o\er the United States, 1 fretted because we couldn’t really justify that grandiose title. 1 fret no more. Fast year the Globetrotters by name became globetrotters in fact. Together with the New York Celtics, another topflight pro ex¬ hibition team, we traveled around the world, by charlered plane, train, bus. gondola and even camel. In 168 days, we whirled 51,850 miles through 34 countries. We played 141 games before 1,500,000 spectators in 87 cities, starting at Recife, Brazil, on April 19th and winding up at Honolulu on Oc¬ tober 1 st. It was a great trip. We had visited Europe in 1951, but nothing that happened then had pre¬ pared us tor our 1952 round-the-world junket. We played literally any hour of the day or night. In siesta countries like Spain and Portugal, local pro¬ moters started our games at one o'clock in the morning! We started another game, in the Philip¬ pines, at 7 : 30 \.\\. ( to avoid midday tropical heat), on a solid mahogany court hewn out of the jungle. We weren’t lussy about accommodations. We played indoors or outdoors; in drained swimming pools, bull rings, opera houses, airplane hangars and baseball parks; in fog, rain and sunshine; in temperatures ranging from a finger-numbing 33 degrees at Amsterdam. Holland, to a blistering 120 degrees at Taipeh, Formosa. It was so hot at I ai- peh, our players had to wear water-soaked towels, wrapped turban style around their heads. As might be expected, our schedule was subject to change without notice. At Athens, we were booked lor an afternoon game on an asphalt court hurriedly constructed in a soccer stadium. But 100-degree temperatures made the asphalt pudding- solt. So we postponed the game until 10:00 p.m., and hardened the court by hosing cold water over the hot asphalt for seven hours. Next, we dusted the water-slick surface with a special powdery ab¬ sorbent similar to the stulT the Navy uses to give sailors better footing on slippery decks. Five minutes alter the game started, it began to rain hard. Instead of quitting, our players donned then hooded, knee-length rain jackets and kept right on dribbling. When their canvas shoes be¬ came sopping wet. they took them oil and splashed around in their bare feet. I don't think even the Greeks have a word for the kind of basketball the I rotters played that night. Yet nobody in the ca¬ pacity crowd of 1 1,000 went home early. At least, nobody asked lor a ticket refund. Our share of the gate receipts was 79.679,325 drachmas. Next morning, 1 took my drachmas to an Athens bank in a cardboard box. Sorted in stacks, the paper currency — ranging in denomina¬ tion trom 100 to 10,000 drachmas — made a pile three feet long, two feet high and two feet wide. A drachma. 1 hasten to add, is worth 1 1 5.000th of a dollar, so our Athens stopover grossed about $5,300. That wasn't an enormous amount, con¬ In 1948 , Abe Saperstein told Collier’s Hill Fay : “ A basketball boom is on the tear ia South America, The Philippines , too. 1 never sate anythin ft like Manila. All the kids play the game. You’d think you i cere in Evansville , Indiana.” That teas the idea that developd into a tcorld tour last year for Saperstein’ s famous Harlem Globetrotters. The team already had visited most of the United States, be - sitles Europe , Canada, Mexico and Cuba sidering the size of the bale of drachmas, but 1 got a kick out ol banking the Greek currency because it recalled a December evening in 1927 when the Globetrotters made their premiere in the Loyola University gym in Chicago. Admission was 35 cents, and there were 27 people in the crowd. Afterward, the promoter, who had guaranteed us $25, said: “Abe, we took in $9.45.” “How about making our end five dollars?” I sug¬ gested. "A hat'll be a buck for each of the boys.” At that bleak moment, 1 had absolutely no rea¬ son to suspect that the Globetrotters would de¬ velop into one of basketball’s most popular attractions, much less take a trip around the world. I was then twenty-seven years old, basketball- crazy, too small (5 feet 3 inches) to play well, not experienced enough to coach — but young enough to be optimistic. Fortunately, my optimism was justified. Over the last 25 years, basketball has become America’s No. I spectator sport, and the Globetrotters have kept pace with basketball. We’ve traveled farther (about 2,000,000 miles) and performed before more people (some 12,000,000) than any other professional team. The Trotters, as you can see, should know some¬ thing about basketball crowds. Even so, our play¬ ers were amazed at the enthusiasm of the fans who paid American-scale prices ($1 to $3) to watch our world-tour exhibitions. Judging from the hoop hysteria the Trotters encountered on five con¬ tinents, I'll make this prediction: Before the next Olympic Games in 1956, basketball will be recog¬ nized as the world sport. Even now , all over the world, more people seem to be playing basketball than any other sport. That's really something, when you consider that basketball is one of the youngest major sports. It wasn't even invented until 1891. Even the Reds have gone hoop-crazv. We weren’t permitted behind the Iron Curtain (al¬ though we carried on negotiations through the Russian embassy in Washington for 18 months), but I’ve been told that 1,000,000 Russians are taking part in a nation-wide program aimed at Olympic victory in 1956. But I don’t believe the Russians, or anybody else, are as balmy over basketball as the Filipinos. They’re the world’s most enthusiastic, most critical fans. They actually booed us in our opening game in Manila, because we were more interested in putting on an exhibition than in playing for blood. Here's what happened: Before a cheering, capacity crowd of 12,000, the Trotters accumulated a comfortable 55-39 lead over the Celtics, who were led by Tony Lavclli, the former Yale All-American. Then Marques Haynes, our sensational dribbler, touched off one of the clowning routines that have been the Trot¬ ters’ trade-mark for the last 20 years. Starting from mid-court, Haynes went into his dribbling act, running, sliding, sprawling, but al¬ ways keeping the ball under perfect control. Haynes has such a delicate touch that he can exe¬ cute a dribble only one inch high, and he’s so agile he can keep the ball away from two or three oppo¬ nents almost indefinitely. Everywhere we had played, Haynes’s dribbling had absolutely wowed the spectators. At San Remo, on the Italian Riviera, exiled Queen Nar- riman of Egypt was so captivated by Flaynes that she sent an attendant to the dressing room to re¬ quest Marques's autograph. Later, Haynes’s drib¬ bling also won the approbation of the Sultan of Morocco and Aly Khan. Marques was the darling of royalty, all right, but when he started dribbling in Manila, the Filipinos booed — long and loud. Startled by this unprecedented outburst, the Trotters switched to their football routine. From mid-court, gangling Goose Tatum drop-kicked a field goal. Now, drop-kicking is a lost art, even in football. However, by practicing hundreds of hours. Goose has acquired amazing accuracy. He invariably kicks the ball near the basket (a feat in itself), but the odds against his lofting the ball into the basket must be about 300 to 1. 1 almost fell oil the bench when Goose’s kick swished the net for a bull’s-eye. But those fans kept right on booing. I found out why after the game. Filipinos are so enthusiastic about basketball they thought our clowning was downright sacrilegious. They wanted straight basketball — and no funny stuff! Oddly enough (as I explained to the Manila sports writers), the Trotters can’t stop their clown¬ ing. No team can play upward of 300 games a year at top speed. To conserve energy, the Trot¬ ters bear down for about 22 minutes of each game — and take it easy the other 18 minutes. However, we disguise our stalling with razzle-dazzle ball¬ handling displays and comedy routines— during which the ball moves but the players’ feet stand still! Even Haynes’s dribbling is a glorified stall. While he’s dribbling, his four teammates are resting. But the Filipinos wouldn’t stand for that. Dur¬ ing the remainder of our nine-game stopover in the Philippines, the Trotters cut the comedy and played 40 minutes of straight basketball per game. The players had to work almost twice as hard as usual, and Tatum quipped: “Abe, if we stay here much longer, you’ll have to pay us for overtime.” In Manila, a wealthy sugar plantation owner named J. Amado Armeta made what I considered Colliers for January 31, 1953

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Globetrotters 67 Bv ABU SAi’i:its ri;i\ «iih bill i ay ils name with a global lour a fantastic offer. Armeta offered to pay $5,000, plus expenses, for a Trotters-Celtics exhibition at Bacolod City, two hours by air from Manila. Armeta just smiled when I told him he’d lose money. “Look,” I said, “you'll have to transport 27 players — 15 Globetrotters and 12 Celtics — plus our two referees, Pat Kennedy and Ellie Hasan. What’s more, we carry four entertainers — Ray Wilbert, a hoop manipulator; Jack Cordon, who juggles while he’s riding a unicycle; and the Tumbling Farrises, Les and Bev. They’re trampo- lin artists.” “Bring them all,” Armeta said, “and don’t worry. We’ll make money.” Money No Object to This Promoter At Bacolod City, I discovered that Armeta owned eight plantations employing 81,000 people. He had constructed a solid mahogany court in a beautiful jungle setting, and he had sold 12,000 tickets at 10 to 25 pesos each (about $4 to $10). He grossed about $30,000, the largest gate of our entire tour. (By way of contrast, our largest crowd — the 50,376 in Rio de Janeiro — paid $20,991 at the turnstiles, and our opening night in Paris — a 12,000 sellout — grossed $17,142.) In a way (a nice way), Armeta did lose money on the deal, though: he donated all gate receipts, less our guar¬ antee, for the construction of a church in Bacolod City. What with keeping track of 34 players, refer¬ ees and entertainers all the way around the world, I didn’t have much time to keep a diary. But here are some highlights of the tour I’ll never forget: In Buenos Aires, capacity crowds of 22,000 turned out eight straight nights. On opening night, there were 10,000 fans in the stands at Luna Park three hours before game time. Afterward, the play¬ ers were surrounded by about 1,500 souvenir-hunt¬ ing fans. We escaped without even the loss of a necktie, and 1 can thank our 1951 European tour for that. On the European junket, we were mobbed time after time, and more than once our players liter¬ ally lost their shirts — and their coats, ties and trousers — to enthusiastic souvenir hunters. So we knew what to expect on the world tour. We licked the problem with rabbits’ feet. Actually, the rabbits’ feet were fakes — life-size chunks of simulated white fur pinned to a “good luck” button. All the players carried at least a couple dozen of them in their equipment handbags at all times. They worked fine. In Buenos Aires, we handed out hundreds: the total for the entire tour was about 50,000. We started the European leg of the tour at Wembley Stadium, London, on June 2d. The British like basketball. Playing on a wooden floor laid down in the Empire pool, we enjoyed six straight nights of sellout crowds (8,000 each); then we flew to Amsterdam to pick up our two Globetrotter buses, which had been shipped over¬ seas from New York. We played our first outdoor game at Lille, France. Afterward, we were guests at a party where, for the first time in their lives, our players were toasted with champagne. Fifteen thousand fans saw us for three consecu¬ tive evenings in Paris — and we saw Paris, too, from the Eiffel Tower to Pigalle. We also saw the Communist-inspired “Go home, Americans!” signs Collier’s for January 31, 1953 Famous Globetrotter comedy star Goose Tatum kept his head warm as he lobbed one in for a score against Trotters' travel mates, the New York Celtics, at Palais des Sports, in Paris

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**TTlHn /» 7U 1 '■ pT,c fe qv*M DAJMr 5/ £ t ®arfem Trotters r .<n» I 0p6f* S^nVfl Tlo»i lUDt r»» mm On I Open Series Here ^ | 1 A **V*V WLL HDj r ‘3* l u^STf^ll*’000 Jo«i b^-fT,: w * i*na wer« on hand x****'"'™ HARLEM CLOBE • Harlem Globetrott«n fm‘** ,M1 TROTTERS chcaco £ three feme eerie* Wt* . I jUny fWhM Art Ihtwil CELTICS NEW YORE 'i ^ un, - ’•trotten with eT*rr«? uM.mt^nmitAiA buk*tb*U wi.» ha^m, tf, achadolL » lulmNUMU nMrf »«j “ UJ®a,.-.4 it — f‘*2* ..“a tomorrow ,c - . — - * windiB* ay locally. oort for the Trotter*^'";,.'. Blah* To*?* ■— 7, CV*I A«i# --eM*,..,, »K nfFjAL D’ESCH **» - Liiiiidt ttm ■ MmwMd *lr, rf. /•tie To 1 7*?^ Our •*f'iw!rTk 1 to'# o4 ** yrrr* km ,... *■» •7*7^r 2TrM - t ^ »° 'e»'o I. * *v»4«* l1! 7, 2 •*- which later popped up profusely in Germany and Italy. The Globetrotters are a basketball organization. We don't pretend to be propagandists or diplomats. But I’m proud of something a French newspaper editor said during our stay : “ I he Red press in Eu¬ rope pours out propaganda that American Negroes are enslaved. The Globetrotters are refuting these lies in the most spectacular way possible. Their mixed parts is almost half Negro. The players — Negro and white — travel together, stopping at the best hole’s and eating at the finest restaurants. When people see the Globetrotters, they know the Red propaganda can’t be true!’* 1 he I rotters did eat well, as any gourmet can testify after scanning this All-World menu selected bv the 1 rotters after their return to New York: shrimp cocktail at the New Osaka Hotel restaurant, Japan, St. Germaine pea soup at the Coq Hardy, near Baris; roast duck at Leoni’s Quo Vadis in London; spaghetti from Alfredo’s in Rome; salad at the Richmonde Hotel, Geneva, or the Princess restaurant in Singapore; a baked potato from the Frankfurter Hof in Frankfurt; and, for dessert, those strawberries (almost as big as baseballs) served with sour cream at the Canterbury Hotel restaurant in Brussels. The most memorable audience of the entire trip w'as also the smallest — in fact, the smallest in Trotters' historv. It was just one man — Pope Pius XII. H is Holiness, who received us at his summer home about 20 miles from Rome, spoke to each player and gave us his blessing. Then he sat down on a chair, and the Trotters, forming a ring around him, staged their spectacular circle drill, which features fancy passing and tricky ball han¬ dling. Afterward, the Pope remarked: “My, but they are a clever grouo of boys.” He visited with us for 45 minutes. (His next audience was with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and — vve were told later they stayed only 18 minutes!) Our visit to the Pyramids in Egypt would have made a great comedy for Hollywood. The players wrapped scarves around their heads, Arab style, as protection against the searing sun. Our guide of¬ fered a choice of horses or camels for transporta¬ tion. Everybody except Pop Gates prudently asked for a horse. Pop took a camel, and here is his description of what happened: “The camel was lying down, and I got on the blanketed saddle, figuring, 'This isn’t much differ¬ ent from riding a horse.’ But it was a lot different. Most animals get up from the ground forefeet first. A camel does it hind end first — and fast! I sailed right over his head!” By way of contrast with Pop’s sad experience, the most soothing transportation the Trotters ex¬ perienced was a four-block gondola ride in Venice, which lasted about 15 minutes and cost only $1.75 for our party of 34. We've traveled in a lot of New' York taxis which made slower time, covering ap¬ proximately the same distance, between our hotel and Madison Square Garden! A 33-hour flight carried us from Cairo to Bang¬ kok, Thailand. En route, we hit some rough air which almost put Tony Lavelli out of business. Tony, the Celtics’ captain, doubled on tour as ac¬ cordionist and musical director of our half-time vaudeville show. The tremendous jar of the down- Globetrotters and Celtics played many of tlrfl exhibitions in makeshift open-air courts 1 j Collier’s for January 31, 1953 Randy Turpin (center), onetime conqueror of Sugar Ray Robinson, visited tonring hoop^ters during their London stay. Trotters played before six straight sellout crowds in Britain 68

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.HT13CV TWMOAY: Globctrotters ^ Beat They, fork Celti^Uts Celtics , 75-61 - - - - — - T~ ^ ^ -r- L CHINA Harlem PQAEI MflAAAETO TON XAPAEM ntAOMfl PI KATEM ArtTIE KAI XQEI TOYI OEAfll iHTEZ ME THNrNfllTHN SKflAHKTIKH TQH MAEITPIA “IfOPCVTAI TAW uwiw.^. ... *•«*»'"* 1 XOPEYTAL TOY MflAIKET EH' MtfAAHI APAIflAKTAI TQH "HATM.. M 0Y1 HfOYOMtlOYl HTQHUtH KAI O AAjfAMntlTQHmilTOri+k Mt TO AHOT1PAI Tf XX IK Ml fUr KAI TA KATAflAmTfKA TOY IQT MMIl^OHOW P<I»AH1I»HIAH7^ OT AK^OtATAl, XOfKAty KAI XOf .Pf rmVt v0f G/obt BeltollsstOrme urn sch^ri^lwjew draft we ran into jammed Tony’s accordion — a dis¬ covery he made, much to his embarrassment, when he attempted to tune up in front of our first Bang¬ kok audience. In the Far East, temperatures climbed to a high of 126 degrees at Kuala Lumpur, capital of the Malay States, and our players lost from 10 to 20 pounds each over a two-week period. As a further complication, an overzealous promoter at Kuala Lumpur sold 40,000 tickets for an outdoor stadium seating only 20,000. So we tried to play a double- header. Alter the first game, a torrential rain came down. The second-game crowd sat for two hours in a virtual monsoon, so the boys went out in rain¬ coats and tried to play, but they had to quit after 20 minutes. It was raining so hard the players could scarcely follow the ball. Our next stop was Manila, where we were booed. From there, we went to Hong Kong — where we were hissed! A crowd of 14,000 Chinese squeezed into the Happy Valley Stadium, a strange audito¬ rium with bamboo walls and a thatched roof. Un¬ til you’ve heard 14,000 people hiss, you’ve missed EUROPEAN * one in Germany. Teams also performed in irytliing from airplane hangars to opera halls CoIlieCs for January 31, 1953 one of life's unusual sounds. The hissing worried us until we found out it was intended as applause. Our reception in Tokyo was fantastic. At least 5,000 fans and more than 100 cameramen and newsreel photographers met us at the airport. A motorcade of 15 convertibles, filled with lovely dancing girls, paced our welcoming parade to downtown Tokyo. Three helicopters flew above the motorcade, and office workers hurled confetti from the downtown buildings. We experienced more of the same kind of welcome at Yokohama, Nagoya and Osaka. Throughout our stay in Japan, we played in baseball parks before crowds ranging from 15,000 to 35,000. Unfortunately, most of the native players we observed in the Far East were handicapped by their lack of size. The best Filipino performer was Ponchiano Saldana, of Manila, who has terrific drive and is a great floor man. Saldana would be included on the Trotters’ All- World Team, along with Tom Furlong, a rugged six-footer who plays with the Argentine Olympics and recently spurned an offer from the Minneapo¬ lis Lakers; Jose Santos, a six-ioot, three-inch for¬ ward from Monterrey, Mexico, who is a great hook-shot artist; Marc Quibbler, a barrel-chested guard from Lyon, France; and Wong Ni-cheun, a gangling Chinese who plays with the Seven Tigers of Formosa. I’d win a lot of games with that team. 1 want to say a good word for my own boys, too: fellows like Tatum and Haynes, Ermer Robinson, Clarence Wilson, Josh Grider and Bill (Rookie) Brown — and for such Celtic stars as Lavelli, Bob Karstens, Joe Lyles. Bob Clark, Bob Luksta and Claudell Overton. The Celtics did a swell job on the tour. Of the 141 games, they played us in 90; the rest of the games pitted the Trotters against local competition. Will the Trotters make another world tour some¬ day? Probably not. The traveling is hard on the players, and even harder on the bank roll. Despite the tremendous crowds, the trip resulted in a net loss of about $40,000. But this tour was well worth while. It was the thrill of a lifetime. And in what better way could we have celebrated our 25th anniversary? Most memorable audience of trip consisted of one spectator: Pope Pius XII. Globetrotters and Celtics party visited with the Pope for 45 minutes, later exhibited trick plays for him 69

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Collier's Editorials LOWELL HESS Blueprint for a New Model IT WAS THE American people’s good fortune to have a choice between two excellent candi¬ dates in the last Presidential election. But that good fortune reflects no credit upon the anti¬ quated, undemocratic convention system by v>hich those candidates were chosen, and about which Senator Estes Kefauver makes some justi¬ fiable complaints in this issue of Collier’s. Senator Kefauver speaks as more than an un¬ successful office seeker, even though he frankly confesses to his disappointment in missing the Democratic nomination for President. Long be¬ fore the convention, as he points out, he had joined a bipartisan movement to streamline the American electoral machinery to conform to twentieth-century realities. Mr. Kefauver gen¬ erously admits to an admiration of his party’s choice which was shared by many millions of his countrymen. But, even so, we think the senator made a good case for his contention that the popular will was by -passed in favor of some strong-arm political methods in Chicago that helped assure the selection of Governor Stev¬ enson. We give an enthusiastic second to Senator Kefauver's current proposal that preferential Presidential primaries be made nation-wide, and that the conventions be governed by the first choices of the country’s voters in choosing their Presidential nominees. We say amen to his sug¬ gestion that the \ ice-Presidential candidates be 70 named from among those men whom the people consider to be of Presidential stature. We agree with the senator’s plan to make the electoral vote conform more accurately to the popular vote. We welcome his agreement with this magazine’s contention that active politi¬ cal campaigning should be limited to about a month's duration. And, in addition, we think that something should be done — particularly in view of the new constitutional limit on two terms for one President- to assure a shorter, more or¬ derly and legally designated means for the trans¬ fer of authority from one administration to the next. There is no reason why all this cannot and should not be done, because there is nothing so sacred or perfect about our method of choosing and installing Presidents as to prohibit change. Modes of living and thinking have altered dras¬ tically since that method was first established. It has already been amended to some extent, and it ought to be amended further. Most of the laws and customs which govern the American political process date from the days when the country’s economy was largely agricultural, and when the horse w^as man’s swiftest means of transportation. We still vote in November because once upon a time it was more convenient for farmer citizens to take the day off when all the harvests were over. Until recendy we inaugurated Presidents in March because, in the days of the republic’s infancy, roads were likely to be impassable earlier in the year. We still nominate candidates for Presi¬ dent some four months before election because the nominees needed that much time in horse- and-buggy days to show themselves to even a small portion of the electorate. In addition to all that, the authors of the Con¬ stitution were by no means unanimous in their respect for the people’s intelligence, or in their confidence in the people’s ability to choose their governments wisely. So they built a po¬ litical structure through compromise, with a delegation of authority to the electors, which carried over more than a hint of aristocracy into the new democracy. Thus what seemed sensible and practical 150 years ago is awkward and cumbersome, or worse, today. It is time that our lawmakers took cognizance of the existence of trains, automo¬ biles, airplanes, radio and television. It is time they admitted that the uncertain compromises of the 1790s have become the vehicles of undemo¬ cratic bossism, deals and trades. And the time to do something about the whole situation is now. It may take two or three years to bring about the necessary changes. There will still be stub¬ born defenders of the status quo to contend with. And even when they are won over or voted down, the process of amending the Constitution is no overnight matter. So we hope that the mem¬ bers of the new Congress who believe in the need of change will make electoral reform an early or¬ der of business. It will be one of the finest con¬ tributions that the new administration can make to the cause of truly democratic government. Bevond and Above Politics AS THE REPUBLICANS take over control of Congress, we should like to pay a tribute to some members of the departing majority in both House and Senate. We can't recall all of their names, but that in itself may be part of the trib¬ ute. For they were men who took a minimum of bow's while doing a lot of valuable work. We refer to the Democratic heads of commit¬ tees who did a thorough, businesslike job of uncovering the well-known “mess in Washing¬ ton,” while the Joe McCarthys did most of the feather-preening and chest-thumping. The fact is sometimes forgotten or overlooked that it was Democrats who started and engineered and pur¬ sued the investigation of such unsavory charac¬ ters as the five percenters, the influence peddlers, the bribetakers, the cover-uppers for tax evad¬ ers, and other betrayers of public trust. These Democratic committee heads exposed the scandals in the RFC, the Treasury and Jus¬ tice Departments. They spotlighted the link be¬ tween gangsters and politicians in some of our big cities. And even in the period between the election and the opening of the new Congress, they were still at work on the matter of subver¬ sive Americans in United Nations jobs, and the possible connection between their appointments and the State and Justice Departments and one of their own colleagues. Such zeal and courage are in marked contrast to the practice, all too prevalent with some of the Truman appointees, of overlooking wrong¬ doing or covering it up for political reasons. The departing committee heads leave to their successors an example of seeking truth rather than publicity, and of putting honesty above party. We hope the example will be followed. Collier's for January 31, 1953

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DODGE V-EIGH7 CORONET DIPLOMAT All nc nl mb'sei ' tininq* \t tilths t notict Mew Surging V8 Power | New 140-h.p. Red Ram V-Kight packs I more punch per cubic inch. Most efficient engine design in any American car, with more speed than you’ll ever need! EVERYTHING NEW. ..AND LOWER PRICED, TOO! its a fower-facked Beauty New-All New 4 Evem Inch is Travel Planned Action C?n ton Act/Ve Americans 1 ;> 11 in. ft. it il< rnl t * the nee' A of Active American- ! Styled -for Action Inside and Out- Sleek and trim outside, with more room than ever in spacious Travel-Lounge in¬ teriors. Chair-high “Comfort Contour” seats give more restful support. Two- tone Fashion-Fiber Fabrics. Coronet 4 Door Sedan illustrated above.

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YOU’RE A SUCKER IF YOU CASH MY CHECK A Forger Tells How The Racket Works fUBLIC LIBRARY, IKE’S PIPEFITTER What Will Durkin Do? Where Are Baseball .300 HITTERS? rnuan o ngr, WWVHQ lAlj-m WAiCu FIFTEEN CENTS I

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etmyi TODAY AS VESTED DAY cars run I heir best 1920 KISSEL Gold bug. filling up at the first " ttt by 1” gasoline pump, had a six -cylinder, 60- hp engine One passenger was left "out in the cold" on a seat that pushed iti like a drawer when not in use on the best gasoline 1953 0LDSM0B1LE Super "88” is described as the "power car of the year.” It offers power steering, power brakes and a 165-h p. engine ON FEBRUARY 2, 1923 — thirty years ago this month— car owners went out of their way to stop at this little station in Dayton, Ohio. They wanted to try a new kind of gasoline . . a gasoline that promised to stop the ’’knock” that was plaguing them. This new gasoline was ’’Ethyl” gasoline. And these first purchasers were delighted to find that it really did stop ’'knock.” But that wasn’t all. It opened the door to the modern, high compression engines that give today’s cars such thrilling power and performance. To get the most enjoyment from your car, fill ’er up with ’’Ethyl” gasoline. For today, as yesterday, cars run their best on the best gasoline. 1923 LOCOMOBILE, at $7,600. was the highest-priced Ameri¬ can stock car that year. This Model 48 had been introduced in 1911 and lasted until 1929, with minor changes _ ETHYL _ CORPORATION 1903 ORIENT Buckboard sold for $375, stripped of frills. It was promoted as the "cheapest auto in the world." A 4- cylinder engine, in the rear, pushed the light frame along at a lively speed. New York 17, New York Ethyl Antiknock Ltd., in Canada ETHYL ANTIKNOCK COMPOUND I

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4 Picture OF THE MONTH It this were jubt a picture about Hollywood, it would be just another picture, but it’s more than that. Th s is a picture about j>eop!e interesting people. These people happen to live in tl e fabled and fabulous world of sables and swimming pools, of love¬ liness and loneliness. It is called “The Had and the Beautiful" because it is about a man of consuming ambition, who used people to achieve his ends. He has the great quality of creativeness, but as a social force he is per¬ sonally destructive an amazing perform¬ ance by Kirk iJouglas. But it is also about a woman a woman w ho is beau¬ tiful and who hap- penc*d to love this bad man Here's Lana Turner in her most exciting dra¬ matic role. The severest critic will have to admire her acting as she play s a movie star, cata¬ pulted into fame by the genius of her mentor. Hers is a life of romance and rapture and pain. Her love is pu'sating, with but one alloy the mad desire for a niche in filmdom’s Hall of Fame. W nil these brilliant stars, is one of Holly- wt«>d’s most outstanding. Oscar-bound casts. Handsome Water Pidgeon as the worldly, assured executive, Dick Powell and Gloria Grahame as the writer and his w ife who are 1 arried along in this powerful surge towards lame . . Barry Sullivan. Gilbert Roland — ar i und-picked for the greatest roles of their careers. ' The Bad and the Beautiful" is the Holly- wtxxi of today . It takes you inside the studios where the make-up man's skill erases sor¬ rows and yearnings, where glamor is born . . brings you on to the actual sets where pictures are made, shows you a picture within a picture . . . carries you to Holly¬ wood’s palatial homes. It tells the truth about a business of legends. You’ll see Holl> - wood with the roof-tops ripped away . . . with its people revealed, the notorious and the famous. . . the failures and the successes . . . the bad and the beautiful. ★ ★ ★ An M-G-M picture starring LANA TURNKR, KIUK DOUGLAS, WALTER P1DGEON. DICK POWELL in “THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL” co-starring Barry Sullivan, Gloria Grahame, Gilbert Roland with Leo G. Carroll and N anessa Brow n, Screen play by Charles Schnee. Based on a story by George Bradshaw. Directed by Vincente Minnelli. Produced by John Houseman. ALBERT E. WINGER ( hairman of the Hoard CLARENCE E. STOL’CIl President The Cover Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor KIC11AHD CIIAa'LI.N, Osisfmi/ Publisher GORDON M WMNG, Managing Editor DAN ID M.ANEsS. Assistant Managing Editor M ACT. EWAN F \ RltEI.L, Hclion Editor WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director All IN ri.FAl ON. Senior ts..ociate Editor 01 IINF.V WILLIAMS, ( artnon Editor JAMES TIIKAMII It. Editoiials JAMES A. (JI IONFY, Photo Editor Several deductions could be made here. For example: (1 ) from the number of hats on the rack, everyone is home and presumably in bed; (2) obviously, the dog wants out; (3) naturally, Pop is elected; and (4) it must be snowing, raining or sleeting. The conclusion to be reached is that (a) the setter will re¬ nege the instant he is exposed to the elements and (b) Pop will be compelled to arise again at 5:45 a.m. to respond to the barks and whines of the impa¬ tient pooch. The moral: raise hamsters, which don’t have to leave the house. Associate Editors JEROME BE \TTY, Jit. • WARRI N BROWN • GERTRUDE BECKMAN JFW IL C N M lMtFl.L SFA ril \s$I.FIt 1IOW \RD ( OIIN • W.ALIER I) WEN PORT 1111.1. DAVIDSON IJH.EN VV ORDEN FRSKINF • KYFIA N IIARVHV • DI \N \ II1RSII IIOMFK JFNKs CHARLOTTE KMOIIT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED >1. LANSING JOHN LEAR • FRANKLIN U. I.OH ANL.FR TOM MF\NY BICKLI.N MOON JOHN C. PEI I I W IIOLFR PlPPia r • elfanor porter • Cornelius RYAN JA.NLI SIIF.PS IRANI .1 s WALLACE • \A 11.11 AM LEANER M ART 1 1 \ WEINMAN • F.l.IZ YBETII WOODY Editorial Research * ROSAWE NUN AY, ( hief • MADF.l.LN ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS • ALAN >1. I.EN E> .-OIL'S • JANICE MOSF.S • JOHN NEW HOUSE Ilureau s WASHINGTON: JAMES C. DERIFI X. Chief ; TODD WRIGHT WEST COAST (Los Angeles): THEODORE STKAlSS, Chief: ROBERT CA SIN, JOHN FLORE A MIDW EST ( ( tiirugn ) : BILL F V Y EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR ERE I DIN. WTI.l.I \M RICHARDSON FAR EAST (lokyo): PEI Lit KM.ISCIIFR February 7 , 1953 ARTICLES U 'hat fi r ve Learned about If inter Warfare. . PETFH KALISCHER It lure Arc Baseball's .300 Hitters? . TOM MEANT Rise and l all of a Communist Leader . JOSEPH WECIISBERG ) on' re a Sucker if Y on Cash My ('heel:. ...... .LEONARD HART WITH DEAN JF WINGS AM) LEE EPSON These looks Help Keep 1 our Body in Repair . Boy Trapper . COLLIER^ COLOR CAMERA lion to Smuggle a Coiv . ben aierson Ike's Pipefitter . SAMI EL GRAFTON Man Here Oh ns a Tire Engine . 5.000 If ays to Make a Phone Call . BILL DAVIDSON FICTION The Finger of Cod . STL. ART CI.OETE Just One of the Boys . HARRIET I RANK, JR. 1'he Iron Box . IOIIN SAVAGE Martin Taylor's Enterprise . .MERLE CONSTINFR The l ime of Year . HAMLIN HUNT (TDK SIIORI SIIOUI STORY ) 11 16 20 30 34 44 46 56 59 66 11 24 38 50 60 •Iff States of Mind . WALTER DAVENPORT 8 House Guest . ST ANLEY AND J ANICE BFKENST AIN 41 Let's -ip point a Committee! . JOHN I. KKASLER 49 Editorials . TO Cover.., . KEN COW HEY The characters in nil slxtries and serials in this magazine arc purely imaginary . A a reference or allusion to a ns liting person is intended. Subscription Deparlmenl, 204 W. High Streel, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Execulive Offices, 640 Fillh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIERS l * .••••* aa »». \*. ' n PUBLISHED WEEKLY > ' r, \ • $■ u t 1 \ t..r . 1 ^ ur S.Vl'U ^ SS ; .n* ■ ?’.* 00: .%■ r* $10.00. 4 years S . » r» -\ i • ■ 'iin. *. 'll ti.. 1 .^t . L nion. 1 y..ar S "Hi' r ,■ >'n- I >« «r «)>). l‘ayin»nra from f • ^ . • .n • [ t ■ i* i-, ,w*t i •* in L ni’.--• «i • 1 L‘iow rU-CoiliiT Pu(>U*hins U ! Spri. jm». * •••.. . ENTERED - » >n j . tniti.t :u th Post Of.ro. Si - . - \r .,rt -m' tf.-.i to rollers. The N • i ^ i.iiil** r i* i' r>)iiipiiiuci] • i- • tUJ ■■ irn pu-'.'ic It e P'j'mMi-r iu«iniirs no r- ’i> ;i«.Oiit> for irturii os uiHoiKit*-! i.iinu^cripts or art. w CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reach us five weeks in odvonce , * of the next issue date. Give both the old and new oddresses. ’ Copyright. i*lvl ba hit crow ei i.. coi.i ier pubmsiiing company < \n rights reserved) PuMiMirr- of l oilier* a. The Amcriran Maya/i/ie, Woman’s Home Companion Week’s Mail Prefabricated Greeting Editor: I greatly enjoyed designing my own Christmas card from you with the material supplied in your Christmas Editorial (Dee. 27th). I know I wasn't supposed to take you literally hut I knew that Collier's Christmas wish was for Santa to place a bough of peace on every Christmas tree around the world. The angel rings the hells while good Saint Nick obliges. What a wonderful gift from Santa Claus that would he! Ri ta C. Levy, New Orleans, La. . . . Dear Collier’s, Uve read your rhyme About the holy Christmastime. I really studied very hard Each item on your Christmas card. And now7 1 come to ask you why The Star of Stars up in the sky? Why the angels, why the dove. On wings of peace from heaven above? Why the carolers, why the tree? Please explain this mystery. I humbly send this protest mild. And ask vou. please, where was the Child? Patrick C. Brennan, Burlington, Vt. Common tl vs. Staff Editor: The article. What's Wrong at the Pentagon? ( Dee. 27th ) , by Dr. Van- nevar Bush, sure hits the nail on the head. He brings forth strongly the dif¬ ferentiation between command and staff. Basically and psychologically the designation of the head of a large mili¬ tary organization such as the Army. Navy or Air Force as the Chief of Staff is wrong. The top man is the com¬ mander. In an army you have a corps. Each corps has a commander, and in a divi¬ sion. a subordinate part of a corps, you also have a commander. The staffs are purely and solely advisers to the com¬ mander. However, under present des¬ ignations, the staff has usurped the

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a momen Pretty soon telephone operators will take over here... but not until these men finish what they’re doing. For these are Western Electric people . . . some of our staff of 17,500 installers ... finishing up a new Western Electric switchboard for a dial central office before it’s put into service by your Bell telephone company. This is part of our job as the manufacturing unit of the Bell System ...helping to provide more and better telephone service for America. We’ve been doing it now for over 70 years. Today, in addition to regular telephone duties, we're also working directly for Uncle Sam . . . making radar fire control systems for guns, radar bombing systems for planes, electronic control and firing systems for guided missiles and special communications equipment for the Armed Forces. With us it’s full speed ahead on both jobs! A UNIT OF THE BELL SYSTEM SINCE 1882 $ )

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6 Week's Mail CONTINUED Rest news lor your eyes inlV history... E[ Ulna-Vision % I \ biggest ad\ amcincnt! The world s only television with 2 1 iik li Aluminized Picture Tube that mirrors light toward w.u steps up contrast, increases brightness up to 100r7. Add Ci.i s tilted, deep tint safet) glass and you get TV’s widest range ot picture tones with virtually no glare and reflections. (, i j' I M /»» J ' an • \b(. 7 V A C-E ULTRA VISION G E Aluminized Tube. T Whiler whites, blacker blacks, lOOXgreater range of grays than any TV. Greatest eye ease. Mr CONVENTIONAL TV Non aluminized tube. Grayed down blacks, murky whites, poor contrast Resull: hard on-lhe eyes viewing. y r//// ' yo c('//////r//re //? _ (» f T\‘ Prucs Start a I $199.95 fr .. / .. . lx l.n n \\ u j x - ' v « '/./ u"J • >. P .. .' or Oj *. sc- Model 2 ‘ C.06 Sir G 1. L Itra- Vision in ai - tiof c\t to an) other TV 1 u \ out y\c^ j rose C j k otfers tar i ■ re c kinty si arper con¬ trast ^Katcr freedom trom tfl.iK and reflections than any i »t I cr make k.vcn under bright¬ er 1 * gilts where other I V pic - 1 .s often Lnlc G E Lltra- \ is ‘On remains sharp and clear Vc 1 \' s most spectacular show dow n toda) 6* * r. ' / . Cj Syra.n .V Y GENERAL ELECTRIC command (unctions, and in many low'cr echelons the stall has really become the command and issues orders on its own initiative. This does not apply so much in a combat theater, but in the zone of in¬ terior it is a very prevalent procedure. Also it has created a wrong impression in the minds ot junior officers who now work for staH jobs instead of command jobs, as their experience indicates that it is the staff that runs things. The present organization has also cre¬ ated a tremendous increase in staffs. This has been caused by the fact that the stair feels that they must w'ork out any problem down to the minutest de¬ tail before transmitting to the subordi¬ nate commander, thereby killing his initiative and reducing his position to one of chore hoy. In many cases the senior staff undercuts the subordinate commander and goes directly to his sub¬ ordinates. In addition, today a com¬ mander often finds himself saddled with an officer to fill a certain position who has been picked by the senior staff, hut who may not be suitable to the com¬ mander. It is firmly believed, as a result of observation, that starting in the Penta¬ gon the staffs of various echelons of commands could he cut 50 per cent and then function more efficiently and more effectively. T his would cause the staff to pass to the subordinate command a general directive and permit him to work out the details in accordance with his experience, judgment and conditions under which he is working. It would also give a true picture of the ability of the commander. The present staff functioning also works in the reverse. Today a com¬ mander who makes a mistake can throw it hack on his stall’. This has created a buck-passing situation which is anything but good for military organizations. I would like to sec Dr. Bush work out an organization table setting forth his ideas in chart form, indicating clearly that the staff is purely an advisory func¬ tion and is in reality just advisers to the commander. George H. Brett, Lieutenant General, United States Air Force (Ret.), Winter Park, Fla. 10-Beat Error Editor: I enjoyed very much the piece on Bird Watching with an Electric Eye (Dec. 27th). For the record, I might point out a small error in one caption. I he nuthatch's w ing beats arc actually about 20 per second instead of 30, as stated, and the chickadee (a much smaller bird) does 30 per second. How¬ ever, 1 doubt that anyone other than myself has made such measurements so that no one will have the basis for criticism. C, H. Greenewalt, Wilmington, Del. Though no one else caught the wing- beat error, we are grateful to Mr, C. H. Greenewalt, who took the picture, and who, when he is not photographing birds for Collier’s, is president of E. I. du Pont de Nemours & Company. Local Pride Editor: Your answer re Williamsburg of the West to Mr. Zuckerman, of Brooklyn’s Williamsburg (Week’s Mail, Dec. 27th), is one of the funniest squibs I’ve read in a long time. It reminds me of the New York girl who, when she heard I was from Ne¬ braska, straight-facedly said, “Oh, yes! I remember studying in geography that Nebraska had so few people it really isn't entitled to two United States sena¬ tors.” Then she added, “How do you live out there?” 1 felt like saying, “In tepees,” but re¬ sisted, remembering the lady at home who heard 1 was going to Vassar and said. “That’s that seclusive girl’s school in the East, isn't it?” Mrs. Gilbert Gardner, Deerfield, Ilk They Knotv Their Crackers Editor: As one of the smaller “inde¬ pendents” in the biscuit industry, Me- gowen-Educator Food Company took notice of Robert Froman’s article (Dec. 20th) titled What Do You Know' about Crackers ’n’ Cookies? Although small in size, we arc proud of the fact that the Educator company, through the years, has pioneered several of the important developments in this industry. I he first Sandvik band sold in the United States, for baking pur¬ poses, was purchased by Johnson-Edu- cator Food Company in April, 1931. It was 24 inches in width and 208 feet long. A gas-fired oven, approximately 100 feet in length, was constructed in our bakery at Cambridge. This oven was the first hand oven in America. Ralph G. Smith, Lowell, Mass. Collier’s Album of Favorite Christ¬ mas Art earried the above repro¬ duction of Giotto’s Adoration of the Magi with the eredit line, “Arena Chapel, Padua, Italy.” The eredit should ha\e read, “Re¬ produced from the book Italian Painting, Volume I, published by Skira, Ine., New* York.” Collier’s for February 7, 1953

Page 371

THE 0\ > ,,.ren« « <w"Ty with a truly different flavor and aroma _ extra-mild FATIMA continues to grow in favor among King-Size YOU GET an extra-mild and soothing smoke —plus the added protection of " —

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8 NEW PLASTIC BANDAGE WONT LOOSEN IN WATER FLESH COLORED ' STAYS NEAT AND CLEAN BAND-AID TRACK MARK Plastic Strips WATERPROOF Smooth plastic sheds water, washes clean. FLESH-COLORED Inconspicuous — thin and flexible. STERILE (fc/tn n?u mvit 8 ciimciui uncai STATES OF MIND By WALTER DAVENPORT A protest from Mr. Lloyd Cattridge, who explodes as follows from Roanoke, Virginia: “I wasn’t alive in the good old days. I don’t expect to live far into the glorious future. I’m living now , and for Pete’s sake, stop telling me how lousy the present is.” ★ ★ ★ Should you drop in at Jack Braun’s tavern in Kansas City, Missouri, for a solacing glass of beer, please pay for same with nickels and dimes. Or fold¬ ing money, anyway. He’s a good guy, but a victim of conspiracy. The boys have been tossing silver dollars on Mr. Braun’s bar in payment for their drinks, and he’d like to know who spread the news that when he opened the place some months ago he told his wife that he’d give her every silver dollar he took in. In the short time we were in Mr. Braun’s place, 15 lads silver-dollared him. “She’ll soon be owning the joint,” sighed Mr. Braun. “Guess I ought to be glad it’s staying in the family.” ★ ★ ★ Seems to be something missing in this contribution from a customer in Che¬ boygan, Michigan. Didn’t even bother to sign his name. Anyway, see for your¬ self. Here’s the whole letter: “I have been intending to write to you for some time so I am doing so. I know how busy you are so I do not expect any answer.” ★ ★ ★ Mrs. Ella Poffenroth hasn’t much trouble with her students. She’s super¬ intendent of the Coulee Dam, Wash¬ ington, High School. A number of members of the local Parent-Teachers Association complained that educational fundamentals were being neglected, that the kids, for example, couldn't spell. So her pupils challenged the PTA to a spelling bee. It was a slaughter. Not only did the parents fall down on such simple words as efficiency and labora¬ tory but some of them were not even able to pronounce them. ★ ★ ★ Now if you should happen to pause during one of your many onerous daily tasks and ask yourself: What in the world is wrong with today’s writers of fiction and poetry?, we advise consult¬ ing with Dr. Martha Pingel of East Carolina College at Greenville, North Carolina. “Authors,” says Dr. Pingel, “are taking the view that we are living in the 4-F age — Fear, Friction, Folly and Frustration.” We mentioned this to one of our more cheerful authors, and it sounded pretty pingel to him. ★ ★ ★ Schoolteacher in Laramie, Wyoming, was doling out a little sound advice to a chronically morose pupil. Told the lad it was foolish always to be wishing for something he didn’t have. “What else is there to wish for?” he asked. ★ ★ ★ In a few weeks you’ll be reading joy¬ ous dope from the Southern baseball training camps. All about downy- cheeked southpaws, apple sluggers, sec¬ ond sackers and shortstops destined to make Carl Hubbell, Joe Gordon, Babe Ruth and Marty Marion in their prime look like amateurs. Of course, we won’t believe a word of it. But gosh, how glad we’ll be to read it. ★ ★ ★ A headlong guy in Indianapolis asks the court for a divorce. Says his wife left him 30 years ago, and he has con¬ cluded she probably won’t be back. That’s precipitate youth for you. ★ ★ ★ There was no clerk at the desk of this hotel Mrs. M. Miller of Mahaska, Kansas, entered. Just an array of keys under a sign: “Take a key. Find your room. Pay when you leave. Sleep well.” No clerk in the morning either. So Mrs. Miller put down three bucks and her key and was on her way. Doesn’t tell us the name of the town. ★ ★ ★ We’re told on authority which has been fairly inaccurate now and then that the Army is about to train a few regiments of soldiers in the new art of neutralizing atomic-bomb duds. If an A-bomb should drop in your vicinity and fail to go off, these lads will march in and denature it so that it won’t decide to let go later. Same authority tells us that these men will be awarded the Medal of Honor before going to work. ★ ★ ★ Restaurant owner in Nashua, New Hampshire, asked one of his waitresses where she lived. Said he might want IRWIN CAPLAN her in for extra work on Sunday. She said she was flattered and that she lived upstairs over a vacant lot. Collier’s for February 7, 1953

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10 Which one belongs in a sailor’s dungarees? ( )k , y ksl, you're familiar with the knife in the (enter (1) — the handy pocketkinfe small boys long for. Hut do \ ou know the uses of all the other in¬ teresting Limes shown on this page ? 1 he farriers Lnde (2) is very useful to the blacksmith in trimming inside a horse's hoof 1k- fore he fits a shoe. With the budding knife (3) the iiurscrwnan can insert a tiny bud from a heaw-karmg peach tree under the baik of a no¬ good seedling so it w ill gross into a tree, producing luscious fruit. I he ringkuife (4) is used by pack¬ ing clerks it snips off a cord with the flick of a finger. ^ on d be apt to find the rigging knife (5) in a sailor s dungarees. Its strong, sharp blade is just the thing for cutting a rope — and at tlie other end is a marlin spike for splicing and for loosening tight, \s aler-soaked knots. The cigar maker uses the handleless blade (6) to clip off the lighting cud of a nessls rolled cheroot. And the long thin pocketknife (7) is used by citrus buyers and growers to slice through an orange or grapefruit with one swipe — to see if the crop is ripe and juicy. Just from this sample, it's pretty plain that when it comes to knives, you have a w ide variety to pick from. And you buy the one that's suited to the job you want to do. Although it may never have occurred to you, that's about the situation you face when it conies to choosing insurance to make your family finan¬ cially secure. There are many forms of insurance. And in selecting tlie policies that w ill ghe you the most for your insurance dollar it’s wise to talk with a man who knows insurance — your Travelers agent or broker. He has had experience in apply ing the many different Travelers policies to situations such as y ours. By putting these specialized Travelers poli¬ cies to work for you lie can make sure you have maximum protection while you need it most and adequate retirement income when you want to quit work. Why not have a chat with your Travelers man soon? We’ll send you his name and address if you don’t happen to know him. \ Q 1 f HELP YOURSELF TO SECURITY THROUGH The HARTFORD 15, CONNECTICUT ONE OF THE LEADING LIFE INSURANCE COMPANIES

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Collier9*, February 7, 1953 What We’ve Learned about WINTER WARFARE Two years ago, the than did eo* my *ff Seoul, Korea OW many wounded?” I asked the medic cap¬ tain. The captain said, “About fifteen. The rest are frostbites.” The time was early December, 1950 — the place a collecting station on the outskirts of Pyongyang. The Eighth Army still held the North Korean capital but time was running out. Stretched on blankets and litters in the pyramidal tent were scores of U.S. 2d Division troops who had fought and straggled their way out of a Chinese trap at Kunu-ri, 75 miles to the north. Fifteen wounded against scores of frostbites. Red China’s entry into the Korean war may have surprised some of our military experts, but it was the cold, as inevitable as a date on the calen¬ dar, that really caught them with their winter pants down. Neither the men nor their machines were ready for winter war. No one knows how many Americans died in no man’s land — or were captured — simply because they couldn’t cope with the weather. But official records show that 6,000 hospitalized casualties, one out of every five in the winter of 1950-’51, were victims of frostbite or exposure. (The Ko¬ rean war’s first quadruple amputee was a frostbite case.) Add to this record the normal five-to-one ratio of minor cold injuries treated at first-aid sta¬ tions and returned to duty within 48 hours and we face the conclusion that the thermometer put more American troops out of action than did en¬ emy weapons. The real shocker to these statistics is that these men suffered in temperatures no colder than pre¬ vail in many sections of the United States. The icy “retreat, hell” march by the Marines from the Changjin reservoir to the sea was in the same lati¬ tude as southern Pennsylvania. Yet an army can freeze in Pennsylvania, as history recalls, and in terms of modern winter warfare our troops in Korea were almost as bad off as Washington s at Valley Forge. By the time heavy clothing reached forward units racing for the Yalu River, the men were going the other way and often had to burn or abandon stocks en route. Vehicles were without antifreeze, gasoline and lubricants froze, batteries cracked, and jeeps were either thawed out by bonfire and blow torch, towed with their wheels locked or left behind. All the unpreparedness that marked our entry into the Korean police action snowballed into one winter of misery and discontent. Communist soldiers suffered, too, but at that time their more primitive transport- -man power, 11

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12 H interized sentries wear up to 22 poumls of clothing and an 8-pound armored vest horses oxen and even camels — functioned better than stalled trucks Their cotton padded uniforms were not stvlish, but they were warmer than field . ckets and their felt boots were better than our leather ones or the execrable shoepacs, perhaps the most disappointing winter footgear ever de¬ vised bv a gadget-happv nation. I ast winter the quantity of winter equipment improved, hut the latest in cold-weather gimmicks d dn t reach the troops until late — and then in driblets. I his winter, for the first time, United Nations ground forces are benefiting from the bitter lessons learned two sears ago. I hey are now unquestion¬ ably the best -and most expensively winterized army in the world. Lach front-line American fight¬ ing nun wears and sleeps in SI 56. 25 worth of cold- weather gear, and so do many other UN soldiers supplied by us. I he Army Quartermaster and Ordnance had not been asleep since World War II — just dozing. 1 he Pentagon knew that any future war, with Rus¬ sia the likeliest adversary, would demand rugged efficiency in cold-weather gear. But an economy- minded Congress and the lack of urgency hob¬ bled manufacture, restricting it to the pilot-model stage. Now a panoply of up-to-date weapons against cold, first tested in Alaska and then on the Korean battleground, are in mass production. General James A. Van Fleet, who spent this winter and last in command of the Eighth Army, named what he considers the three most impor¬ tant items of personal equipment: the mountain sleeping bag. the parka and the new insulated boot. I he zippered sleeping bag, stuffed with down in a windproof cotton case and rubberized carry¬ ing bag, weighs slightly more than seven pounds, and costs around $36. With a blanket or wool liner, and an air mattress, it affords comfortable sleeping at almost any temperature. The one draw¬ back is the difficulty of unzippering and getting out of the bag in a hurry — something an infantry- man has occasion to do. The knee-length parka was developed in Alaska and perfected in Korea. It has a heavy alpaea- type lining that zippers and buttons into a wind- proof cotton shell, and the hood is frequently fur-trimmed and has wire stiffening that ean be molded to the head. But it is the insulated boot that draws Van Fleet’s — and the GI's — highest praise. Known as the Mickey Mouse, or the thermos jug, and some¬ times as the sweatbox, the boot is an ungainly creation weighing five and three-quarter pounds a pair, and setting the taxpayer back $18 — one pound heavier and $10 more expensive than a pair of shoepacs. The old-issue rubber-shoed, leather- topped shoepac makes the feet sweat prodigiously. When the thermometer drops, the perspiration freezes and frostbite begins. Insulation Minimizes Frostbite Risk The Mickey Mouse is all rubber to the calf — an inner and outer sheath with a half inch of blanket¬ ing insulation between. The feet sweat, but the insulation keeps the perspiration from freezing. It’s uncomfortable at times, but an occasional change of socks makes the boot almost treneh-foot- and frostbite-proof — almost, because even the best equipment isn't enough. “Few Americans know how to take care of themselves in cold weather,” said Brigadier Gen¬ eral 1 . Holmes Ginn, the Eighth Army Surgeon. “Most of us come from places where heat and shel¬ ter are taken for granted. We have to be taught.” To teach them, two-man teams from every unit down to company take a cold-weather course at division or corps level. There they are shown horror movies of trench foot, the four stages of frostbite (the light red “sunburn” stage, the darker red, the peeling and finally gangrene), and how to avoid or treat them. The teams then go back to their outfits and spread the word. “We had only one ease of frostbite by mid- November,” Ginn said wryly. “The man didn't change his socks for four days.” Along with the new chemical hand warmers, the improved field-jacket liners and the pajama-type long underwear go a few old-fashioned eold- weather tips: 1. A man should change or dry his socks once a day, try to massage his feet with foot powder or have a buddy do it. Even with Mickey Mouse boots, the toes and feet should be kept active when¬ ever possible. 2. Boots ean be dried out with a hot rock or an inlaid piece of paper. 3. Socks ean be dried by carrying them inside the underwear next to the skin. 4. A little exercise before turning in will help heat up the sleeping bag. 5. Wherever possible* bedding should be placed on something 30 inches off the ground, with as much insulation under the body as over it. 6. In emergencies, frostbitten hands or feet should be warmed inside another man’s shirt, next to the skin, and never heated by anything above body temperature. Because a wounded man is twice as liable to shock in cold weather, the Medical Corps has de¬ vised new ways of keeping him warm. Foremost is an oversized, down-filled evacuation bag big enough to accommodate splints and fitted with zippers permitting one part of the body to be ex¬ posed at a time. Chemical heat pads for litters is a World War II device, but new plastic “pods” for airborne stretchers cover wounded men flown out by helicopter. And aid men now carry plasma in flexible plastic bottles that won’t freeze or crack k - ( PETER XALtSCHER Group of Seventh Regiment Marines face Korean weather in new knee-length parkas and eighteen-dollar, wooi-insulated Mickey Mouse boots Collier’s for February 7, 1953

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WIDE WORLD Two Marines sleep comfortably in snow-covered sleeping bags near Koto, Korea. Windproof, cotton-eased bags are stuffed with down WIDE W3R.'. Members of the best — and most expensively — winterized army in the world, a United Nations patrol plods through snow on Korean front An army still travels on its stomach, and to warm the inner man winter rations are increased to 5,000 calories daily — 800 more than in summer — and every effort is made to get a man to one hot meal a day. A mechanized army, however, is more thirsty than hungry. Two thirds of the total military sup¬ plies shipped into Korea are petroleum produets, and for winter they have to be of a special kind. While a shivering soldier may not differentiate between 10 and 30 degrees below zero, his vehicles and weapons do. So private oil companies, in co¬ operation with the Defense Department, have pro¬ duced a whole new line of wonder fuels and lubrieants which are meeting their first true test of battle this winter. Eighth Army now has large stocks of a new Diesel oil (freezing point, 65 degrees below zero) to heat bunker and tent stoves; an all-purpose gear oil and a grease that function efficiently “from the desert to the North Pole”; a thin recoil oil for every weapon from a .45 to an eight-ineh howitzer; and an alcohol mix for arctie-type gasoline to keep water that seeps in from freezing. Someone even invented a eold-resistant plastic spout to pour fuel from one container to another. Lieutenant Colonel Charles Peterson, of Boston, chief of the Far East Command's petroleum divi¬ sion, QMC, is the main worrier over how the fuel is handled. “We’ve got to educate the high brass as well as enlisted men on servicing gas in the winter,” he said. “Until we got this low-pour Diesel oil, there was a rash of tent and mess-hall fires. When the old zero-pour Diesel froze up in the feeder ean out¬ side the tent, the men used gasoline. It was only a matter of time before the explosion.” A team of oil-company technicians made a hush- hush Korean inspection early this winter and con¬ cluded that most of the aretie-grade fuels and lubricants went far beyond the temperature requirements of the present battle line. But should we eare to roll north again, this time the wheels won’t lock. What is the Army doing with the old-type winter outfits? 1 found out from a man who eould have used one two years ago. He was Pfe James W. Hayes, of Mount Vernon, 111., serving his second tour in Korea. His first was driving an ammo truck for the 99th Field Artillery Battalion in temperatures that hit 36 below on one night. The battalion was overrun by the first Chinese surprise attaek at Un- san in October, 1950, and Hayes made it back 30 miles in a field jacket and sweater. (He wasn't is¬ sued an overcoat until December nor a pair of Collier’s for February 7, 1953 shoepaes until March.) And where is Hayes now? Working in a warm, rear-area supply room, wal¬ lowing in mufflers, long underwear and old parkas. Only the front-line troops get the brand-new' stuff, Hayes explained. Class B (support troops) and Class C (rear area) get heavy gear according to their jobs. Every item has a life expectancy of two years, and salvageable clothes go to prisoners of w'ar. “Sure eould have used some of that Class C issue back in nineteen fifty.” Hayes said. Some of the biggest changes aren’t found in the supply room but in the men’s attitude toward liv¬ ing and fighting in the eold. From Army head¬ quarters down, everybody is busting out with old and new' ideas on how' to lick the weather. Some of the foxhole improvisations have w'ound up as staff studies and been distributed back dowrn to the men who invented them. Yankee Ingenuity in Anti-Cold War It takes most of a man’s energy just to exist in eold weather, and all along the front the troops arc doing strange and wonderful things to make that existence easier. They are building bunker entrances with right- angle baffles to keep out the wind and a step lower to drain off the eold air. The bunkers are heated with 10-pound, made-in-Japan stoves that will burn wood, charcoal or Diesel. (Five thousand, at $10 apiece, w'erc delivered in 45 days after pilot models proved a success.) Fancier bunkers have radiant heating to warm the floors (Korean style). Outpost sentries, in the coldest weather, will wear as much as 22 pounds of clothing and an eight-pound armored vest. This outfit is consid¬ ered a little too bulky, and sponge-rubber plastic undersuits — designed to replace long johns, w'ool shirt and sweater — are being tried out. A piece of World War II equipment being w'orked to death is the slave kit — a boxlike hot-air blower towed in a trailer or carried in a truck. Hooked into any vehicle's ignition eoii, it will thaw' an iceberg in half an hour. Grouzer teeth, another old item, are back in favor. They are solid, cast-iron triangles fitted into the center of a tank tread to keep it from skidding in the snow'. Mountain roads, inciden¬ tally, are having their crowns bulldozed so that when anything docs skid, it will slip toward the mountainside and not off the embankment. With the coming of snow and sleet, the men froze barbed wire, roeks and posts into defensive barriers. A 3d Division company coated a for¬ ward slope w'ith ice — called it the Skating Rink — and at last reports were waiting eagerly for the next Communist patrol to cross. Sometimes the field manual asks a little too much- — like the recommendation that the cneim be made to attack into a biting wind. “Maybe the Navy can whistle up a wind to order,” growled one major, “but we have to take ’em like they blow.” Artillerymen, however, have learned to fire ac¬ cording to the weather. They've found that I rag- mentation shells are less effective over snow than bare ground or ice. And the tankers have got used to parking on blocks of wood to keep their treads from freezing into the ground. One Marine company commander is afraid the tendency to snug down can be fatal — and not from frostbite. “A man’s reactions slow up in the eold.” he said. “He gets a psychological feeling of lassitude — a kind of dopey hibernation, par¬ ticularly in this bunker war. Cold weather is when we should send out more patrols.” One man who agrees with him is General Van Fleet. 1 asked Van Fleet how we stacked up against the Communists in winter warfare. “The UN ground army,” he said, “is so vastlv superior in cold-weather gear and equipment, there's hardly a comparison. Only the I N arnn eould function in all types of warfare throughout the winter.” Here he qualified himself. “I'm speaking, of course, of offensive waitare in which we have the decided advantage. Our advantage lies in all- weather certainty of evacuation and far superior clothing.” Van Fleet is more than a theorist on winter fight¬ ing. He beat the Communist guerrillas in Greece during the cold months when they were snow bound in the mountains. Conditions are different in Korea. “The war in Greece was against guer¬ rillas- the war in Korea is orthodox,” Van Fleet explained. Van Fleet had recently ended three days of con¬ ferences with Fisenhovver during the President¬ elect's Korea visit. “I should like to point out.” he said, carefully, “that winter is not an obstacle to modern fighting. During the American Civil War the fighting stopped during the winter and at sundown. Dm ing the first World War it slowed down during winter, but continued dav and night at other times. In World War II. as well as in Korea today, war is waged day and night, winter and summer, and nothing stops it except a mission and the means. “I do not believe.” he said, “that we could be better prepared for cold-weather fighting than we are in Korea.” i ! 13

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THE FINGER 0F\ riTHt prisoner roll call was at six in the eve- 1 nine. I irst there was the bugle call. I hen the men collected on the red hard-baked pa¬ rade ground Not tidils. not lallcn in, because the prisoners were Boers I armors, tree burghers who had been captured as the\ fought tor 1 ibert \ . 1 hen came the \oung ollicer and the fat ser¬ geant. lo the ollicer . the prisoners were rebels, an undisciplined lot who couldn't even torm fours, lie was \uthont\. lie stood by the sergeant, who called the roll 1 he sergeant was the \ oice. 1 he \ oicoVul not speak till the ollicer said, “C all the roll. Sergeant.” I hen he began, t here were no A s, so he began with B. "Basson!” lie shouted. A tall slouched man said, "]a." The sergeant went on: “Beyers, Brink, De Jongh, Dummy . . .” By STUART CLOETE The men said, “ Ja , jn . . .” Once they had answered, they ceased to be there. Their bodies were there, but their attention — -their minds and hearts— wandered. There was no need for more attention. They could go back to their dreams ot their wives and children, of their homes and cattle, their dogs, the horses they had lost in the war. Jan Moolman heard his name called. “Ja” he said. In his mind he smiled. Tomorrow, when they called, he would not be there. His plans were made. Tomorrow, when the roll was called, Japie de Wet would answer in his place, Moolman was a hunter by profession. He had never married and so was less unhappy than the others. He had not married because once he loved a girl — a little thing with blue eyes and blonde hair. Then she had a fever and in a week she was gone. After that, something died in his heart. But it was curious that, having suffered so much when he was young, he suffered less now than the others. God was just. If a man must sufTer, He saw to it that he did not sutler too much, and never paid twice for the same thing, Jan was a man of medium height, dark-haired and dark-eyed as are many Boers with French blood. His skin w'as leathery, creased with the wrinkles of exposure to the sun and glare of Africa. He moved quickly, softly, with a slight horseman's roll. Stripped, he was a man of iron and whipcord, bound with brass. Though he was very quiet you Collier’s for February 7, 1953

Page 379

The last hard core of Boer resistance lay fifty miles ahead. "You must go ou,” she said. "We can manage now." But could he, even though there was a price on his head? felt that this stillness could explode into action at any moment. He was a legend among his people. Sometimes it amused him. Any man could become a legend it he took enough risks and survived them. With Francina gone, he welcomed risks They were the only thing that could take his mind oil* her, and if he was killed he would he with her. But he had told no one about her. Why should he? That had been in the beginning, twenty years ago. And now that way of living, taking chances, had become a habit. He knew no other. Three things he loved his country, hunting and horses. He hated nothing except the English, after they started burning the farms and taking the wives and chib dren of the Boers into protective custody, as they called it. Unfortunately, being unused to confine¬ ment, many of them died in these camps, though they were eared for and well fed. They died the way a eaged w i Id bird will die, of a broken heart — the way he himself might die if they sent him aw'ay from his land and over the sea. He thought of a British officer — a lancer who had accompanied the general who had inspected the camp yesterday. 1 ho lancer had put out his hand and said: “Will you shake hands, Moolman? We arc both hunters. When this is over 1 should like to hunt with you in Africa." Moolman had asked about him afterward and learned that he was a rich young man who had hunted all over the world except Africa. He was, in his wav, a notable hunter with some record heads to his name. Jan did not give a damn for records: he hunted for money and tor meat. But to get records a man must have some qualities. Ja, there were good men among the English. There must he. There were so many of them. And even this business of burning farms was understandable in a war that had dragged on so long. Every farm was a base where tired Boers could rest up and refit. Ja, that was war. And it brought much haired in its train. But war was never good. Men should not hunt one another like wild beasts. But they were fools, these English. No one knew it better than Jan Moolman because, among a na¬ tion of scouts, he was one of the best. He y\ as so good that there had been a price put on his head That made him laugh too- a price, a hundred pounds. Ja. he thought. 1 mi worth as much as fifty young oxen. But it yyas time he yvent. Next week the prisoners yvere being moved to another camp farther to the rear, and from there they yvoiild he sent over the sea to Ceylon or St. Helena. He yvas one of the feyv (Continued on page 62) i l ILLUSTRATED BY EDWIN DAWES

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I i W HERE ARE BASEBALLS 91 SUP/-R N P&SOHlNGS L ACK of ih^enuitv ^ coftfer/Tiort 'MY3TEQY 7 OF TMt: /CUPNB ^ Lj WEIGH Hd^ \ UEIGH-HO

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.300 HITTERS ? 17 IB TOM \li:\M ['here were only 17 of ihem in 1952. And il looks as though big billers are going the wa\ of ihe dodo A .300 hitter in major-league baseball has become just about as rare as an American bison. If ihe decline continues at ils pres¬ ent rate, he soon will be as extinct as the dodo. Frank (Shag) Shaughnessy, president of Ihe International League, puts it another way: “A big- league regular hilling .300 soon will be as rare as the pitcher who wins 20 games year in and year out.” Statistics bear him out. The number of .300 hit¬ ters among big-league regulars has shrunk steadily since before World War 11. In 1939, for example, there were 39. Last year, there were only 17 in both leagues — eight in the American and nine in the National. What’s happened to .300 hitters? Shaughnessy has his own theory. “Maybe the batters no longer work hard enough at their trade,” he suggesls. Some others among the men who know baseball best — big-league managers and play¬ ers, scouts, farm directors and minor-league oper¬ ators — take a similar view. But most have other — and varied — opinions. Perhaps the most widely accepted view is that players are discarding old-fashioned batting science in a growing mama for home runs. In some ways, you can’t blame them. Home runs usually pay off better at contract time than all-around batting ability. The two highest-paid players in baseball last year were Ralph Kiner of the Pittsburgh Pirates, who got $90,000, and Stan Musial of the St. Louis Cardinals, who got $80,000. Musial has never hit below .300 in his 10 years as a major-leaguer, has led the National League in balling six times, in¬ cluding the last three years in a row, and has hit as high as .376. Kiner, on the other hand, has never batted higher than .313 and has dropped as low as .244, his 1952 average. But Ralph has led or tied for the lead in home runs every one of his seven seasons in the National League. “T he player who hits home runs drives a Cadil¬ lac," Kiner has been quoted as saying, “and the .300 hitter drives a jalopy.” Whether Kiner actually delivered this epigram is by now immaterial; it has been attributed to him so often that it has become a baseball legend. Rogers Hornsby, that outspoken and often-out¬ going baseball figure who now manages the Cin¬ cinnati Reds, says the phrase is part of the baseball language. “You should hear the fellow's on our bench yam¬ mer when a player takes a w ild swing and misses,” Hornsby says. “‘Listenin’ to Kiner again,’ they yell. Or ‘Wadda ya doin’? Tryin’ for the Cadillac?’ Sometimes they’re pretty funny about it.” 1 here is no question that while the number of home runs in the majors has increased — there are now 500 to 800 more a year than in the first post¬ war season of 1946 — the batting averages have been fading. So it’s easy for those so inclined — like Hornsby — to build a cause-and-elTect case. “That big, lunging swing for the home run is the bunk,” says Hornsby, warming to his topic. “I never knew w hen I w as going to hit a home run and 1 don’t think Babe Ruth did either. It isn’t the swing that gives you your power, it’s the follow- through. “The good hitter takes a level swing at every ball, hits the ball where it’s pitched, and follows through with his body. That way he’s meeting the ball solidly, hitting line drives. If he happens to hit the ball on the fat part of the bat, it can go for a home run. Some players today actually uppercut the ball in an effort to loft it into the seats. Sure, they get some home runs, but what about the times they pop up? The good batter concentrates on meet¬ ing the ball. If he hits a home run, that’s all to the good. But it shouldn't be his primary objective.” Hornsby began the 1952 season as the manager who was to have led the St. Louis Browns out of the American League cellar. He finished it in the National League as the miracle manager of*Cincin- nati: during his regime, the Reds for the first time in years won more games than they lost. Conse¬ quently he is in an excellent position to pass judg¬ ment on the hitters in both major leagues. Top Hitters Didn't Aim for Fences “Who led the two leagues in hitting?” demands Hornsby. “Ferris Fain, of the Philadelphia Ath¬ letics, and Musial. And both of them hit the ball where it was pitched. You didn't see them break¬ ing their backs trying to knock it out of the park.” Musial himself agrees that baseball is in what he calls a home-run cycle. But he says there are other reasons for the paucity of .300 hitting regulars. “Sure it’s always hard to get a piece of the ball when you’re trying for the long one,” Stan admits. “But the pitching is much better than it used to be — almost as good as it was when I left to go into the service in 1942. “Even veteran pitchers are getting better — guys who are in their thirties, like Maglic and Jansen of the Giants, Ralfensberger of the Reds and Drews of the Phillies. And ii seems as though ev¬ ery young prospect w ho conics into the league is a good pitcher. Look at Black of the Dodgers and Wilhelm of the Giants last season. Every club has a couple of good pitchers lo throw' at you.” Kiner, the phrasemaker and home-run Gouter, also blames the dip in batting a\ei ages on improv ed pitching- plus better fielding. I would sav the fielders play the batters better.” says Ralph. 1 hey make more use of the percentage, playing the hit¬ ter where he hits the ball most of the time. And the shifts clubs use against batters who hit to tine field certainly cuts down the averages. “I have another theory that 1 think has a lot to do with the lower averages,” Ralph continued. “The pitchers don’t give you a good bail to hit. even when they're behind three-and-one or thrcc- and-none. "I hey still .ome in with their best pitch and they don’t earc if they walk you, so long as you don’t hit the long ball. I think that's why there are more bases on balls not because the pitchers haven't got control, but because they don't lay the ball in there any more when they get behind. “That’s why I no longer feel 1 have the pitcher in the hole when the count is in my favor.” Ralph concluded. “And that’s the way we pitch to the big hitters on the other clubs.” Brooklyn Home-Run King's Theory Gil Hodges, Brooklyn's home-run king and the last major-leaguer to hit four home runs in a single game, has never batted even as high as .290. But he holds the record for homers by a Dodger in a single season — 40 in 1951. ‘I wish I really knew what’s happened to the .300 hitter,” grins Gil, “but 1 never hit .300 in my life, even in the minors. Naturally you swing harder when you try for home runs — that’s the style now. I do think that pitching is getting better and that fielding has improved tremendously, even in the short time I’ve been in the majors. Tighter defensive play naturally cuts a hitter's average.” Yogi Berra, whose 30 home runs in 1952 estab¬ lished a new high for homers hy a Yankee catcher, denies his batting average suffered because he con¬ centrated on home runs. “Sure, my average dropped about 20 points,” says 'Yogi, “but I hit three more home runs than 1 did in 1951. I'm pulling for the fences, like everybody else who wants to get in the upper brackets, but 1 don't think that affected mv average. It was my finger injury in the spring, which caused me to miss about three weeks of practice.” Bill Veeck, owner of the Browns and the man who hired and tired Hoinsby last year, says the mystery of the disappearing .300 hitter can be solved in two words; the slider. “The slider,” chortles Sport-shirt Bill trium¬ phantly, “may he only a fast ball w ith a wrinkle hut it gives the pitcher an extra pitch. It means that a batter who guesses with the pitcher now has two chances of being wrong instead of only one. A hatter once had to look for only the fast ball or the curve, which gave him a .500 chance of guessing right. Now the odds are down to .333.” Frank (Lefty) O'Doul. former big-leaguer and a successful manager on the Pacific Coast for many years, disagrees. O'Doul, considered one of the keenest students of batting in the game’s history, is tied with another scientific hitter. Bill Terry, for the most number of base hits ev er made in a National l eague season- 254. He blames the present scarcity of .300 hitters on a lack of ingenu¬ ity among hatters, rather than any increased effec¬ tiveness by pitchers. “The slider is nothiim hut a nickel curve,” snorts The men who know Baseball Best — Big-lcagne players and managers, scouts, farm Bosses anil minor-league operators — say tlnsc are some of the reasons why .BOO hitters are a vanishing Breed. But home-run sluggers are increasing — and so are their salary cheeks DRAWING BY WILLARD MULLIN

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\ uiikee slugger ^ ogi Berra says his hatting average dropped 20 points in 1052 because In* hurt his linger during spring practice UNITED PRESS Batting champions of 1952: Stan Musial of the National League (left) and Ferris Fain of the Vinerican League (right). Musial says better pitching is gradually reducing the number of .300 bitters. Fain believes night games also are cutting down the averages Lefty "Wc used to call it a ‘sailer.’ It breaks only horizontally , whereas the real curve ball breaks both horizontally and vertically. What would these guys who holler about sliders have to say if they had to hit against Carl Hubbell's screwball? Or Burleigh Giimes's spitball? They don’t know how well oil’ they are. "I he main I ault is with the batters. They won’t experiment. They don't look for holes in the in- held to hit the ball through. They don't try the hit- .tiul-iun to pull the fielders out of position. They don’t trv to hit behind the runner. Ferris l ain, who played lor me at San Francisco, is an excep- Kalpli Kincr hatted only .2 11 in 1952. hut In* wa*> highest-paid player of the season. The reason: he hit home runs tion. He’ll slap at a ball in an effort to push it through a gap for a base hit. And he's led the American League for the last two years.” One ot O'Doul's most successful pupils, Dom DiMaggio of the Red Sox, thinks his old boss may underrate the effectiveness of the slider. “When led Williams went into service shortly after the season opened,” Dom recalls, “1 told some of the fellows on our club that with led and my brother Joe gone, there wouldn’t be ten regulars in the American 1 eaguc who would hit .300, And the slider is the big reason. “The slider has now become standard equipment with nearly every pitcher. They all have it in their repertoire and it makes their fast ball and their curve just that much more effective. It's faster than a curve and not as fast as a fast ball, but it has spin on it. “That slight deviation is the difference between hitting the ball solidly and popping it into the air or beating it into the ground. A slap-hitter can meet it, but it's a tough pitch to pull and it's hard on free-swinging hitters.” Fresco Thompson, vice-president of the Dodg¬ ers and onetime teammate of O'Doul both in Brooklyn and Philadelphia, sides with Lefty and blames the hatters themselves. Advantages of a Thick-Handled Bat “If you want to know what’s become of the .300 hitter,” says Thompson, “all you have to do is walk over to any hat rack in the major leagues and take a look at the lumber. You don’t see any more thick-handled bats. And the thick-handled bat was the sign of the scientific hitter, the guy who liked to place his hits. Most of the hatters now have thin-handled hats, which they hold right at the end with the knob of the hat in their palms. It’s all or nothing with them. And too often, it’s nothing. “Now that F’ddie Stanky of the Cardinals has virtually retired to concentrate on managing, Al¬ vin Dark of the Giants is the only bat-manipulator in our league. He hasn’t got the power of a Musial, but he's tough with men on base because he’ll choke up on the hat and try to push the hall through a hole. Pee Wee Reese of our club will fool the hoys once in a w hile by punching the hall to right field. “One guy who is smart around the plate is Billy Martin of the Yankees. Like Phil Rizzuto. he’s not a slugger, hut they both can bo tough. In our clubhouse meeting before the last World Series we spent twice as much time discussing Martin as we did Johnny Mize. “It wasn’t that we didn't respect Mize’s punch, but we knew Johnny had a definite weakness, a spot in which he could be pitched to. With Martin it was different. Our scouting reports on Billy showed that sometimes he hit outside pitches, sometimes low ones, sometimes inside and some¬ times high. He didn’t bat for any set style the way Mize did.” Casey Stengel, Yankee manager now aiming for his fifth straight world’s championship, agrees that Martin is “a clever kid, a cutie-pie up at that dish.” “As Fresco says,” explains Casey, “you can’t dope out any direct formula for pitching to Billy because he changes up on you at the plate, too. He thinks with the pitcher. It strikes me, however, that if the Dodgers knew that Mize had such a definite weakness, they should have figured out some way to keep him from hitting those three home runs and batting .400 against them in the World Series,” Roy Campanella, the great Dodger catcher, has still another explanation for his own hatting slump last season. His average dipped from .325 in 1951 to .269 and his home runs dropped off from 33 to 22. “It was the hottest summer 1 ever experienced and I’ve played a lot of baseball in Latin America,” Roy says. “The heat just got the hatters down and made it a pitchers' year. Even though there weren’t many pitchers who won 20 games, there were a lot of guys who won from a dozen upward — guys who didn’t win 10 in previous seasons.” A more dismal view of the decline of the .300 hitter is taken by Wilfred (Rosy) Ryan, former big-league pitcher and now successful operator of the Giants' American Association farm at Min¬ neapolis. He believes the source of talent is drying up, “Fewer and fewer good young ballplayers h«wo shown up since 1940,” says Ryan, “A lot of kids who would he learning their trade in the minors have been in military service. 1 know it is far more important for the country’s welfare to have soldiers than ballplayers, hut we have been losing our players right at the source. It wasn't only the draft; there w'ere economic reasons, too. A kid who couldn't serve in the Army could make as much money in a week in a defense plant as he could in a month in the minors, “This loss of talent at the source took the pres¬ sure off those who were in baseball, particularly in the majors. The player no longer rvad to fight for his job because some younger and hungrier kid was on his heels. This relaxation was especially true of most of the bonus kids, who had their payments spread out over a three-year period. The money in the bank meant the kid had enough dough to take it easy, and the major-league club had too great an investment in him to drop him.” Collier’s for February 7, 1953 OSLO

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19 INTERNATIONAL Dorn DiMaggio, Red Sox slugger and brother of famed Joe, says slider is the principal reason why hatting averages are on decline Ryan, the first National League pitcher ever to hit a home run in a World Series ( 1924), recalled his own days with the Giants under John McGraw. “In my day,’* he says, “the custom in batting practice was to serve the hitter three fast ones and two curves. Now if you throw a batter a curve in batting practice, he’ll throw down his bat and in¬ dignantly accuse you of trying to show him up. The hitter of today can't hit breaking stuff — • curves, sliders, knucklcrs — because he won’t prac¬ tice against it.” Not Eager to Correct Their Faults If old-time batters had a weakness, Ryan con¬ tinued, they would work on it until either they had eliminated it or had devised a defense against it. “Now the players are too well-satisfied with them¬ selves to concentrate on removing flaws from their batting style,” he says. “Their attitude is, ‘They need me. My job is safe.’ And the worst of it is, they’re right most of the time. We just haven’t got the talent to replace them.” Ferris Fain, the American League batting cham¬ pion. believes the increasing number of night games also has served to cut down batting averages. “Night ball makes it tough on the hitters,” says the Athletics’ star batsman. “There isn’t any question about that. And those twi-night double-headers that so many clubs have fallen into the habit of playing now are even worse. No matter how good the lights are, I don’t think you can follow the ball as well as you can in daylight.” Steve O’Neill, who did such a tremendous re¬ suscitation job with the Philadelphia Phillies when he took them over in mid-fifty-two, also blames m-nt baseball. “1 don’t mean that the lights have too serious an effect on the players’ eyes,” Steve explains. “It does shorten their careers, but the lights are im¬ proving all the time and the net effect is probably no worse than going to the movies or looking at television every night. But the night games — and there are more and more of them every season — cut into the time a player gets in batting practice. The player not only doesn’t get as much batting practice as he should, but he doesn’t get it at the right time. To start the games at eight or eight thirty, the visiting player has to take his batting practice durin& twilight.” O'Neill says that when he was with Tris Speaker’s championship Cleveland Indians in 1920, the squad used to turn out for batting practice at 10:00 a.m. while at home. And games then didn’t start until three or three thirty, which meant that the players practiced before and after lunch. Steve was quick to admit, however, that batting practice Collier’s for February 7, 1953 WIDE WORLD Hoy Cainpanella, Dodger catcher, belie\es extreme heat was responsible for tin* dip in his hatting average during \52 season wouldn’t help a player much if he used it merely as a tost of strength instead of an opportunity to correct his faults. “I used to shudder at what 1 saw when I was with the Red Sox.” says O'Neill. “I’d watch my players go up to the plate one after the other and pull for that short fence at Fenway Park. That was in practice, mind you, when they were sup¬ posed to be trying to improve themselves. All they wanted was to hear the customers oohing and ahing over the long drives they belted, most of which went foul because they were trying to pull every pitch. We’d use up more baseballs in one day’s batting practice at Fenway than we’d use in an entire World Series when 1 was playing.” O’Neill insists his ace slugger at Boston. Ted Williams, was an exception, however. “J ed didn't bunt the ball, or drag or try to hit to the opposite field,” says Steve. “Instead he concentrated on his hitting. He would ask me to have left-handers pitch against him when he wasn’t going well against southpaws, and there wouldn’t he all this business of feeding him only fast balls, either. Williams would insist that the catcher signal for every pitch, not let him know in advance what was coming, and behave just as though it were a regu¬ lar game.” Bobby Shantz, who won 24 games for the Ath¬ letics and was named the most valuable player in the American League, maintains that he hasn't noticed any marked decline in the .300 hitters. He feels there are just as many difficulties for the pitchers as ever. He did make an interesting ob¬ servation regarding the free-swinger and the bat- manipulator, however. “You can change up on the swingers,” says the tiny southpaw. “Throw them a slow one and it knocks off their timing. But you can't slow up on a guy like Bobby Avila, for example. He can shorten up his grip and punch the hall through the infield.” The most unusual explanation for the dearth of .300 hitters comes from Lefty Gomez, the gay cab - alien ) who pitched so brilliantly for the Yankees in the thirties and is now a salesman for a sporting- goods firm. '1 don’t see what all the fuss is about,” says l efty. “I can tell you what happened to the .300 hitters, at least in the American League. In 1952. there were eight regulars who batted .300 in the league. Back in 1937, when I was pitching, there were 27 regulars who hit over .300. They just dis¬ appeared when 1 stopped pitching.” The figures are correct, but the modest Mr. Gomez failed to mention that in 1937 he won 21 games despite the greater number of .300 hitters then. UN 'll Bobby Shantz, who won 2 1 games in 1052. was surprised b\ drop in tin* axerages. He thought hatters were as good as e\er i Gil Hodges, Brooklyn home-rim ehainp. hiaine.s better pitching and fielding for tin' decline in big-league hatting a\erages

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Mi) Schoolmate Ge minder - RISE AND FALL OF A Bn JOSEPH WECIISBEKG Two boys grew up in the same Czech town. One grew from a moody child to a top Red leader to a convicted Red traitor. The other tells, now, of what happened in the years between r PRAGUE , Nos. 20, 1952 f ourteen former top leaders of the Czechoslovak Communist party went on trial today in the greatest Red purge since the Moscow trials of 1936. Second among those indu led was liedrich Genunder, long-time mys¬ tery man of the C rech C ommumst party, and often regarded as the behind-the-scenes ruler, lie was accused of high treason . espionage, sabotage , mili¬ tary treason, I rotskytsm , 1 itoism, Zionism , Jew¬ ish bourgeois nationalism. I h -\c known Bcdrich Gemindcr since the first World War when we were boys in my home town ol Moravska Ostrava, in Czechoslovakia. The city then wasn't the large, coal-mining and industrial center it is today, people knew one another as in any middle-sized town. Everybody knew the Ge- minder boys. Sigi, the younger one, shared my love tor music - I played the violin and often ac¬ companied me on the piano. Fritz, as he was called (hen ( Bcdrich is Czech lor Frederick), was a soc¬ cer player. Perhaps this difference in interests has colored my relationship to the brothers; I used to play music with Sigi, but on the field I would often plav soccer against I ritz. I w ice a week, after supper, 1 would gather my fiddle and a folding stand and walk over to the apartment, near Nadiaz.ni Trida, where the Ge- minders lived. I he boys* mother had died some vears back and their place curiously lacked a warm, homely touch. There were Persian rugs, ornate cur¬ tains. embroidered tablecloths; on the mahogany buffet stood china figurines, typical paraphernalia ot local middle-class elegance; but there were no flowers in the vases and always dust covers on the armchairs The cooking and cleaning were done by a gruff, eldeily housekeeper. 1 he Gcrnmdei's vs ere reasonably well off. Father Genunder. a small, bald-headed, kindly man, owned a wholesale grocery business. He would spend his evenings at the Cafe Royal playing whist with other prosperous businessmen, had a sub¬ scription seat at the local theater, and every sum¬ mer went for a month to Karlovy Vary ( Karlsbad) to take the cure He was proud of his boys and hoped they would go far. The brothers were quite different. Sigi was blond, tall and triendlv, wearing neat clothes and horn-rimmed glasses, every bodv liked him. Fritz, the older one he was born on November 19, 1901 20 — was dark, stooped, an introvert. His uncombed hair always fell into his forehead which gave him the air of a thinker. He professed disdain for the amenities of social life; his pants were always un¬ pressed. Even in subzero weather he would walk bareheaded through the streets, his body slightly hunched forward, hands in his pockets, a book under his elbow'. He rarely bothered to acknowl¬ edge other people’s greetings. Some boys said he was a bore; others thought he was an interesting eccentric. No one in our group really liked him. He had a supercilious air that made us feel he knew more than the rest of us; and he probably did. In the crammed Geminder living room, I would put up my folding stand next to the Bechstein piano, and Sigi and 1 would launch into the sonatas by Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms. Around ten o'clock, the door would be opened and Fritz w ould come in. He would slump down in a chair, still in his topcoat. Sigi secretly admired his older brother and wanted to impress him. He would slip me the Finale from Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata, which we considered our piece de resistance. For a while, Fritz would listen in gloomy silence. Then he would get up, in the middle of the piece, and go to his room. We stopped playing. Sigi looked crestfallen. “He didn't like it,” I would say. “What's he doing in there?” “Reading,” Sigi said. “He’s always reading. Father is angry because the light bill goes up. He reads everything: War and Peace, Dostoevski, Kafka, Rilke, Sigmund Freud, Marx.” “Does he understand those books?” I asked, somewhat awed. I was reading Goethe’s Faust (only the first part), and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Fritz understands everything Sigi would say, wistfully. Many of my schoolmates agreed with him. Fritz Geminder w'as a few years older than the rest of us, but owing to a peculiar school setup and the shortage of space, there were courses in French, Czech, drawing and advanced German literature which we took together. The teachers disliked Fritz but had to give Tim good marks. He liked to start arguments and would debate his point with brilliant dialectics that delighted us and confused the pompous, unpopular teachers. On such occasions, we almost came to like him. Preferred Scout Work to Dancing Many of us spent our evenings at Mr, Exner’s Dancing School, learning the shimmy and suave manners, and flirting with the pretty girls from the local Lyceum , but Fritz had no time for fun. He was deeply interested in the Blau-Weiss (Blue- White). a Zionist Boy Scout group devoted to hik¬ ing and the study of Jewish history and Zionism. He was greatly admired by the younger boys and was elected Oberfiihrer (main leader), a position carrying considerable prestige in our circles. He lectured on Socialism and on the writings of T. G. Masaryk, the first President of Czechoslovakia. Everybody agreed that he was going to go far. PRAGUE, Nov. 23, 1952 — Bedrich Geminder , accused in court of plotting to overthrow 1 the re¬ gime of President Gotisvald, and to deliver the country to “Western capitalism,” today admitted his early membership in the Blau-Weiss as proof of his “ cosmopolitan Zionist ic heritage and of his bondage with the West.” One night, while Sigi and I were playing sonatas, Father Geminder came home. He listened for a while and sighed. “I wish Fritz were like the two of you,” he said. He went into Fritz’s room and eame back with a few books. Among them were, I remember, some books by Lenin and by Rosa Luxemburg, the German Communist leader. “What kind of reading is that?” the old man said. “When I was his age, I used to go with girls and have fun. That boy has never any fun.” “Fritz is serious, Father,” Sigi would say. “He’s worried about the world,” “Too much for his own good,” said the old man. As it turned out, it was a prophetic statement. Romance with a Banker’s Daughter A few months later, Fritz Geminder did go with a girl. Edith, the daughter of a local bank man¬ ager, w'as a vivacious, pretty brunette, a fine skier and ice skater. For a while, Fritz would be seen w'ith her everywhere, at the confectionery, the Kosmos Cinema, on the “ corso .” It gave me a jolt to see Fritz carry the girl’s skates when he ac¬ companied her to the ice rink. I’d done it many times but you just didn’t expect Fritz Geminder, the serious thinker, to carry a girl’s skates. He didn't skate. He would stand there, watching her, and he would blush when Edith smiled at him. And then, everything was over, as suddenly as it had started, and Edith fell in love with Paul, the outside-left on our first-string soccer team, and an accomplished shimmy dancer. Fritz dropped out and went back to his books, reading, brooding, looking more hunched than ever. When 1 came back from a vacation, Sigi told me that Fritz had gone to Berlin to continue his studies. During the next few years, I saw Fritz occasion¬ ally in Prague, where I studied at the university and graduated from law' school. He was always surrounded by groups of younger boys, quite a few of them coming from wealthy families, with un¬ kempt hair and revolutionary leanings. Most of us studied French and English, but Fritz Geminder and his erowd studied Russian so they could read the writings of Lenin in the original. He had be¬ come a member of the Czechoslovak Communist party back in 1921, one of its earliest members, read only Rude Pravo , the party paper, and de¬ spised the “bourgeois” Prager Tageblatt, for w hich I wrote and which his father and brother read daily. It was useless to get into political arguments with him; he was already trained to win every ar¬ gument, by sophistry, distortion and dialectics. Once, in exasperation, I asked him why he, a non¬ proletarian, was a Communist. “Because I believe in the Communist philoso¬ phy,” he said. In 1933 he went to Moscow. He had been se¬ lected to study at the Lenin School, where out¬ standing members of the Communist International were being trained. When I went back to Os'rava to visit my mother, I would still play music with Sigi, who w'as doing all right as a dentist, but we never talked about Fritz any more. Fritz had be¬ come something of a black sheep. My wife and I came to the United States late in Collier’s for February 7, 1953 The author, a noted free¬ lance journalist, writes as a lifelong acquaintance of the executed Com¬ munist leader. Bed rich Geminder. Covering the European scene over the lasl eight years, he was familiar nith events leading up to the recent Czechoslovak purge. Weehsberg first arrived in the Lnited States in 1938, is no* a citizen and, when lie is not re¬ porting from abroad, lives in Hollywood ■

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21 COMMUNIST LEADER 1938. During the second World War, I served in the American Army. I returned to Prague two days after V Day, the first American soldier to get there during the revolution. The people of Prague had risen against the German oppressors. For a few days it was touch and go, until the liberators — Marshal Ivan S. Konev’s army— appeared in Prague. History in postwar Europe might have been rewritten, if Prague had been liberated by the United States Third Army which was only 40 miles away, near Pilsen, but had orders to stay there. There was much elation in Prague. The war was won and we were all brothers, happily mixing ideologies, vodka and whisky. Everywhere, I saw pictures of Roosevelt, Stalin, Churchill and Benes. Two years later, when I returned to Prague, the city seemed changed. In the national election of 1946, the Communists had polled 38 per cent of the popular vote, emerging as the strongest party and winning 114 out of 300 seats in the Parlia¬ ment. Benes was still President and Jan Masaryk his Foreign Minister, but most pictures I saw were of Joseph Stalin and Klement Gottwald, the new Prime Minister. Many large enterprises were being nationalized. There was no doubt which way things were going. The former stock exchange had been trans¬ formed into Parliament, and the former Parliament at the Rudolfinum was now' used as a concert hall. The buildings of what had once been the large banks had been taken over as headquarters by the big political parties. The largest building, a mod¬ ernistic structure of the Czech Eskompte Bank, on Prikopy, was now headquarters of the Communist party; almost overnight the citadel of capitalism had become the citadel of Communism. There were red banners, pictures of Soviet leaders, a large book store with Communist literature, and large Tatra automobiles, symbols of power, since they were allotted only to top leaders. Return of a Czech Brigade Veteran A few days later I met Paul, the former outside- left. He had fought in a Czech brigade attached to the British Middle East Army and had returned a few months ago. Like many other returnees, he had trouble getting his property back from the Na¬ tional Council. “I fought with the Western armies, which is the wrong side nowadays,” he said bit¬ terly. “It would be a different story, if Ed been with the Red Army, like Fritz Geminder.” “Is he back in Prague?” Paul gave me a where-have-you-been look. “He’s been here since ’46. His office is next to that of Rudolf Slansky, the secretary-general of the Communist party. Geminder is invisible. And ter¬ ribly powerful.” “Did you ask him for help?” I said, Paul looked at me, with faint irony. I felt awk¬ ward. I suddenly realized that I didn’t understand the people here any more. “Fritz Geminder won’t remember me,” Paul said. “I wonder whether he still remembers his father and his brother. Sigi and his wife managed to get out in time. Sigi is now a dentist in Santiago de Chile.” Paul looked over his shoulder to make sure we were not overheard and said, in a whisper, “They say that Gottwald takes orders from Fritz Geminder. You know how they call him at party headquarters? The Gray Eminence.” I was dumfounded. You just didn’t think of one of the Geminder boys as the country’s Gray Eminence. This was a job for a tough, cold¬ blooded man, and somehow I’d always thought of Fritz as an ineffective dreamer. But gradually the story began to emerge — a preposterous story. After graduating from Lenin School in Moscow, Geminder had been transferred to the Communist International (Comintern), the most important in¬ strument of world-wide Communist expansion. During the second World War, when the Comin¬ tern was formally dissolved to appease the Western Allies, its machinery was incorporated in the Inter¬ national Section of the Secretariat of the All-Union Communist (Bolshevik) party. While working for the Comintern, Geminder used the pseudonym “Bedrich Vltavsky.” During the Battle of Stalin¬ grad, he is said to have distinguished himself as leader of a parachutist youth brigade and was decorated for bravery. In Moscow, he attracted the attention of Georgi Malenkov, now generally considered Stalin’s successor, and closer to the boss than any other Politburo members. Malenkov, a master organizer, knew a talented fellow when he saw one. Geminder was secretly trained to become the Kremlin’s watchdog in Prague. His position in the Czechoslovak Communist party was anomalous and it bewildered old party regulars. He was a member of neither the party’s Central Committee nor of the elected Party Pre¬ sidium, but he took part in the top-secret meetings of both the Central Committee and the Presidium, and during the party’s general sessions sat on the platform among the mighty ones. “Of all the party leaders,” an editor of Rude Pravo , the official newspaper of the Czechoslovak Communist party told me, “only Geminder and Gottwald have direct access to the Kremlin Gott¬ wald is the front man. But Geminder runs the show. We have orders not to print his picture in our paper.” When the nine-nation Communist Information Bureau (Cominform) was revived in 194T Ge¬ minder became its master architect and Czechoslo¬ vakia’s top delegate. (Other delegates were Rudolf Slansky, Ladislav Kopriva. St. Bastovanskv. ) Ge¬ minder was editor in chief of the Cominform Journal, “For a Lasting Peace — l or the People’s Democracy,” printed in Bucharest. A Plea for the Overthrow of Tito On November 29, 1949, he coauthored the Cominform’s call lor the overthrow ot I ito and urged non-Communists to get behind the Com¬ munist “peace offensive,” regardless of their po¬ litical and religious affiliations. And although Geminder was arrested as early as September, 1951, his name disappeared from the Cominform Weekly only in January, 1952. The Kremlin's choice of Geminder was typically realistic. Gottwald had always been a Czech first and a Communist second; an ex-carpenter and pro¬ letarian he was, and still is. popular with the masses, and has the potential makings of a Tito. Geminder, on the other hand, was Jewish, In 1918, Weohsberg visited Geminder, then a powerful Figure in Prague, to ask a favor for a friend. “The parly,” Geminder said, “can! be bothered with problems of the individual” DRAWING BY ARTHUR SHILSTONE

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22 \\ ns he a traitor? 1 saboteur? Or just ci seapefjoat? 11 hat teas He minder's erime? ( lum in-educated . n alien, of middle-class back¬ ground widclv h itcd inside and outside the parts. V t Seri'itiMii m t much ot a problem during the \I,imi U .ii d Bcius iceiuKs. hud been suecesst ully rnet ted el n mu' the N i/i occupation and has been i j i " 1 1 in ( /ee hoslov akia ever since Lnhke ( ji ttw..'d the nv-uoMal C /eeh-tiained Communist. (j^i "Jli w,,n the t ,'k I Moscow trained interna- umi I vi, a m,m without homeland, allegiance, loy- H»* w 1 1 e I ,[.c I ale one. was the former sec re - i v ol l)a!t • e s lhaiiuii “La Pusion.ma.” Spain's -a si I hi i as ( onidiumst tighter I he Cieminders "vt, i u bet i lorm \o 4. in the pleasant uppor-mid- d e e L'^s disti'et ot lh aha-Buhcnec. (fCinimliT at the Height of Hi*' Power OIIiuj Iv. Ciemmdei was "chief of the Interna- ■ ■ I Section ot the Secretariat of the Central ( nnuttee ot the ( /echoslovak C ommunist p.;j . \eluall>. he made sure that the policies o tt e C zechodov ,*k ( ommunist pa rt > were tied in wi n Mi»sei w\ interests, he bossed foreign policy, tipefwsed all appointments in the I oreign AfTairs \ii and the Ministry tor foreign Lrade, w .tebed R di. I1 S'ansks. who ran the vast party u eh net \ At one time. 2,500.000 of C /echoslo- . 1 i i *s f2 ODD inhabitants, one out of every ' .c weie in* mbers ot the C ommunist parts. Gc- HHltde and Slansks. oiiguiidls close friends, later o. bee ime hostile to eaeh other. And Ciottwald vs a 1 air id ot Geminder, who read the president s eo imc ci lespondeiiee with all toreign countries. PR I (t l / \m. 2 2 d Asked h\ the chairman the Pra :? le S talc C inert Gemiruhr said. "I h ou must he mistaken." His voice was cold and razor sharp. "I don't remember." Pm sure he didn’t. Paul had been right: Ge¬ minder had forgotten his family, his bourgeois past, his tics with a world which was no longer his world. Memories and sentiments were useless bal¬ last, to he tossed overboard. I asked him to consider Paul’s restitution ease. Alter all, Paul had done his share for the liberation of Czechoslovakia, He said, in an impersonal voice, as though he were addressing a meeting, "The party can’t he bothered with problems of the individual. The in¬ dividual steps aside when the interest of the col¬ lective is concerned. In the end, there is justice for everybody.’’ "But — " "I don’t expect you to agree with me," he said. For a moment 1 saw the abyss in his eyes. The thought crossed my mind that it was utterly hope¬ less to ask this man for anything. Then the phone rang. I left and was escorted out of the building. In June, 1950, General Heliodor Pika, former Deputy Chief of Staff of the Czechoslovak army, was executed in Prague’s Pankrac Prison for "high treason." Ciottwald wanted to commute the sen¬ tence but Geminder ruled that Pika must die. The First Indications of Downfall Fourteen months later, a speaker at the Czecho¬ slovak Youth Organization conference in Prague referred to Geminder as a "traitor." It was the first news of his downfall. On September 7, 1951, it was reported that Rudolf Slansky had been re¬ moved as the Communist party’s secretary-gen¬ eral, in a "party shake-up." Because of insufficient coal production in the Ostrava region, Czechoslo¬ vakia had failed to deliver its quotas of machinery and electrical goods to the Soviet Union, Scape¬ goats were needed. PRAGUE, Aug , 1 9th — Bedrich Geminder, once considered the Kremlin's chief spokesman in Prague, was today denounced as a leader in a plot against the Gottwald regime. Geminder , who dis¬ appeared last September , was accused of aiding Rudolf Slansky. During the trial, the Prague radio every evening broadcast a commentary, interspersed with play¬ backs of tape recordings from the courtroom, where no Western observer or correspondent was admitted. And thus in Vienna, 125 miles away, you could hear the voice of sixteen-year-old Thomas Frejka demanding the death sentence for his father, the author of Czechoslovakia's five- year plan You could hear of a letter written by the wile of one of the accused, cx-Dcputy Foreign Minister Arthur London, asking the court, on be¬ half of her and her children, for a "just verdict" against her husband. And you could hear, for the last time, the monotonous voice of Bcdrich Ge¬ minder, a dead voice already, making abject con¬ fessions and asking for "severe” punishment. When he was asked hv the chairman of the court whether he wanted to appeal the death sentence, he renounced his right to appeal. Why the big show trial? To give Gottwald in Prague, Matyas Rakosi in Budapest, Jakub Berman in Warsaw, Ana Pauker in Bucharest, Gerhardt Hislcr in Fast Berlin and other satellite Com¬ munists a foretaste of what might be in store for them? To win friends among the Arabs and influ¬ ence the Hitler-conditioned inhabitants of Soviet Germany? To punish a few scapegoats? Maybe the world will know one day, and maybe it never will, as in the case of the Moscow' trials. PRAGUE , Dec. 3d — The Prague radio an¬ nounced at noon that 1 1 former Communist lead¬ ers, sentenced to die on the gallows after a seven-day trial by the state court , were executed a few hours earlier. The place of the execution was not announced. It was generally assumed that the men were hanged inside the Pankrac Prison. Among them was Bedrich Geminder , once the most powerful man in his country. Collier’s for February 7, 1953 In one of the rare picture" taken of Geminder (second from left), lie attended a May. 1917. meeting in oilier of Klement Gottwald (far left), then Czeeli premier, and other party leaders T ft J A f< C l E

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24 One of the BOYS By HARRIET FRANK, Jr. That Milty. A regular dictator . Just because he hates women 9 Tm supposed to feel the same way. Does he want me to stay a kid all of my life? WE WERE playing in the sand lot out in back of school. The light was getting lousy, and I started missing the easy pop-ups. I hollered to Milty, “ ’At’s enough! They’re dropping all over the place!” “One more.” Milty was swinging his bat all over the place, like he was going to rock it and sock it. He has runty shoulders. He looks smaller than the bat when he gets sweated up about hitting ’em. George was pitching. 1 could see he was about fed up with Milty smacking everything he had, and sure enough, George turned and waved me in. I would’ve let Milty take one more cut but George gets snotty when he’s had enough, and we were playing with his equipment. Milty rested on the bat and watched me. I pumped my arms like I was a track star or something and sprinted up to them. Right away George asked for the bat and ball. He al¬ ways carries them. He owns them and he lets you know it for sure. “Listen, it's early. Why don’t we knock around a few more?’’ Milty said. “No. I’m going home,” George said. He reached out his hand for the bat. “It’s pretty late,” 1 said. “You guys are crumbs,” Milty said. “We were supposed to work out today. I didn’t even go to my piano lesson on account of working out. Wait’ll my mother gets a load ot that.” “Nobody asked you to not go to your piano lesson,” said George. “Gimme the bat, will you?” Milty slammed it into his gut. George frowned, but you could hit that guy with a sledge hammer, and he wouldn’t feel it. He’s insensitive to pounding. He just w-ent off with¬ out saying anything, and Milty and 1 started for home. 1 like walking home with Milty. I even like going the same way every day so you always know where you’re at. I could do it blindfold. The Insurance Agency, the Malt Shop, the bench right at the old bus stop. Generally if we go home at the regular time we meet a lot of guys there. Guys we know from school. We go around in packs. I guess 1 know7 about seven other guys as well as I know \ ILLUSTRATED BY ANDREW VIRGIL r *

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In Highest Favor among Imported Whiskies 86.8 PROOF. SEAGRAM -DISTILLERS CORPORATION, NEW YORK, N. Y.

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26 \! i 1 1\ I her^ s Jackson. Schmidt. Tay or (Ju rt/ Whitehall, Miller. Kendall I ih ,t M Its > and me Hen Seller. II n m. kes eight it \on count me. I don t kr ou svhs uc alsvavs are hanging « ound together hut sshereser we go, •sc ic 1\ i ke over I or instance when • ,c mo\c inti> the Malt Shop we take up i'ie w ho e place \obod> else can get ii- Wien we jo to the Palace to see a uvs wl eel a ns hole tons to ourselves. W c d n t eisc ouiseKes an> mimes, like mne erkv guNs We don t call our- ■ fcL-s the Panthers or the I igers or the Ma . idci' oi i.iuth ng stunid like that, 1 a ss e i e u get her most ol the time. I SI I. the most ot Miltv That’s be¬ cause he hscs in the upper part of the duplex ssheie I live When a gu> lives i it close, n i hi re going to spend a little me Nsith him 1 hat suits me all light, 'ccause I don’t like to hang around by n > sell much 1 don’t like to stay home either il it comes right down to that. Ms rnothei and lather are okas', hut thcVre not so soiing. Ms mother had me when she ns as about thirty -five, and I guess I nn as kind ol a surprise to her . nd to im old man, too He’s older than m> mother even He’s a tax man, and he has an ollicc in the hack of our • partment He keeps hours in there like it was a legular job. and sshen he comes i ut to eat supper he’s pretty beat. He doesn't do much but sit around and look at the television. I hcN’re not rough on me or anything like that. I can sta> out as late as I want to and I don’t have to say where I’nc been. Milts A mother real!) lights into him it he s late, hut my mother just looks up to make sure it’s me and th t s all that happens She doesn't ta'k much She does a lot of sewing. 1 rihioders or something. We’ve got uoilics mJ stuff all oser the house svhieh she made She likes things sort of Irilly. She a 1 a.ins looks surprised sshen she ci mes into im room, like she didn’t know boss it happened that she ever had a bos 1 don’t think she knows what to sas to me halt the time the truth is ssc don t know each other too well. I guess that’s one ol the reasons I like hanging around ssith the lellosss. It’s almost like has mg brothers. But Milts sass th,<t’s not so great e ther. He's got tsso brothers: one is a lot so linger than he is, and the other one’s usents -three He suss Bill, that’s the older one. gives him a hard tune. Milts hates ss omen. He s;i \ s hefore Bill stalled chasing around with girls he ss as a sssell brother, hut the minute he ssas going steady he turned into a crumb. Also he lights with M lily’s mother, because sometimes he doesn’t come home at night and Miltv ’s mother cues and ciss sshat kind of an example is it for Mills? Once Bill said, “To hell with Milts,” and Milts heard it Tor a couple ol days he acted kind of funny, lie wouldn't talk to me or to ans of the lellosss. Tinalls I had to take him out in the garage and put it to him. I told him either sse ssere buddies or we weren’t, hut I vys getting plenty sick of his going around like a kicked dog, and sshat ssas the matter? His face got all wrinkled up, and for a minute there I thought he ssas going to bust out ersing. hut he just said he hoped Bill ssould turn blue, and his women with him. At the time it didn’t matter to me hosv Miltv fell about ssomen because I didn’t caie much lor them ms self. For one thing, I didn't knoss ans. You cer¬ tainly couldn’t call the girls in school ssomen. 1 can’t stand them. All they do is stand around and laugh a lot or read movie magazines at lunch hour, or else thes svalk hack and forth out by the sand lot ssith their noses stuck up in the air sshen sse’re working out. I didn't even think about svomen un¬ til ; couple of weeks ago. Most nights sve eat supper around six o’clock he- eause ms folks like to get it over with and watch the teles ision. We cat our meals in just about Ii 1 teen minutes be¬ cause we don’t do much talking. Some¬ times ms father'll .* sk me hosv school is or something like that, hut usually he just eats. Mom is pretty much that way herscll. She just picks around at her lood. I don't knosv svhy, because she’s a pretts good cook. She doesn’t like to cat, I guess. Anyway, afterward I’m supposed to dry the dishes, hut Mom lets me off most of the time because Miltv usually comes down the hack stairs from his apartment and hollers out lor me. On school nights sse don’t go to the shosv or anything like that because most of the fellosvs have to stay in. Quartz and Miller and Schmidt aren’t doing so hot in their schoolw'ork, and the rest of the guys have pretty strict parents, so it's usually only Milty and me. There’s this back yard we’ve got that we share with Milty ’s family. It’s not so hot to look at, but there’s a little piece of grass, and Mom put out two canvas chairs there last summer. Well, this one night Milty comes down and hollers out for me, and Mom says go ahead, so I went outside. Milty was already sitting in one of the chairs. I went out and sat down in the other one and asked him what’s new. That was crazy because I’d only walked home with him that afternoon, but 1 always say what’s new. “Bill’s getting married,” he said. “Boy, is she a dog.” He looked very red in the face like he was plenty sore. “Women are poison.” I could see he was getting all steamed up about it, so I started talk¬ ing about the Brooklyn Dodgers. “I don’t want to talk about the Dodg¬ ers, Ben,” he said. “l isten,’ I said, “I think vour trou¬ ble's psychology You know, maybe you're jealous on account ol you being buddies with Bill and everything.” Milty made a move like he was run¬ ning a knife across his throat. He al¬ ways did that when he svanted to show he ssas fed no with something. “You can’t go axing your own hrothcr,” I said. “You saw me just now, didn’t you? He’s axed.” “Listen,” I said, “Milty, maybe you got this thing figured out svrong.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What’s so terrihle about girls?” I said. “I mean basically?” “I hate ’em.” “I’m not so hot for ’em myself,” I said, “but I can stand ’em. You can’t even stand ’em.” “That’s right.” “Pretty soon,” I said, looking him right in the eye, “you’re not going to be a kid any more. Then what are you go¬ ing to do?” “I’m going to join the Marines.” “Marines go out with girls. Plenty of ’em.” “Then I’ll join the Air Corps.” It svasn’t working so hot. “Betsveen the two of us,” I said kind of slowly, “don’t you ever . . . think about ’em . . . or anything?” “What’s there to think about?” “ You know,” I said. “I’m going upstairs,” he said. “Well, don’t get sore.” He got up and looked at me like 1 had crawled out from under a rock. “You and your psychology,” he said. I began to get sore. “Listen,” I said, “psychology is the greatest thing ever invented. Don’t knock it, see.” He didn’t even anssver me. He just started climhing up the hack stairs to his own apartment. I let him go, too. I’d never had a beef with Milty be¬ fore. Oh, I got sore the time he left my mitt out in the rain and it got ruined, and 1 was sort of browned off when he let the air out of my bike tires for a gag. But it was nothing like this. He even went to school by himself. I missed him all right. Not so much at school, because the other guys were around, but after school, when I came home to our block, and he svasn’t around. It was really murder. I guess that’s why what happened, happened. I came home one day, and I saw this big moving van parked across the street. This house had been for rent, hut it was sort of crummy so nobody moved in. Only now it looked like somebody had taken it. I hung around in front of my apartment watching the guys move the stuff. They had muscles, I mean! They moved in a sofa and an icebox as big as a horse like they were strasvs or some¬ thing. They were really developed! Then, all of a sudden I saw her. This girl. I guess she was around my age, but she wasn’t too tall. A lot of girls are great big cosvs. They make a guy look like a runt. This girl was smaller than me by a head. She had on a red dress. She kept looking at me while I was svatching these muscle guys. Finally one of ’em came out and gave her a piece of paper. I could see she was reading it and she didn’t look too happy. A couple of times she stopped and looked at me. Then she said some¬ thing to this guy, and he nodded. She started across the street right for me. WHEN she came up close l saw she had green eyes and quite a few freckles, but she didn’t look as bad as some girls. “Hello,” she said. I said hello back. I svondered what she wanted with me. She looked sort of nervous. “Fm sorry to bother you,” she said, “but . . “What’s the matter?” “I’m just moving into that house,” she said, “with my mother. Only she went to see about getting a telephone, and I’m supposed to pay the movers.” “Oh,” I said. She got sort of red in the face. “My mother left twenty-five dollars but the man savs the bill is twenty-six fifty.” “Uh-huh.” “I haven’t got the rest. He wants to be paid now.” It just so happened that I had three bucks on me from doing some errands around the neighborhood, but I wasn’t so hot on shelling it out to somebody I didn’t even know. I was going to tell her that I didn’t have it, but she got this sort of scared look on her face. “Well, I guess I could lend it to you,” I said. “It's only till tonight. My mother will give it right back.” Like a sucker 1 shelled out, only first I turned away so she couldn’t look in my wallet. I held it out to her. “It’s awfully nice of you. Mister — ” “Ben.” “My name’s Elizabeth. Everybody calls me Beth.” “Uh-huh.” “Thanks.” She took the money and ran across the street. When she got on the other side she kind of waved at me and smiled. I didn’t want to stand around with egg on my face, so I went in the house. Then I did a stupid thing. I went into our living room and looked out from behind the Venetian blinds. She was still sitting on the front porch. The movers had gone. I thought it was kind of funny. I wondered why she didn’t go in the house. Maybe her mother hadn't paid the rent for that , either. I must have looked out of that Collier’s for February 7, 1953

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27 window for about an hour, but nothing much happened. I don’t even know why I did it. That night after dinner I waited around thinking maybe old M il tv would come down like he alvvavs does, but he didn't show’ up. About eight thirty , though, this girl comes over and rings the back doorbell. 1 said I’d get it and went outside. SHE had the money in her hand. “Here/* she said, and gave it to me. I stulTed it into my pocket. 1 couldn’t think of anything to say. “You've got a nice back yard,” she said. “The one over there is full of junk.” “Yeah.” I said, “nobody lived there so everybody used it for a dump.” She kept on standing there. Finally she said that her mother had gone to work. I don't know why she told me. “She's a waitress. The manager's kind of cranky to the girls, but Mama says she can stand it because she’s got plans. We talk about it a lot. She's going to be the hostess in a real nice tearoom, the kind that has flowers on the table all the time.” She stopped and then she said, “We’ve never lived in a house before.” 1 knew what it was. She was scared. “In an apartment there are a lot of people,” she went on. “You can hear the radios and everything.” “What time is she coming back?” “Late, I guess.” I don't know why I said it. “I’ll walk you over,” I said. We went across the street and up on her porch. There was a swing on it, but it was in lousy shape. She sat on it. “Listen,” I said. “Shouldn't you go inside?” She shook her head. She was sort of shaking like she was cold. “There's nothing in there but a few empty rooms,” I said. “I'll take a look if you want me to.” I could see that's exactly what she had in mind. I opened the door and went in. I walked around through the rooms. There wasn’t much to sec, just some furniture and some rolled-up rugs. They didn't have a lot of stulT. I came out again. “Nine o'clock,” I said, “and all’s well.” She laughed so hard you’d think 1 was Bob Hope. It wasn’t such a hot joke, but it made me feel good to have somebody laugh like that. I couldn’t Collier's for February 7, 1953 think of anv way to top it and I didn't know hat to talk about t'sualK it makes me itchy to hang around with a girl and not have anything to say, but it was sort o( nice with her, kind of peace! ul. Pretty soon she asked me what school did I go to. I told her “I’ll be going there too. I guess. I’ve always gone to school in Philadelphia up to now.” “How come you moved?” “My mother got a good paying job here. My father's dead and she has to go to work.” I figured out from that that she couldn't have any friends yet. “Are the girls at your school very- stuck up?'’ she asked me. “Plenty.” She nodded like she knew the an¬ swer before I said it. “They usually arc. They warm up after they get to know you, 1 guess.” “Who do you hang around with?” “Nobody. Myself.” “Oh.” “I don’t mind it.” “I suppose you read a lot and stulT like that.” “No. 1 make things. When wc get unpacked I'll show you if you like.” “Sure,” 1 said. I didn't really want to sec what she was doing. It was probably embroidery, like Mom has all over the place, but I said “sure” because I felt kind of sorry for her. “Oh, we’ll be unpacked by tomorrow. You could come over after school.” “Yeah,” 1 said. I was just humoring her because we have sand-lot practice alter school I wasn’t giv¬ ing up practice to see a lot of crummy embroidery. THE next day wc were out in back of school working out. I was really in the pink. Nothing got away from me. Milty showed up looking plenty sheepish and starting knocking 'em all over the landscape. Wc were really in form. The sun was out, you could see for a mile, and (he fellows were hooting and yelling. Wc do a lot of hooting and >clling when wc feel good. I was stand¬ ing out in left field giving the old Con¬ federate yell when I saw her again. She was wearing that same red dress, only now it showed up like a stop light. She was standing behind the fence watching me. Right away I missed a blooper. It went right through my glove like it had a hole in it. Schmidt was pitching. He started to razz me. I smacked my hand into my glove and told him to knock it ofT. I acted like I hadn't seen her, but she didn’t go away. She just stood there by herself in that dress that would have made a hull go crazy. Then I did a stupid thing. I jumped for a high one. I knew I couldn't get it but I grand¬ standed it. Then I grabbed my arm like I had pulled it out. “Hold it!” I shouted. “I’ve wrecked my arm!” I started in towards them hanging onto it and making faces like it was killing me. They all knotted up around me. Even Milty looked worried, even if he wasn’t talking to me. “I can't play with this arm,” I said. “Maybe you ought to get a doctor.” “Naw, I just pulled it out. I’ll knock ofT for today.” All the time I could see her standing there. “Boy, that’s rough.” “It’ll be okay,” 1 said. I got my CHOOSE tilt/ hjyiL-h , Stite/ifyiook FOUNTAIN PEN THE WORLD’S MOST PERSONAL FOUNTAIN PEN

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28 hi 1 1 If :« > n d pul it around -I • I I ■ ..*l l 1 i '.1 ' Sec \ Oil gUV S.” i it Hen hen I 1 . t 'i the h ck so the I cl - * n» |ji‘i v me and there she 1 1^ 1 1 k i" ! ot sole et hci 1 low a I L»h.\tul t i wotk Met i the hns. hut not too Kv .u^e she w is on the side ot m\ ! ."• “ii. It was like she was taking . t me. :le hi use looked a Kd better. The ii kic i nre ! cel irul the e hairs and f ■ a fc so, t ot set a oi lid. ! rule (in the eh ling room t t a in more If a . I appens 1 ev4i!el he >ile i olT the I * r ..tid v odd he . i n*e. I 1 1 ■ f s I I ’lit ( 1 •• I III III hue k.’ she s.ilel We Ac-ill lift on the h. c k porch. I he e . s Mild ol bench set out and ii .- «i K tdeel wi h ship models Sloops 1*1 ? * |\ is a n el olitlLA'is atlel loiir- *i. -’jn \ 1 1 \ thine vou cou Id think ot. I . e« e e’ d!\ something. We' n e(e d/oM Sh nodded "Man t he v i e great ” ll there's an\- HM.i: I ’o U> t s boats Imliiiumgon . i min- the meiwH'iit maime when I t i ■ ..\ m chs !i tl|e\ cai iled In w mteh II ,te thy slapped Si -w s t ciillv s.dtv . Ve v\ o Ij t i .oi have thought she w as i ex. -«|H lot i hat i eel el ess. "W .ll tile v if I "Sill e ’We jot tv' . kl a place to launch '.'111. I s.,ui lick, WC ce'lllel go to \ I cel * o 1 C P.l ik I he v got • ake ” I stated nkwuig in a tm aP euer the place she saw It hilt she ellelll t sa\ am thm j. except that she el like to try out the lake whenevet I s. id. I he* next el.-v I went to school with m\ uni in a s mg I told the fellows that im ar ll Was pretty had aiul I d have to take it eas\ ten about a week. I hex were all prettv warned except Miltv. M 1 1 1\ kept on giving me the eve. I ater on he caught me down at oui locker. "I guess your at ill’s prettv bad,’ he saiel. •Wcah.” "Had enough to keep you out of practice?” ’’ 1 hat's riglit.” “I’ven though it louses up the whole team ** "What do you want me to do.” 1 said, “wicek mvself lor good?” ’You’ll wreck yoursell all right.” he s.iul. "hut it won't he on no hall club.” ‘ Don’t give me any double talk. What’s eating you?” ”1 saw her hanging around,” lie said. “What are you doing?” I said, very sore. “Having me tailed?” He just gave me a look. Then he kind of nodded his head and gave me the old axing, his hand across his throat. “I isten,” I said, “it that’s the way you I eel you’d better gel your slufT out bring her h is clown there, hut I wasn’t in the mood for it. She was all right, considering she was a ^girl, hut I’d known Milly for a long time. Pulling that cra/y stunt about my arm seemed kind ol lamebrained lo me. What did I want with a girl anyway? I he more I thought about it. the sicker I got. espe¬ cially when I thought what kind ot a girl she was. I’d alreach noticed that she was plenty skinny. I’d just about decided I wouldn't show up at the lake, when I remembered that I couldn't show up at practice because I'd already said I was wrecked. I had to go to the park whether I liked it or not. That’s what hanging around women does lor you. It puts you right up the creek. I stalled around about getting to the park. I thought maybe il I was good and late she’d get led up and go home. But she was there. This park I go to is about the only place in town where I ol the locker.’ He and I have kept our stulf m the same locker ever since we started school about a million years ago. "Okay, okay.” he said real last, “that’s poilect with me.” He started hauling out all Ii is gear. Hoy. he had everything in there. It took him a mil¬ lion vears to haul it out. I wanted to walk away : hut 1 couldn’t. I just stood there watching him pull his junk out. All I could see was the hack ol hts neck. It was as red as anything. Milty gets led when lies sore, and he was oil lire. "Iheic’s one tiling I can’t stand.” I said and th* t's being called a phony oi a quitter. Right now this aim is pi city had. Pretty had. I’d expect a guy who knows me to understand a thing like th, t.” Miltv grabbed up his stulf. He didn’t even answer. A ou’rc * e t in g verv childish,” I said, He stood t lie i e all finished, lie really looked 1 Linux . He had a couple of sweat shuts tied aiound Ins neck, and he had ahold ot two tennis rackets, some dirty old tennis shoes, and about six tons of other stulf. "Ok, y, you got what’s yours and I got what’s mine. I’ll see you around ” He suited down the hall. He looked no cra/y and so runty walking o’ like that I couldn't stand it. M tv “ I said, “don't he a jerk.” He kept walking so I decided he w</.s a jerk and he could turn blue. I wasn't m such a hot triune of mind after that. I’d to d Beth I’d be at the Medtord Park I ake and she could don’t mind hanging around by myself. It’s got a lot of trees and this lake that the city engineers put in with a lot of swans and stuff. Not many kids hang around there. It’s mostly old people. I hey come to feed the birds and just sit aiound in the sun. I SAW her right away because of the dress. She was waiting on a bench down by the lake. When she saw me she waved. I wasn’t going to wave back so I just kept walking toward her. She had something wrapped up in a big package sitting right next to her and she was smiling. One thing, she doesn't have all those wires and braces and stulf that a lot of women have on their teeth. I gave her a kind ol lame hello and let it go at that. “How’s your arm, Ben?” she said. I didn’t want to discuss that, so I said il was all right. She slid over and made room for me on the bench, so I had to sit down. I didn't say much. In fact. I didn't snv anything. I just kept wondering if I’d lost my marbles having a light with Milty to hang around with a girl. “I guess I’d better launch them,” she said alter a minute. “With your arm and all.” “There’s nothing the matter with my arm.” I said very loud. I stood up and tore the sling olf and threw it into the lake. Then I started smacking my hands together like I had my glove on. You’d think she would have thought I was crazy or something like that, but she didn’t act like it. She just said, “Oh,” and that’s all. “If we’re going to launch ’em let’s get started,” I said. ‘ I can t stick around too long.” She didn’t get sore at my shouting. She just unwrapped the boat. It was a sloop, and painted right across it was “Benjamin the First. “Benjamin the f irst’ in gold paint. I looked over at her and I couldn’t open my mouth to say a word. She was smiling and shak¬ ing at the same time, but all she said was. “It’s vours,” lake it was nothing. I hen 1 said a crazy thing. “What did you do it for?” I said. Like she was try¬ ing to pull something. It came out all rough and loud like I was sore. I wasn’t sore at all. In fact, I’d never felt any¬ thing like it, not even when I’m out on the sand lot catching everything in sight. I don't know,” she said. “I thought you’d like it, i guess.” “Oh.” YOU’D think I had a mouthful of mush. Something was slicking in mv throat. It made me feel awfully funny. I wanted to shake hands with her or something. Instead I grabbed at her. I got hold of her arm, right above the wrist where it’s sort of bony. “Beth—” “Yes?” “It isn't my birthday or anything in case you thought it was.” -No." I kept holding onto her. Pve got aw- I fully big hands from being so big for my age. I could hardly feel her, she was so skinny. It was like having a hold of a scared bird with its heart beating like crazy. Then a funny thing hap¬ pened. All of a sudden I knew that be¬ ing here with her was better than a million years of Milty. It’s a hard thing to figure out. considering that Milty is my best friend and a fellow, whereas she is just a girl, but that’s what I felt. It didn’t make any sense, and I didn’t know what I was going to do about it. I couldn’t just sit in Medford Park the rest ol my life holding onto her like she was handculTed to me. Only I didn’t want to let go. either. T hen she spoke up very quiet, like I was asleep and she didn’t want to wake me up, “Don’t you want to put the boat in the water?” I guess she could tell something crazy was happening to me. “let’s just sit and rest for a while,” I said. “Maybe a wind will come up. I’d like to see the old Benjamin tacking into a wind.” “All right.” We settled down on the grass, and the sun came down smack on her red dress. It was as bright as a fire wagon and it made her face look pink. “Maybe you'll move away,” I said. “My mother thinks she’ll like it here. I I he other girls at the restaurant are aw¬ fully nice to her.” “I hat's good,” I said. “Listen, you might as well go home with me after school. How about it?” “You’ll be practicing, won't you? The captain has to be at practice, doesn’t he?” “I’m not the captain. I just said that. A lot of times I just say things for the heck of it. Like my arm. for instance; that was just for the heck of it.” I expected she’d ask me a lot of ques- j tions about why I did stupid things like I that, but she didn't. After a while a I breeze did come up, and we walked I down to the water and put the boat out | to catch the wind. It was terrific to see I it scudding along. I wished that all the I Collier’s for February 7, 1953 I

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guvs I knew in the world were there watching. Benjamin the I r rst . I hat’s what she thought about me. I hat I was the I i rst . I guess maybe that was what was making me leel like sush a hot-shot. Ms Mom and Bop aie pretty used to me and the\ don't do anv talk¬ ing about how great I am. Mills doesn't talk about personal slulT such as how he leels about anybody, except when he axes 'em, and the rest o t the people I know' just let sou alone. I hen all ol a sudden I've got my name plastered around a boat in gold letters. “Hey,” I said, selling it out, “look at her go' I ook at her go!” I hen all of a sudden I stopped hollering. “Are we crazy or something?” I said, hitting my head. “How'll sve get her in?” By no v\’ that old sloop had gone half¬ way out on the lake. “Never mind,” she said. “I'll make you a lot of them. All sou want.” I didn’t even listen. I was watching my name Boating in the sun where any¬ body could see it if they looked. “It'll stay alloat forever," she said. “Honestly.” I hadn't thought about that. Maybe it was better than having it on a line. It was free out there to bob around lor a million years. I was svilling to go then, but Beth hung back and watched it dipping up and down for a while. “It's the best I ever made,” she said. I thought maybe she was sorry for giving it to me. “You didn’t have to give it to me,” I said. I thought I’d go oil my nut un¬ til she said one way or another. “Yes, I did,” she said. "I had to, Ben.” Then she took ahold of me around the wrist right in the same place I grabbed her. I guess she didn't know too much about stulf like that. 1 guess it was her way of shouting and yelling. It was getting kind of dark when we got to our block. The minute we got oil the bus I could see Milty and all the 29 gu\s sitting on im Iront steps, waiting to give me the business I hc\ never get together like that all in one place unless they want to give somebodv a big raz/ing. She saw them too and she saw nn lace. Aon go on alone.’ she said. “I’ll sneak around th<' back wav Boy, I vs as gialetul to her. I d get olf with nn hide that wav. I hen I remem¬ bered about her and dark houses “It's dark,” I said. “You don’t like to go in the house alone." “It's all right this lime.” “No,” I said, “it’s not all right. C ome on.” I put my arm around her and we moved right in on them. Miltv opened his lace the very first thing. I Icy. Ben, lover-man!” he called out. I hen they all started. “I t's I ony Curtis, lellas!” “Kiss me again. I’m still breathing!” ! “Ben.” I heard her say very slow, “you don’t have to clo this.” J Y WF.RL walking up to her porch. I shoved her down on the lousy old swing and sat beside her. I pushed the swing back and forth very fast, wondering if I shouldn’t go over and | hit somebody in the face. I heard i Milty 's voice squeaking and breaking like he was going off his nut. He was shouting louder than all the rest and even when they got tired lie kept on. I felt sorry lor him. He had nothing to do but yell and yell over something he didn’t know anything about. “Come on,” 1 said to Beth, “let's go inside.” She looked at me sort of seared and said, “They're your friends.” “Listen to ’em,” I said. “Listen to ’em, wall you? Kids. Just kids.” “Yes, but . . .” I began to feel good again. “Forget it,” I told her. “Maybe it's good enough for them, but it ain't for me. You can't stay a kid forever,” ▲▲▲ Collier’s for February 7, 1953 Great Scot Wonderful Whisky! Smooth, suave, mellow. . . the choice ol connoisseurs the world ov er. That’s Johnnie Walker — Scotch from Scotland, and Scotch at its best (/herns. Red Label . . . Black Lab/ 1 . . . both 86.8 proof. Johnnie Walker Blend eel Scotch Whisky y Canada Dry Ginger Ale, Inc.. New York.. N. Y.. Sole Importer.

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You’re a Sucker if You CASH fU LEONARD MART uiii, m;\\ jkwincs and lkk kdsox \ >lia\> if> ra>\ to |>ib> a rubber rlirrk. Some tradesmen are so anxious for business thrv don't bother to ask for identification. In a few years of high living, he pocketed 8100. 000 OM rains dd\ in the spring of 1926. 1 parked m\ car a block from a grocery store on the main street ol Anaheim, C alifornia, and v* u Iked through the swinging doors toward the \ egeta blc counter. 1 had no money in m> pocket and couldn t have bought so much as a bean. But I would have money soon, because I was going to pass a bad check I he check was in my pocket, signed by a non¬ existent doctor. I had been in the market once before, and had picked a young clerk as a likely victim It was easy. I'd hand him the check and picket the inonev. In nn hotel room the night before I had care- f ull v thought cut every angle and knew that it the bov cashed mv check at once, I would he out of town before it could bounce. I was a stranger in Anaheim, and there would be no wav to trace me. Nev ci the less, while 1 waited for the clerk to finish weighing a sack of potatoes, I was shaky. Suppose he questioned the cheek > Or asked for idc-nt JiL.it ion? Or called a cop'? I was as jittery as a pig on a greased pole. I h id no criminal rexord and had never w >mi titled a crime but I could see my- sell being dragged of! to prison. I saw the lIciK f -Hiking at me. I pulled the check from mv pocket and thrust it at him so he wouldn t notice my trembling h i nds “Bud.” I s.ud as calm y as I could, “mv wile stuck me with the 'flopping and I vc ust discoveied that I left my wallet home. How about you cashing tins small check for me?” 1 he hoy glanced at the check. “Are you l)r Hammond he asked me. \ hat's right, 1 said. “Mv office is ust arJunJ tlie comei ” I thought he would never stop staling at the little piece of paper, and for a moment I was tempted to hit for the door. But my •Jpi eara Ke must have reassured him. He tin iil d to the Lash register, and counted out two tens and live singles. “Hcie you are. Doe,” he said 1 \e minutes I. ter I was in my car and out of the eighhoihood I felt a tremendous sense of re- 'ief coup'eJ w th 1 igh e-ation. I had passed my first had lIiclK, , nd n looked like eas\ money. S i n l e th it d tv 1 have cashed some 2.001) cheeks tor a total exceeding V 00.000. 1 have used 2$5 aliases in. ncx I niade up I've passed the paper ni almost even kind of establishment you can dunk up. iiKludine places with but xmns reading: NO C HI CkSC \SHf D. On the other h i d, I have never raised a legiti¬ mate sheck. nor forged a real pet son s name. I've never used specially punted checks, check protec¬ tor. or any other equipment familiar to the pro¬ fessional forger With nothing more Oian a stack ot blank c h e l k s and . n intimate knowledge of people- I was .m actor, you might say I made and spent a fortune and gave a headache to the police of all the ma or towns in California. If there arc any doubts about my standing in the field, my record is one of the longest in the Califor¬ nia State Bureau of Criminal Identification and In¬ vestigation. It covers 15 pages, beginning with that long- ago afternoon in Anaheim. I have been asked many times since why I cashed that first check, and I’m not sure there is any specific reason. Among other possibilities, I had been married not long before, and there was a baby coming. My mother had always indulged me, and kept money in a checking account for me while I was still in high school. But suddenly I was on my own, and I found that I just couldn't get by on the weekly pay check. I had expensive tastes and didn't want to give them up. and at the time it was easy enough to justify the step 1 took. I wish now that I had been caught in that first step. I am sure I wouldn't have taken it again. Forgery is one of the most common crimes in the country today, hut few people know' how much it has increased during the last 20 years. In the San Francisco and northern California area alone businessmen are losing $2,000,000 a year. I he national total is about 200 times as much. Nobody knows the exact figure, because many bad checks arc never reported to the police. Much ot the loot has gone into the hands of one- shot amateurs who pass rubber checks to pay for some single extravagance or to show off for some girl, hut most of the take was grabbed by some 2,500 lone-wolf pros like me. Why do so many “smart” businessmen fall for the forgery racket? I think there's only one an¬ swer: They're so anxious for a sale or new cus¬ tomers that they don’t want to be finicky about checks, even when they suspect a fraud. Also, most people have the silly idea that they can judge character by appearance alone. “Sure,” they say, “I can spot an honest man.” W ell, let’s take a look at me. 1 am now fifty-five years old. round-faced and ruddy and on the plump side. I have been told I have an innocent look. I always dressed neatly, often expensively. I cultivated the detached look of a man who's think¬ ing about business and not the routine, everyday chore of cashing a check. I had enough educa¬ tional background to talk intelligently with any¬ one. I was polite, even courtly, in manner. Most important, 1 tried to look as though 1 be¬ longed in the neighborhood. In Los Angeles, I often posed as the district attorney, a building in¬ spector or an assistant public-health worker. In the university towns of Palo Alto and Berkeley, I successfully impersonated visiting professors. 1 never used any corny disguises, but I often went into stores without my suit coat to give the im¬ pression that I had just stepped out of a nearby office. Once 1 put on a dentist's smock and with no further identification cashed 20 checks in one after¬ noon. Occasionally I wore a doctor’s white coat, with a stethoscope hanging from the breast pocket. Identification? I never had any. I learned long ago that the more identifi¬ cation cards you ofTcr. the more your prospective victims will think you need it. You might be surprised how few' storekeepers ask for identification, any¬ way. especially if checks arc made out to a doctor or some other kind of pro¬ fessional man. In any case, 1 worked out a psychological approach that effec¬ tively forestalled questioning. I’d walk right up and say: “I'm Dr. Ld Jones, My wife usually does the shopping but I’m filling in today.” If the clerk still had the temerity to doubt me 1 would shrug and say: “Oh, that’s all right. I'll go down the street where someone knows me.” In almost every instance the man w'ould apologize and promptly cash the check. One time I walked into a place just after the owner had refused to cash a check for a fireman who had vainly produced his driver’s license, Social Security card and draft card. On the wall behind the counter was a sign: NO CHECKS CASHED, and the owner was obeying it to the letter. I handed over my own check, made out to a “Dr. Hart,” with a penned notation in one corner which said: “In part payment for tonsils.” Without a moment's hesitation he cashed it for $35. I thanked him and pointed to the sign. “That’s a great idea,” I said. “Alter all, you’ve got to know your people.” “That's right,” he said brusquely. “Nobody’s going to take me for a ride.” You probably suspect by now that I enjoyed myself, and that, indeed, isn't far from the truth. While I needed and wanted money, there was also considerable emotional stimulation and I cashed a lot of checks just for the excitement of beating the game. It was dangerous business, of course, but 1 took in a good deal of money before I made my first mistake. I’ll never forget it because, though it meant disaster, there was something grimly humorous about it. I went to a service station in my home Leonard Mart in the pseudonym of a man who for years was one of California'* “most wanted.” The name is one of the 285 lie used to easli phony cheeks. Now trying to go straight, he wanted to tell his story for the benefit of the trusting people who yearly are defrauded by bad-cheek artists out of $ 100, 000, 000, aeeording to ail esliinate of The Surety Association of America. The writers first interviewed Hart when he was in San n«'iit i n Prison, at the suggestion of the then warden, Clinton T. Duffy. They have cheeked his story with prison authorities, court records and the police of the various cities where he swindled the careless and the innocent PHOTOGRAPH FOR COLLIER’S BY PETER DIMITRI

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31 I e I

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32 The stcindler hud no trouble cushiny bftd checks when he posed as a doctor and went town of Berkeley one December day in 927. eh tud id • \ with the attendant, then gave him a check. He said he didn t have enough cash and would get it at another stat*on across the street. 1 w tor him while he was phoning the cops. I wo detectives picked up the call in their squad car and shot down the street ■o fust thev hit and overturned a ped¬ dler s vv.igon M v brains must have been missing that da> because when one of the dicks stepped out of the car and slipped on a pile of lettuce and cabbage, I went over and helped him up. He turned out to be Jim Wilson, an old bovhood friend. “Hi>a, 1 en Much ob lged," he said. He was brushing his clothes when the attendant rushed up all out of breath. " I here’s the guv !” he veiled, pointing at me. “What guv 7” Jim said. “The check passer!” the at¬ tendant told him. Jim gave me a sort of fool¬ ish grin. "Yeah?” he said. “How about that, Fen?” “The bov’s just kidding,” I tried to explain. I he lad jerked the check from his pocket and waved it angrilv “I ike hell I am!” Jim quit smiling and mo¬ tioned me into the police car. He drove me to several other stations where 1 had cashed checks, and the attendants there promptl> identified me. I hev took me to the city jail and booked me. When my wife heard about it. she was so shocked and hurt she bawled ribs to make them take the check. They could always turn me down. 1 was in jail about 15 hours before my uncle came down. He was a well- known lawyer and an officer in the State Bar Association. He said he had ar¬ ranged a compromise deal for me. “You plead guilty to one check charge,” he said bluntly, “and the D.A. will take it easy. You may even get probation if your dad makes up the losses.” 1 took lus word for it, but I guess the judge didn’t like the setup. He bawled me out, gave me a one-to- 1 4-year sentence, and in March, 1928, 1 went to San Quentin. Eventually my name came up on the hearing calendar and 1 was taken before the Board of Prison Directors to “It has a secret compartment where you can hide your husband's wallet’” COLLIERS CHON DAY The fellows in the police department were shocked. I guess, almost as though 'hex'd been Caught in something them- sc ves. Manx were personal friends and th*‘ weren’t quite convinced until they got a report from the State Division of Criminal Identification. There were 75 “holds” on me in different California cities, and 1 was reaiv in tor it. I sat in their neat jail that night, but 1 can't sax I felt anv remorse. 1 called mvselt a sucker for getting trapped by a fuzzv -faced kid, and 1 think 1 was re¬ sentful of the tact that I was locked up with a bunch of burglars, gun toters and other criminals 1 didn’t consider my¬ self a criminal. 1 wasn’t tough. I still don’t know how to load a gun In my neighborhood 1 was always known as a regular fellow. ,.nd no one in mv fam¬ ily had ever been rn trouble. 1 had good marks in school and adequate spending money during those early years. 1 was indignant when there were incidents of petty thievery at schoo . and I'd have been the first to yell tor the police if anyone had picked mv pocket But there I was in jail, and the peo¬ ple who cashed my checks came in tor a closer look and called me a crook. I couldn't explain what I had done. I’m not sure even now. I told myself I was playing a game with people, and that I was just outwitting them the same way a clever businessman puts over a fast deal. I didn’t stick a gun into their have my sentence fixed within the limits set by the judge. Unfortunately, the board chairman at the time was the late Charlie Neumiller, a gruff, hard-boiled old man who had no use for forgers. He whacked me with a 10-year stretch. I went back to my cell, and when it finally sank in, I couldn’t take it. I cried, and I was sick, and it was months before I could shake the feeling that I’d been double-crossed. I had it com¬ ing. of course, but I wasn’t thinking in those terms during the four years I served. I finally got a parole and the board stipulated that among other things I would have to go to sea. One Sea Voyage W as Enough 1 signed for a trip to the Orient on a freighter, and I made one round trip to Manila. 1 never liked ships anyway and when 1 got back I drove to Los Angeles and got a job selling electrical fixtures. I didn’t clear the trip with the parole people, and the police picked me up in two months. I was slapped into Folsom as a parole v iolator, with six years more to do. Nowadays, I think they would give a fellow another chance, but the prison and parole setup in California th^n vws quite different. 1 hated Neu- nnller and I hated the police, and if there had been any thought of going straight when 1 left San Quentin, it was pretty well blotted out by the time 1 was released trom Folsom in September, 1936, before my term was up. I decided to pass checks on a big scale and get even with the world. I developed a simple routine of work¬ ing one area at a time, covering only one kind of business. In one city, for instance. 1 went only to butcher shops. I worked this way: I drove down the main street, getting the general layout of the stores and the names of the local banks. 1 then parked on a parallel street, making sure I wasn't violating any traf¬ fic or parking laws. I left my hat on the car seat, and went to the nearest store — usually a florist shop — where I’d be likely to find blank checks and a table on which to write. I filled out about a dozen checks, varying the names and limiting the amounts to $50. I put one in my shirt pocket and the others in my hip pocket. I memorized the let¬ ters of the local phone ex¬ change and a few residence addresses in the neighbor¬ hood to be prepared for mer¬ chants who might ask for my address and telephone. It’s always easy enough to walk into a store, browse around and give the owner or clerk a quick going-over. If they were obviously in a mean mood or were just naturally unfriendly — and a surprising number of them were — I’d get something inexpensive and walk out. But if they were smiling and seemed full of optimism, they were made to order for a clip. The prize sucker is the man with larceny in his own heart. I recall going into one butcher shop and peering down at the meat on display. ‘Must had some unexpected company,” I said. “I don’t know much about meat be¬ cause my wife usually does this. Would you pick me out six good steaks?” Right away I could see he had me pegged for a yokel. He weighed his hand and his foot and gave me bigger cuts than I -wanted. So after he wrapped the meat I tossed him a $40 check. “Take it out of this,” I said pleasantly. He was so pleased with his chicanery that he stepped jauntily to the cash reg¬ ister. “Sure thing, pal,” he said, and handed me the change. In most cases 1 loaded up with mer¬ chandise and went up to the owner with some casual remark about the weather, politics or business. Sometimes I hit the stores at slack hours, when the clerks were alone and seemed willing to gab. At other times I went in during the rush hours, especially on Satur¬ day afternoon when a store’s regular customers were cashing pay checks. It was easy, for instance, to step behind a woman with a check in her hand, and if I could make out her name I’d say: “Well, hello, Mrs. Jones. How’s every little thing?” More often than not — human nature being what it is — she would “recognize” me, smile and re¬ turn the greeting, thereby establishing me in the owner’s eyes as a neighbor¬ hood man. The business of loading my arms with merchandise had another advan¬ tage. When I got to the counter or the cashier’s desk I w'ould shrug helplessly and say: “Hi, guess I need a third arm. Want to take the check out of my pocket?” He’d reach into my shirt pocket for the check, cash it and give me the difference because, as he could plainly see, I was an okay guy stuck w'ith the afternoon’s shopping. I had another little trick which worked won¬ ders, too. I would have a book of checks with the stubs attached, and after I wrote a check I would make the proper notation on the stub and sub¬ tract it from the balance. I did this very slowly so the man could steal a peek at my balance, and the whole process seemed normal and convincing. 1 didn’t keep any of the merchandise, incidentally, and usually dumped it into a public refuse can. That little habit also helped convict me later when a poor Chinese laborer testified he saw me throw' away six lamb chops, and was so annoyed by this wasteful gesture that he reported it to the police. A Good Town to Keep Clear Of I didn’t keep any record of my trav¬ els either, because I didn’t want any documentary evidence available, but later I began to wish I had. One time, for instance. I went into a place at Wal¬ nut Creek, forgetting that I had sheared the owners some months before. A clerk recognized me and called the po¬ lice. I was rolling out of town when I heard a siren. My heart jumped like crazy, and, because there were no other cars in sight, I knew they were after me. I took my foot off the gas, slowed down and pulled off the road while they were still behind me. They stopped, too, and in my mirror I could see two cops get out and walk toward me. I could also see they hadn't pulled their guns, and my engine was still running. I waited until they were about 100 feet away, made a sudden U turn, and bore down on them. They dived into a ditch without getting a chance to see my front license plate — I never used a rear plate — and I was a mile down the road before they got reorganized. I hit it up to 80, turned off a side road and hid behind a clump of trees. I waited and saw them tearing down the road. I felt 10 years older. Another time I was chased by a sus¬ picious victim who jumped on my bumper just as I was starting off. He kept yelling at me to stop, but he stuck like a suction cup until I luckily found a very rough road and literally shook hint loose. I encountered another wise guy that same week, a fellow who might have outsmarted me under other circum¬ stances. He ran a filling station. I told him 1 was known in the drugstore across the street, but that they didn’t have enough cash on hand. “Tell you what you do,” he said. “Have some¬ body from the drugstore wave to me if it’s okay and they know you.” I went to the drugstore, got a pack of cigarettes and pulled out a check. “Your buddy at the service station is short on cash,” I said. “But he will vouch for me. I'm an old customer. Just wave to him and you’ll see.” The druggist stepped outside and waved. The station man waved back. The druggist cashed one check and the station man cashed the other. The power of suggestion is wonderful. I went along unrestrained for almost a year before my luck went sour again. I always knew, to be sure, that reports Collier’s for February 7, 1953

Page 397

33 into a store with a stethoscope in his pocket on my checks were piling up at Sac¬ ramento, and that bulletins for my arrest — they had my picture on them by that time — were being posted all over the state. But I always felt — as every criminal docs — that I was too sharp for them, and meanwhile I was living high. All the best hotels, nice clothes, good liquor and good cigars, and if my conscience bothered me, which 1 don’t think it ever did, I could always tell myself that at least I was putting my son and daughter through college. I never lived at home during this period because the cops knew the ad¬ dress and would have easily picked me up. My wife believed I had a new travel¬ ing job and that my experience in Fol¬ som had cured me of the check-passing habit. I encouraged her belief, of course, and I continued to visit San Francisco to see the children whenever I thought I could get away with it. 1 sent her money during the time she thought I was going straight. While I was in prison she worked in a San Fran¬ cisco department store. I don’t know whether the cops ever asked her about me while l was on the wanted list. Thus I was in San Francisco one day in July, 1937, and had just about decided to work the game in another state, when two cops bracketed me on the street, and I knew this was it again. I didn’t sec how I could possibly beat the rap. They had me on 200 counts or more. I refused to identify any of the checks, and phoned a couple of crimi¬ nal lawyers for advice. Too bad, they said, if I couldn’t aiTord their high fees. I couldn't. I took a long chance and decided to fake insanity. I did it by picking imaginary lint from my clothes and by pretending I couldn’t talk. I must have put on a wonderful act, be¬ cause I fooled the guards, a judge, and even the psychiatrists, and during 1937 and 1938 I spent 10 months at the Mendocino State Hospital before other psychiatrists got around to exposing me. I was discharged and taken to court on an old charge of the Berkeley police. I handled my own defense, pleading “not guilty” and “not guilty by reason of insanity.” The latter plea 1 thought was a brilliant idea, because, in their joy at getting me out of the hospital, the doctors had neglected to give me a certificate of recovery. But the district attorney belatedly got one from the hospital, and in November, 1940, I entered San Quentin again. Couldn't Stick to Shipyard Job I wash I could say that the third trip to a big house taught me a lesson. It didn’t. I was paroled after three years, got a job (a job which the parole board approved) in a shipyard and was soon spending more than I earned. I got sore about the whole situation, and wrote a check. When you pass one, you might as well hit for the jack pot because the rap is the same for one or a hundred. I quit the shipyard job and went out on my old circuit, and in time the police caught up with me in Long Beach. They came up to my hotel room, and I emp¬ tied my wallet on the table. There was $500 in bills in the pile and I said: “I’ve got an urgent business appointment in Denver and I don’t really need this money.” One of the dicks gave me a deadpan look and told me to put it back. I was returned to Oakland a Collier’s for February 7, 1953 couple of days later, and they had me cold with a whole parade of people 1 had swindled. 1 he trial lasted 10 days and I wound up in November, 1943, in San Quentin for the third time. The prison was now staffed with psychiatrists, and in one early interview they told me I was behaving true to form. They meant that check passers are the worst repeaters in the entire criminal group, and probably unre¬ deemable. I heard them say that forg¬ ers need an ego-lift to compensate for an inferiority complex, and there may be some truth in that. I have thought more than once that this explanation is probably a lot of nonsense but it’s one that is perhaps convenient for all con¬ cerned. To my mind a man is a crimi¬ nal or he isn’t a criminal, and I believe that a fellow’ can quit crime the way an alcoholic quits drinking. It’s no push¬ over, but it can be done. I’ve done it. A Haven for Check Passers I discovered a lot of new outlets in San Quentin. I took up architectural drawing and I was assigned to the chief engineer’s office where most of my fel¬ low check passers seemed to be assigned sooner or later. I had always been me¬ chanically inclined, and I began to work on a couple of inventions I had always wanted to develop. I also w-rote a 24- page booklet on how to stop check passers and gave it to the warden. I was willing to print it at my own ex¬ pense — it contained a lot of informa¬ tion I’ve discussed here — and I wanted it distributed to banks, stores and busi¬ ness organizations. The idea got publicity, but was considered impractical by many busi¬ nessmen. They told me that many mer¬ chants are insured against check losses, that most of them expect a certain per¬ centage of loss anyway, and that the steps I had in mind would irritate po¬ tential customers. In short, as I’ve said before, these stores want to go right on cashing checks and taking the loss. I think it’s significant, just in passing, that it is al¬ ways the same stores that are swindled. In case you would like my sugges¬ tions, however, they go like this: 1. Don’t cash checks for total stran¬ gers. 2. Don’t cash a check and hand over the money immediately. Tell the cus¬ tomer it will only take a moment to clear it, and if he’s willing to wait, you can bet he’s honest. 3. Don’t cash checks for unknown customers during the hours when you can’t reach the bank on the phone. 4. Don’t cash ANY checks. As for me. I know I will never cash another bad check. My so-called crimi¬ nal career was a costly luxury, and when I was paroled from San Quentin in June of 1951 I had nothing left to show for it except a total of 19 years in prison. I am earning $600 a month as a mechanical engineer in a West Coast manufacturing plant now, and I have a clean record. My wife di¬ vorced me long ago — and I must say I don’t blame her — but my son stuck with me, and one day soon I hope we will be in business together. My son and my employers understand some¬ thing of the emotional quirks that made me a check passer, and they are confi¬ dent that I now have a different per¬ spective on life. aaa TASTE ISTHE PAYOFF! * Millions more buy Sparkling Canada Dry Water because they like it better- AND SO WILL YOU! Blend-ability is the unique ability of Canada Dry Water to point up the flavor of any drink ... to make every kind of drink taste better. It is the result of these Canada Dry exclusives: • Exclusive "Flavor-Balanced Formula" • Exclusive "Pin-Point Carbonation" 'Qf^qoo^ooo highballs were made with Canada Dry Water last year.

Page 398

34 Skilled inrdieal team performs an operation These Tools Help Keep You i* Body In Repair A Mirgeon needs a good deal more than a sharp knife and a needle and thread for today's lifesaving operations Instruments, gauze, basins and sutures (above) form a basic group of tools for any major surgery. W bile set is typical, hospital procedures differ and it is subject to variations A LMOST everyone can describe the tools a car- /\ penter uses to do his work, but few- of us have more than a fuzzy idea of the vast number of specialized instruments a surgeon may call upon to keep the human body in repair. In the minds of many laymen, just about all a doctor needs in surgery is a sharp knife and a needle and thread. Actually, the modern hospital operating room is equipped with literally hundreds of medical tools of all kinds. They can range in size from a small, tweezers-like instrument for re¬ moving splinters to a rib-spreading retractor about a foot square which keeps the chest open during cardiac operations. And they make possible such varied surgery as the delicate splicing of the large aortic artery leading into the heart or the job of transplanting a cornea from one eye to another. The instruments in the picture at the left are a basic set of tools for use in any major operation. In the page of photographs on the right is a selec¬ tion of specialized instruments for eye, abdominal, heart and bone surgery, and for the removal of ton¬ sils and adenoids. The instruments were photo¬ graphed at New York City’s Mt. Sinai Hospital. In the basic group (clockwise from top right): || Gauze pads which protect and hold body organs aw ay from the area of surgery. The metal ring on top remains outside the incision in abdominal op¬ erations to make sure that the pads are removed before the wound is closed. || Four sets of similar-looking instruments. On top is a set of hemostats — clamps which pinch off the blood vessels and control the flow' of blood. Next are tissue clamps, and then two more sets of hemostats. || And in the following order: two thumb forceps for grasping tissue; two pairs of scissors; two for¬ ceps for applying clips which will hold skin edges together while wound is healing; three scalpels, and skin clips on a wire holder. || Skin hooks which hold the skin while the clips are applied. || A basin that contains tubes of catgut sutures for stitching tissues. u A pad on w hich are surgical needles and spools of thread for stitching or tying, u A needle holder used in actual stitching. || Towel clips which fasten towels to the skin around incision to keep the opening sterile. || Forceps for holding gauze and sponges. || Two groups of retractors (including the forklike instruments) which hold incisions apart. || And in the center, reading down, are: gauze sponges, a basin of antiseptic solution and a needle holder. The doctor’s tools can be a little unpleasant for the layman to contemplate, but less so, if you look on them as symbolizing the centuries of steady medical progress w hich have helped make possible today’s miracles of lifesaving surgery. ^ ^ A Collier’s for February 7, 1953

Page 399

35 For eye surgery (bottom left ami clockwise): needle holder, in hand; iiuplanter for inserting gold ball in soeket after removal of an eye; implants in jar; needle holder; eyelid retractor; two self-retaining eyelid retractors; special eye scissors; a different type of retractor For abdominal surgery (top left, clockwise); pair of surgical gloves; self-retaining abdominal retractor; a clamp which is applied to the intestine before cutting; large abdominal retractor; rubber-covered damp for occluding (tern porarily dosing off) a portion of intestine For heart surgery (top left, clockwise): basin; elatup for temporarily closing off major blood vessel; rib-spreading chest retractor; another clamp for blood vessel; instrument for dilating large blood vessel valve: instrument for cutting large blood vessel valve; damp handle - For bone surgery (top left, clockwise on outside): hone drill: retractor (for tissue); hone saw; mallet: ruler; gouges and chisels; mallets. In center (top down): another hone siu: wire sometimes used for suturing bone or ti>Mic: wire cutter For tonsillectomy and ndcnoidcetoiuy (top left, eloekwis<»): snare to pinch off tonsil at base: instrument used to extract adenoid tissue; tongue depressors; bottle containing anesthetic agent: mask through which the anesthetic will he given; long hemostat PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER S BY IKE VERN

Page 400

36 CROSSETT INC. uses and generals KRAFT RECAPPING Jh* Tankers illustrated above are equipped with the Genera/ Air Spring Suspension For 33 million tire miles a year GENERAL TRUCK TIRES and KRAFT RECAPPING help Wm. f. Crossett, Inc. deliver 130 million gallons of petroleum products a year— at the lowest cost per mile! Bill Crossett (who is also the mayor of Warren, Pa.) sends 65 tractor-trailer units each day into the big and little towns of North-Central U. S. A. and 100 miles into Canada. Many of the communities he serves have no railroad facilities. They depend on Crossett for light and heat for their homes, schools and hospitals. Their cars and trucks run on the fuel Crossett brings to town. Giant steel plants can lose a day’s production if Crossett is late. Other factories expect him every day. That’s why Bill Crossett uses Generals and Kraft System Recap - ping. Experience has proved to him that General’s slightly higher original cost is trivial compared to their far greater strength and dependability. His records prove Generals wear so slowly they leave more profit from the revenue he receives for every trip. He knows he can safely recap General Truck Tires more often. Back of every General Truck Tire there is a General dealer or¬ ganization that knows more about getting the last safe mile, from the last ounce of rubber, than anyone else in your town. They are Kraft System Recappers, masters of extra low cost mileage. THE GENERAL TIRE & RUBBER CO., AKRON, OHIO R Registered Trade Mark

Page 401

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Page 403

! The Iron Box By JOHN SAVAGE Katona was a master magician. Escape was liis business. Now lie must escape this final prison. Now lie must escape Ills own grave THE box was made of iron plates, welded to¬ gether. It was two feet square and three feet tall. Empty, it weighed about eighty pounds. With Janos Katona inside and the lid bolted on, it probably weighed two hundred and fifty. I first saw it in the lobby of a Paris theater. Later 1 saw it twice on the stage. Finally, in what I thought was a publicity stunt, I saw it thrown into the river Seine by a group of Katona's admirers. I never saw it again. Those are the main facts of the matter, and yet they leave out almost everything. The story of Janos Katona — the finest and most truly dedicated man I’ve ever met — deserves to be known on the American side of the ocean. I think I should be the one to tell it, because Katona and his iron box changed my whole life. I was twenty-four years old that November. Ex¬ cept for a very bad conscience, which had been my companion ever since I had quit my New York job, I was alone in Paris. The first Katona poster I saw was on a newspaper kiosk near the Madeleine at seven o’clock one evening. 1 have always been a sucker for any kind of ma¬ gician or escape artist. This one was billed as Katona , Vincroyable , which means “Katona, you wouldn’t believe it.” I was prepared to believe it, all right. I was, and still am, the perfect audience for all performers of that kind; I am a man who takes a childish delight in everything they do, tries his damnedest to find out how they do it, and never succeeds. I immediately started walking toward the thea¬ ter, and I paused only once. The pause came when I saw my second Katona poster. It was on another kiosk, about two thirds of the way to the theater. This poster was like the first, except that it had been defaced in a very significant way. Somebody, working fast, had splashed across it in red paint. The word was paix. I knew about the special meaning of that word. You couldn’t spend much time in Europe without learning about it, and you were always seeing it painted on a bridge or a wall somewhere. In Italy you saw pace , and in Germany it was Friede, but everywhere it was a motto of the Communists. It had once been a well-loved word meaning simply “peace,” but the Communists had captured it and taught it new tricks. Here and now, splashed diagonally across Kato- na’s name, the word did not mean “peace.” It meant something like “down with the enemies of Communism,” and its message was perfectly clear. Every passer-by would learn what 1 was learning — that this man Katona was hated by the Reds. I absorbed the message with interest and then walked on toward the theater. There had been a time when the conquest of “peace” by the word- twisters was capable of making me fighting mad, but that time was past. I had come a long way, or thought I had, since the days when 1 hoped to do something about the mess the world was in. Wearing a sweater and dungarees, Katona climbed into the iron box. Today, there were plenty of eager hands helping to put the lid on I arrived at the theater ten minutes early, still wondering idly how an innocent escape artist could have got the Communists mad at him. As soon as I entered the lobby, though, I turned my mind to more fascinating matters. The display in the lobby that night included many objects besides the iron box. There were two strait jackets, a heavy steamer trunk, a cluster of handcuffs, and various other devices that Professor Katona proposed to escape from, lor the entertain¬ ment and mystification of the public. I set about examining all these exhibits carefully, and so did several other customers who had come in just ahead of me. 1 saved the iron box until the last, because it appealed to me most. A steamer trunk might eas¬ ily be rigged with a panel that opened inward at the touch of a hidden spring. A strait jacket could be unbuckled, by a trained contortionist, through the canvas. Cheap handcuffs would pop open if you banged them on something, and many better cuffs would be unlocked with a looped shoelace. But a simple metal box without upholstery, with¬ out any rivets, phony or otherwise . . . I STOOD in front of the box and looked at it. It was empty; the big square lid was on the floor nearby. The box had once been painted white, in¬ side and out, but apparently not for the purpose of hiding anything. There were, in fact, several ir¬ regular spots where the paint was scaling off and the rust was working. From each of these areas a long, orange-red stain ran downward on the white surface. I hit the side of the box a few times with the heel of my hand, and each time there was a muf¬ fled boom. The box sounded very solid. I quickly turned my attention to the lid and the fastenings. The lid, which was also painted white, lay up¬ side down on the floor. It was a two-foot square of sheet iron with sides about three inches tall all the way around. I picked it up, turned it over and fitted it onto the box. It slid snugly down over the open end like the cover on a can of tea. It was only after the lid was on that I noticed the holes. There were two of them, and they were drilled through opposite side walls of the lid. They went right on through the walls of the box itself. Any kind of rod, stuck through the holes, would secure the lid. I took the lid ofT and put it back on the floor. I was now being watched politely by an old French¬ man in overcoat, mulllei and beret, and also by his wife. They seemed to think I was part of the show. I grinned at them and went on with my investiga¬ tion. I was having so much fun that I even forgot my nagging conscience. I was absolutely satisfied with the box and the lid. 1 figured the trick for escaping must lie in some hidden weakness of the bolts and locks that held the two together. 1 therefore spent the rest of the time before the show in examining the bolts and locks, and in studying the drawing that showed how' they worked. The drawing w'as in an oak frame, leaning against the box. It showed a cutaway view, with a man in the box and the fastening in place. The lid was held down, at opposite sides, by two bolts. The ILLUSTRATED BY ROBERT FAWCETT

Page 404

40 i I 9 heads • t these holts were inside the be \ trd the shatt of them ran out through the ho es that were dnl ed th/uugh the side walls of the box and th e side was of the Instead of a out i l the outside end of each holt, 'here was a I t le drilled through the «’i t Used 1 hrough each hole was pv ssed the hasp of a x./able padlock. A man locked in the box had nothing t memors as I write. 1 he biggest surprise, even before I learned the whole truth about him, was Janos ka- tona himself — first his humor and lack of bombast later his consummate skill. He came out on the hare stage, alone, md stood there smiling modestly while the audience gave him a round of ap¬ plause 1 udged that he was just under torts vears old. He was a blond man of med um si/c with extremely pow¬ erful shoulders. He wore a black suit and a bow tie As soon as the applause died down, he made an extraordinary speech, in hcavilv accented Trench. 1 had ex¬ pected the accent, in view of his Hun¬ garian name but 1 had not expected the content of the speech. ‘ I am onlv an imitator,” he began. "You will see nothing tonight that has not been done better before, even by men who were also imitators " He smiled ruetullv, and I could feci his audience wainung up to him, although his sincere modestv was not what I would have thought of as good show¬ manship “If any of my little dtstrthse- minis should give you pleasure,” he went on, 'please remember that your pleasure comes not from me but from a great man w ho died nianv vears ago. 1 his was the American, 1 hrich Weiss, known u the world as Houdim.” I he audience clapped again, and Ka- tona- with Houdim off his chest — started doing his stuff \\ ithin two min¬ utes 1 was m the act myself. An escape act is a curious thing, and the heart and soul of it is showmanship 1 he build-i p has to he superb, because the best escapes are made behind a screen ot so m kind, to protect the se¬ cret. 1 he dim. \ ot the act takes place where the audience can’t even see it Houdim, thev sav . could hold a thea¬ terful in eager suspense for an hour or more while he worked himself out of some elaborate pickle, vwthin the tour walls of a portable screen. But I hadn't thought, until I saw katona, that anv- bodv else could create that kind of in¬ terest. He began by asking for a committee of five men from the audience, much as Houdini used to do. Although 1 am not an exhibitionist by nature. 1 was on the stage in ten seconds. 1 wanted to know, above all about the iron-box tuck. 1 wanted to check those bolts. I he first of the committee’s duties was to help the magician carry his equip¬ ment from the lobbv to the stage. Ap¬ parently katona worked without an assistant. 1 he band played while we made the trip to the lobby and back, and I got several close looks at katona’s face, It was a long, strong, likable face, with a lot of experience in it. As soon as we got back on the stage and got things arranged, katona began a series of stunts, most of which I’d seen before. He let the five-man com¬ mittee Slav on the stage, to prove he had nothing to hide. We sat in straight of watchfulness in his ev es. I suddenly remembered the messed-up poster out¬ side, and realized something I’d been forgetting: katona was a man who had powerful enemies. It must take a fair amount of courage for him to let him¬ self be rendered helpless by strangers, even here in the theater. He smiled, though, and proceeded to order something I had never seen done before. He had us hang him up¬ side down by the ankles, from a rope that ran over a pulley in the flies. Three of us got on the free end of the rope and hauled until Katona hung, head downward, two yards off the floor. Then he asked us to start him swinging from side to side, and we did. He kept shout¬ ing for more until we had him going in a long arc, the whole width of the stage. I had read somewhere about the COLLIER'S 4It** easy to see who wears the pants in that family*’ VIRGIL PARTCH chairs, all on one side of the stage, and watched him run through some pre¬ liminary sleights of hand. The escapes, since they were the main dish, would come later. He swallowed a handful of needles and a ball of thread, then pulled the thread out ot his mouth with the needles strung on it; he did some card tricks; he made a rosebush grow and blossom out of an empty flowerpot. All this was done rather apologetically, but it was expert work and quite convincing. I enjoyed these things, along with the rest of the audience, but I was waiting somewhat impatiently for the escape from the iron box. It had occurred to me by now that he might use imitation padlocks made of sponge rubber: then he could pull the bolts in through the holes, locks and all. 1 resolved to be one of the committeemen who locked him in. I’d find out for sure. ,rHEN he finallv got to the escapes, he began with the strait jacket. All the members of the committee helped get it on him. He had taken off his coat first, so that we could get the leath- er-and-canv as contraption on tighter. We buckled the jacket up the back, then made him cross his arms on his chest while we buckled the ends of the sleeves together, also in back. We hau-ed everv thing perfectlv taut, and when we were finished it was a wonder that katona could even breathe. He stood before us for a moment, and I thought I caught a certain look strait-jacket work of Houdini himself. He always claimed that this particular escape was a matter of “persistent straining” by a man with a well-trained body: not a secret trick at all, in other words, but something that could be done in full view of the audience. 1 had carefully inspected Katona’s strait jacket. 1 had checked especially for hidden springs or releases inside the ends of the sleeves. I knew there weren’t any. Still swinging in that long arc, Ka¬ tona gradually pulled one elbow over his head, wriggled the jacket around on his body, unbuckled the sleeve straps with his teeth, and then unbuckled the jacket straps with his hands, working through the canvas. He dropped the jacket on the floor after about a min¬ ute and a half. Then he jackknifed his body, untied his own ankles and swung off the rope. He hit the stage standing up, and the crowd went crazy. The handcuff act u hich followed was also impressive, and so was the escape from the steamer trunk. But I was get¬ ting a little impatient for the iron-box performance. My chief interest in the steamer-trunk escape came from the prospect of seeing what type of screen katona would use. The screen turned out to be a steel frame, six feet square, with blue drapes that hung down to the floor on all four sides. The frame was on wheels, so that it could be rolled into place. After vve had katona locked in the trunk and the trunk bound securely with rope, accord¬ ing to the instructions he had given, we rolled the screen over the trunk, hiding it from view. In less than a minute, Katona parted the curtains and stepped out. We rolled the screen away and found the trunk securely locked and tied. This made an excellent act, but I’d heard of too many ways for getting out of a trunk: trap doors, trick hinges. The iron box was next, though, and I began to get really excited. Only those who share my love of magic will know completely what 1 mean: the utter sim¬ plicity of the box, the complete perfec¬ tion of the illusion! We members of the committee, with the help of Janos Katona himself, cleared the stage of everything except the box. Then katona invited the com¬ mittee to make another inspection. I jumped at the chance. I went straight to the bolts and tried to un¬ screw the heads, without success. I squeezed the locks and found them solid. If there was to be a switch of some kind, it hadn’t been pulled yet. I gave the box and lid another quick check and was convinced that nothing had been changed. Katona held his arms out and asked us to search him. All five of us took turns with the frisking, and nothing i turned up. At first I wondered about the reason for the search. It was only- after he had stepped into the box that I understood. THIS was the way of it: Janos Katona stepped into the open box and | folded himself into a sitting position, with the two bolts in his hands: his knees were almost against his chest. As soon as he was in, he pushed the bolts out through the two holes in the box, which were about on a level with the top of his head. He pushed the bolts only part of the w-ay, so that they would not inter¬ fere with the lid as it slid past them. He kept his hands on the bolts, and as soon as we had slid the lid on, he pushed the bolts as far out as they would go, through the two holes. As the committeemen snapped the padlocks through the holes in the ends of the bolts, my brain began to work on the only possibility I could see for escape: the bolts had not been switched while Katona was visible, but couldn’t he have switched them after he was hidden by the lid? No, I decided, not unless he could make time stand still. The bolts had shot out of both holes at once, the very instant the lid was all the way down. And where would the substitute bolts have come from, anyway? Five men had just searched him. I saw the reasor for the search now, and I admired it. Ir insisting on that detail, Janos Katonr had been shoring up the only weak spo in his illusion. All logical possibilitie: of escape had now been destroyed We rolled the screen over the box as u-e had rolled it over the trunk. Th< folds of the blue cloth curtain droppe< to the floor all the way around the box hiding it completely. The orchestra played very loudly fo the next two minutes. I registered tha fact as a suspicious detail, withou know ing how to interpret it. In less tha tw'o minutes the blue curtains parted. Katona stepped out, smiling rathe humbly. He gave the screen a push, an it rolled away, revealing the iron bo:. The box w-as bolted and locked as it ha been before. The audience got to its feet and did lot of clapping. I sat there, beating rr hands together and trying to figure O' the gimmick. When the applause w' Collier’s for February 7, 19c

Page 405

41 I e s k ii dl t 15 1 Id :d' iy a. Its eu- on In ina jot .ics ed. » or tha ion d. i ithe i ho?. [ha H i® e oi ; W 2' ’95 over, Katona allowed the committee to unlock the padlocks, push the holts into the box and remove the lid. Everything was as before. With Katona smiling at me, I reached into the box, retrieved the bolts and tried to twist the heads oil. No luck. Katona then asked the audience, as Houdini used to do, if anybody had a challenge — any particularly difficult test he’d like to put the magician to. Nobody spoke up, so Katona did a cou¬ ple of card tricks, dismissed the com¬ mittee, and rang down the curtain. THAT was Friday night. I went to my hotel as soon as the show was over, had a drink in the bar, and went to bed. I dreamed of being shut up in an iron box, a huge one, and 1 woke up in the morning knowing I’d have to find out more about that trick. Maybe if 1 went back to the theater that night, I’d get a chance to talk to the magician a little. In that morning’s Paris Herald, which I read at breakfast, I was delighted to find a feature story on the new sensa¬ tion in town, Janos Katona. There was no specific mention of the iron box, though. Instead, there was a picture of Katona, looking very serious, and a brief account of what the paper called ’’the crowning escape of his career” — his trip from Communist Budapest to the American zone of Vienna six months before. It seemed he had not been popular with the political leaders on the other side of the Curtain. He had been engaged in a lot of anti-Soviet pamphleteering, and his escape from prison, while he was awaiting interroga¬ tion, was said to have vexed the authori¬ ties considerably. Those same authorities, the story said, were angry at him for an addi¬ tional reason: they believed that most of his theatrical income, even now, was being used to help finance anti-Commu- nist elements in Hungary. I found this very good reading, but I reminded myself that I had given up all interest in international afTairs on the day I quit my job at United Nations headquarters in New York. All I wanted to know, I told myself, was how Katona got out of that confounded box. I arrived at the theater about twenty minutes before cuitain time that night and spent the twenty minutes investi¬ gating the box all over again. I got nowhere. When the show started, I volunteered for the committee again. Katona did a slight double-take when he saw me, but he seemed pleased to be doing repeat business and readily agreed to allow^ me to serve. While we were carrying the box from the lobby to the stage, he asked me a question: ‘‘You are American?” I said, “Yes,” and then I tried some¬ thing. “I wonder if 1 could buy you a drink after the show?” I asked. He grinned. “Not only an American, but a rich American! Hokay! Do you know La Petite Marmite?” I said I did, and we agreed to meet there. It was a bar near the theater. The show that night began with everything going off exactly as before. Things didn’t begin to be different un¬ til after the iron-box trick, when Ka¬ tona asked again for challenges from the audience. This time a man stood up and shouted, “Yes! If you please, yes. / have a challenge!” This man was far in the rear of the house. All I could tell about him was that his face, behind heavy spectacles and a gray mustache, was very white. Katona smiled at him and seemed to Collier’s for February 7, 1953 take a new interest in the proceedings. “Monsieur will have the goodness to state his challenge,” he called "Mv tal¬ ents are. as will have been noted by all. severely limited. At the same time . . .” He paused and waited. The man in the rear spoke again, rather stilllv, and in an accent that re¬ minded me oddly ol Katona*s own. He licked olT each detail on his lingers. “ I o- morrow, in the lull light of day. on the Quai d’Orsay, Monsieur Ic Profe\\cur will enter the iron box. 1 he committee will secure the cover as before. I he box will be carried by the committee to the watci*s edge ” He paused “It will be thrown into the Seine.” The man sat down. There was a gasp from the audience. This was followed by laughter from those who had not caught the desperate seriousness of the challenger's tone, and bv shocked cries of "Non!" from those who had Katona was still smiling. That confi¬ dent smile, along with the challenger’s Hungarian accent, forced me to an ob¬ vious conclusion: the challenger was a friend. This was a put-up job, for pub¬ licity purposes. “Is it your intention, monsieur,” Ka¬ tona called, “that 1 should attempt an underwater escape, in the manner of the incomparable Houdini?” “This intention is obvious.” “Not quite obvious,” Katona cor¬ rected politely. “1 would enjoy making such an attempt, but” — and he paused — “it is my opinion that the box, alas, might float.” I did some quick figuring, and real¬ ized that he was right. Even with a man inside, the box would contain sev¬ eral cubic feet of air. The challenger spoke again, rather acidly. “Weight it.” Katona thought for a moment and then nodded. “This solution is accept¬ able to me,” he said. “I shall place lead weights in the box before I enter it.” The challenger said, “ D’aceord!" and nodded triumphantly. Katona dismissed the committee. With a sure appreciation of climax and anticlimax, he omitted the card tricks of the night before. He simply said, “Until tomorrow, Quai d'Orsay, at ten.” The audience was almost too busy with buzzing speculations to give him a hand. I WENT straight to La Petite Mar- mite. I wasn’t sure Katona would remember the appointment, but he did. He joined me just as I was sitting down at a rear table. I introduced myself and then summoned the waiter. Ka¬ tona ordered a filtre, and I ordered some of the Normandy applejack they call Calvados. There was a moment of silence, during which I happened to no¬ tice Katona's suit. He had done a quick change since the show, and he was wearing a blue flannel suit that belonged in a rag bag. For a second 1 wondered why he couldn’t afford new clothes, and then I remembered that his income was going to the Hungarian underground. “1 enjoyed your show,” I said. Katona nodded his thanks. “I admired particularly the iron box.” He smiled and said, “It is a very pretty restraint.” Then he did what a magician will do every time — changed the subject. “You are American,” he said. “I am curious about what you think of Hungary, my country, and its present government.” I wasn’t looking for an argument. I said. “Oh, it's all right, if that’s what they want.” “Yes,” he said. “My father, a vintner nousii <;u;st sTWI.n and JWM.i; IlKKI.XMMN nor \\i) coi n Rl iS.MNG WATER I

Page 406

42 the noith shore of I/ake Balaton, v, as depi rted in nineteen fittv to Rus- si It v\as not wh,*l he wanted ” I made svmpathetie noise. I l "i dn t thmk ot anvthmg to sav, and iIk'l was an uncoml ortahle silence. Dou ever meet Houdini’?" I asked. He shook his head and then said, rathe! absentK M\ ei andlather knew Kahh \\ eisv ot Budapest, hetore the f jbbi eriuei ated to \ oui Wisconsin. This n n became Houdini s I . .ther Li \oila • i \ closest link with Houdini Oh Wei I suppose vou've read Hu idini s hooks, thoueh y' Katona said, ' Y es.’ and then: “Are Vi n en ovine vour visit to Baris?” I took the hint, unvulhnglv, and got . tl m, t ere 1 had another Calvados, and this time Katona joined me. As the conversation went on, we had more di nks, and I ma\ have grown a little talkative 1 ti Id him whv I was in Baris. 1 told him about chucking m\ little job with the LN in New York Secretary to a secretary I d gone into the job with a lot ot childish hopes tor world peace, but the closer I studied the trend of international events the quicker my hopes petered out Alter a couple of vears at it, 1 had quit and come to Baris to have some tun hetore the roof fell in. It mv conscience didn't like it, my con¬ science could go to blazes. Katona listened to me with sincere interest, almost a personal concern. A couple ot times he almost spoke, then clamped his jaw shut. 1 got the idea he was resisting a tervent desire to give me a lecture But he must have real¬ ized that words wouldn't do any good. When 1 had it all said, he didn't offer anv sirupv advice. He just said, “I wish vou luck 'Good luck yourself,” I said, as he stood up to leave. ” I hat job tomorrow' morning sounds dangerous.” fie said “1 carrv insurance.” It was quite a while hetore I found • ut what kind ot insurance he meant. IW AS on the Quai d’Orsav an hour earlv the next morning. Beople from the audience ot the night before, along with therr ti lends, were already begin¬ ning to gather Katona rode up at five nunutes to ten, seated beside the driver ot a In rsc-drawn wagon. His iron box •vas on the bed ot the cart. Basted to the ode ot the box was one ot the white pi ' I e r s I had alreadv seen, with its Ka- l >na, Itmruwiblc in large letters. He had the driver stop the call at the head ot the ^tairwav that ran down to the lower quay, and several men from the and e n c e carried the box down the stairs tor him I hev set it down on the square paving stones, about a foot trom the w ater's edge 1 hete were two old men sitting at the rver's edge, tishing in the cool, green water I I ev had bamboo poles about fit teem feet long I hev noted our preparations with sniaM cunositv and no resentment, tor centuries the fishing in the Seme lias been so superlatively had that nothing tan make it worse I here were hv now several hundred spectators \lmost as soon as the box had been set down, a gendarme pushed his way through the crowd l or a min¬ ute 1 was worried 1 hen I noticed that he was one ot those policemen who are very stem ol word and anwinglv friendly of face, there are lots like him in Baris. He faced Katona and said, "Whatever this is, it «s forbidden.” Katona outlined politelv what was going on, and said it would take only a few minutes. The gendarme nodded sage’y and scratched his nose. “It is, as 1 have notified you, quite specifically forbid¬ den,’' he said. “I shall return in three hours to arrest you, if you are still here.” 1 hen he walked away. I saw him stop under a horse-chestnut tree forty yards up the river to watch the rest of the proceedings. Katona, wearing an old sweater and dungarees passed two pigs of lead around for inspection and then placed them in the bottom of the box. He climbed in. I had already had my fill, at the night performances, of twisting on perfectly legitimate boltheads, and today there were plenty of eager hands helping to put the lid on, so 1 kept out of the way. When the lid was on and the pad¬ locks were locked through the ends of the holts, somebody rapped on the box and asked Katona if he were ready. His voice came faintly from inside, muflled but gay. “ Allez-y !" Four men picked up the box, holding it level, and swung it hack and forth three times. On the third forward swing they let go, and the box hit the water with a great splash. It disappeared at once, although a series of bubbles con¬ tinued to rise to the surface and break. A rmnute went by, two minutes. The white poster, torn from the box by the water, rose like a ghost toward the sur¬ face, flapping downstream on the slow current. Katona, iincroyable. Three minutes. Four . . . I he bubbles stopped. 1 stood there looking at the water, knowing only that something had gone w rong. [KNOW’ a great deal more now — more about Janos Katona and his trick, and everything about what went wrong. At least I think 1 do. I’d like to tell it all, exactly as I think it happened, from the moment he stepped into the box. Then I will tell how 1 found out. When Katona stepped into the iron box, there on the quay, he expected no trouble He thought he would he out of the river and taking a how within a minute nd a half. He had performed the sumo escape at least two hundred times on the stage, and three times, for publicity, on the bottom of the Danube River at Budapest. Sitting there in the open box, he probably thought of it as a fortunate coincidence that the unknown chal¬ lenger of last night had chanced on a trick which was so well practiced. Work¬ ing without an assistant, as he had been forced to do since coming to Baris, caused diiliculties enough, even with these standard escapes. Now they were preparing to put the lid on. He had to be ready. AS SOON as the lid reached the top of , the box and started sliding down, Katona performed a piece of manual dexterity that had cost him many hours of practice, even after a lifetime as a sleight-of-hand expert. It all had to be accomplished in somewhat less than one second — that was the time it took for the lid to slide all the way down. There were three separate motions in gether into something smooth, unhur¬ ried, and yet lightning fast. His hands were already on the bolts. The first motion was that of vvithdraw- ing the holts and dropping them in his lap without a clatter. The second was harder, because the fake bolts were in a satin sheath, taped to the skin at the back of his left knee. His hands had to swing up under his pant leg and with¬ draw the holts. The third motion, which took place just at the instant the lid finished sliding into place, was an ac¬ curate, ambidextrous stab with the sub¬ stitute bolts at the two circles of light that were the holes. All this he did quite successfully, as he had done it so many times before. He sat in the dark then and heard the locks click in the holts. Somebody out¬ side called to ask if he were ready, and he answered, “Allez-y!" He felt the motion as the box was raised from the pavement, and he braced his hands, feet and shoulders for the jar. It was not a bad jar. He heard the splash, followed by the whisper of water sliding upward past him. Then he felt another jar as the box hit bottom. The weights had kept it upright, and the current wasn’t strong enough to tip it over; that made things simpler. He went to work immediately, in the rapidly cooling dark, hearing the rustle of air leaking out around the lid and through the holes, and the murmur of water leaking in. He pulled the bolts inward half an inch, which was as far as they would come, and then went to work at unscrewing the one on his left. It seemed to he starting hard. He held the bolt shaft between finger and thumb ot his left hand, twisting the head sharply with his right. He’d have to use a little oil before he tried this par¬ ticular escape again. He twisted again, grunting with the effort. The head wasn’t going to unscrew at all! In bewilderment, he attacked the other bolt. But he knew already what must have happened: somehow, in some way that he could not yet under¬ stand, the bolts had got switched. The water in the box was over his shoe tops already. There wasn’t much time, but he had to know the full grav¬ ity of the situation before he could do anything about it. He picked up one of the bolts that were in his lap and twisted the head. It unscrewed. Janos Katona took one frugal, shal¬ low breath of the already-stuffy air in the box and tried to get a grip on him¬ self. Houdini had credited half his suc¬ cess to coolness in emergencies, and Katona had learned that lesson well. Even as he set to work again, his mind was coolly taking stock of his weapons for survival: he had what he called his “insurance,” in its pouch taped behind his right knee; he also had an ability, almost approaching Hou- dini’s, to conserve oxygen. Perhaps, with these advantages, he still had a chance. HIS insurance was now ripped loose and lying in his lap. It wras a satin pouch full of miniature tools, and he had last used it in his escape from the interrogation cell in Budapest. It con¬ tained three kinds of picks for opening locks, a shortened screw driver, a four- inch piece of hacksaw blade, and a cap¬ sule of potassium cyanide. The poison was for the most irrevocable escape of all, and there had been times in his eventful life when he had come within a hair’s breadth of having to use it. The darkness was total, hut his fin¬ ger tips knew the saw blade well. He was at work on the shaft of one of the bolts almost before he had thought about it. But the hopelessness of his position struck him like a club, as soon as the saw blade began taking its pitifully small bites of steel. It was like working on Hint with a nail file, and he was now sitting in water a foot deep. He pushed the hopelessness away w ith an effort of self-hypnotism. He had now been on the bottom of the river for approximately two minutes. There must be no panic, because panic would speed the heart and cost more oxygen. Letting his hands work on, he deliberately put his mind to the problem of how the bolts had been switched. He remembered something now. He had had a slight surprise earlier this morning when he had awakened to find the door of his hotel room open. There had been a further moment of puzzle¬ ment when the watchman at the theater had reported almost catching an in¬ truder in the night. But nothing had been missing or harmed at either place, and he hadn’t put the two incidents to¬ gether in his mind until now^ They came together in a flash at this moment, when it was too late — with the water cold about his chest and with his saw blade only beginning to scratch a channel in the steel. Only one man knew enough to do this to him, and that man’s name was Tisza. Tisza had been jealous, even in Collier’s for February 7, 1953

Page 407

43 the old days, when he had worked as Katona’s assistant on the stage in Hun¬ gary, and his political views had d 1 1 - tcred sharply from Katona’s own. 1 isza would know how to assassinate a man without making a martyr of him. Tisza would know how the iron-box trick worked and where both sets ol bolts were kept. Tisza was no mean magician himself and could walk softly. Tisza could disguise himselt with mus¬ tache and glasses, for a murderous eve¬ ning at the theater. “At least 1 am regarded as worth assassinating,” Katona noted, and his lips smiled as his hands worked. THE blade was only about one quar¬ ter of the w ay through the bolt — the first of two bolts — and the water was already at his shoulders. He remembered checking the con¬ tents of the satin sheath as he was tap¬ ing it on his leg this morning, but he had checked carelessly, and only by feel. After all, the bolts were there; why should he suspect that they were not the right ones? Well, he would never be careless again. Or careful again, for that matter, he realized. Or alive again. But he kept the saw' going. He thought about Hungary, the free Hungary he had worked for. When the water reached his chin, he took one great breath of nearly worth¬ less air and then began letting it out of his nose, very slowly. He knew he was good for about tw'o more minutes. Always the saw kept going, still on the first of the bolts, and barely half¬ way through. It kept going for almost a minute more before hope died, and it stopped. For an instant, Janos Katona sat very still. The box was full of water now', and empty of air. He eould hear the measured throbbing of his own pulse in his ears, still without the speed of panic. If he prayed, the prayer w'as very brief. Hope came back almost like a dream. It was a very tiny hope. Deliberately, Katona’s hands groped for the screw driver, dropping the saw' blade which w'as too slow' a tool to be of further use. He raised the screw driver and at¬ tempted to use it as a lever to break the weakened bolt, but there seemed to be no way of getting a solid purchase. Then he thought of something. He passed the ringlike steel handle of the serew driver over the bolthead and let the screw' driver hang from the shaft of the bolt. Then he picked up one of the faked bolts from his lap, set its end inside the ring of the screw dnver han¬ dle, and plied upward against the bolt- head. 1 he sawed bolt broke oil with a snap that hin t his ears. Quickh he dropped his tools and pushed the headless bolt out through the hole. I hen he ducked his head, got his shoulders against the lid of the box, and thrust his bod> upward. The other bolt wouldn’t break; he knew that. But with all the leverage of the cover working on it, it might bend. He felt the cover move upward an inch, then jam. He heaved his shoul¬ ders against it again and forced it free. He wanted great gulps of air, but he forced himself to keep his mouth closed. He pushed again, felt the lid give some more, and then used one hand to meas¬ ure the space between the lid and box, on the side where there was no bolt. It was enough! He could squeeze through! He did so and paddled weakly upward toward the light. Still in his shoes were the two pieces of fishlinc, each five feet long, which he had planned to use as usual for pull¬ ing the original bolts out through the holes, so that he eould lock the box as before. The refinements of the illusion were no longer important. The only im¬ portant thing was air. A moment later his head broke the surface of the Seine, and he breathed, sobbing, and heard the shouts of the e rowd. THAT is w'hat happened. At least, that is how Katona told it to me in La Petite Marmite a few hours later. At the time, I found it impossible to doubt a single w'ord of it. He told me that something had in¬ spired him during his ordeal, and that he therefore planned to return to Hun¬ gary, and the underground, immedi¬ ately. He claimed to have learned tw'o things on the bottom of the river. He had learned that he was regarded as an important enemy of the dictators, important enough to be assassinated. And he learned that nothing is im¬ possible so long as there is hope, even a tiny hope. He preached me this little sermon so w'cll that I got all steamed up. I still am, and I guess l always w'ill be. I’m back at my job w'ith the UN, and though my hope for peace is small, it is steady and it is precious. I’m almost sure that’s the end of the story. But I’ll admit that a friend of mine has just had a letter from Paris, and I’ll tell you w'hat it says. Katona is still there! He didn’t go to Hungary. He’s still in Paris, and still wowing them, just as if that under¬ water ordeal of his had never happened. Now do you suppose it didn't? Do you suppose I’ve been bamboozled? I still remember seeing Katona smile at me, on the stage that time, when I was trying to unscrew the bolt- heads. Did he take his cue from that theory of mine? Did he spin me a cloak- and-dagger yarn and hang a moral on it, just to send me back? I’m happy; my con¬ science is my friend. But I can’t help wondering. Could it be that I still haven't found the real gim¬ mick for the iron-box trick? I don’t know. I told you I w'as a sucker for a magician. M Collier’s for February 7, 1953 Don't get caught with gour Battery down ^ b'/ \ V WHEN your battery “goes”— you don't! Why take chances? Stop in at your Goodyear dealer’s today — have your battery checked free with the portable, accurate, Goodyear All-Purpose Tester. It’s the ONLY way to spot battery troubles before they start. While there-ask about the Goodyear Dry Proof Double Eagle Batteries, too. Goodyear, Battery Dept., Akron 16, Ohio. good/year Double EAfrlo-T. M. The Good y r it Tire t Rubber Company. Akron, Ohio DRY PROOF • DOUBLE EAGLE 6ATTER1FS If you can draw your future is secure NOW America’s 12 Most Famous Artists test your art talent! Thousands paid $1.00 to take this amazing test. To meet the ever-increasing demand for artists needed for higher-paying jobs, this talent test is now offered FREE. Quantity limited, so write today! FAMOUS ARTISTS COURSE Sb i 4.S V\- •■. -ect >. • ■ Send me with no obligation Ihe Famous Artists Talent Test Mr. Mrs . . Miss (o/eaja print) Address . .. . . Age . City — . ......Zone.. ..State . FACULTY | Normon Rockwell A1 Porker ■ Jon Whilcomb Ben Steht ■ Slevon Dohonos Robert Fawcett | Horoid Von Schmtdl Austin Briggs Peler Hetck John Atherton | Fred Ludekens Albert Dome

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(ra|> i-> rm*d muskrat 1hm*ii miio\nl. I ur coal rc-quirrs 90 mh*1i |> Asa Sprague is a lecn-agi* hiisinessinan whose slock in trade is a vast woodland know-how. His partner is Mother Nature ASA Will I AM SPRAGUE is a seventecn-year- /\ old farm bov. He has lived in the Catskill 1. m. Mountains all his hte. He is as far removed from the world ol high fashion as a heaver in a pond is from a finished fur coat. Asa has, in fact, only the vaguest idea how a fur coat is made. But he knows the tumbling mountain streams and brooks near his fumih's 100-acre farm in upper New York State's Schoharie County, lie knows where the fox will dig its burrow and where the otter makes its slide. He knows the mink's insatia¬ ble curiositv and how to take advantage of it. And though Asa might not reeogni/e a sheared heaver coat on the street (lor he has never seen one), he p I*i x s an indispensable role in producing one. Asa is a before- and after-school trapper, a job that is to him what working in a drugstore is to mam citv kids except perhaps that Asa works much harder. His co-worker in the enterprise is Nature, and Nature is an exacting partner. Asa is up two hours before dawn even morning of the trapping season. Regardless of the weather, he hustles along Muddy Brook to inspect his 75 traps. His muskrat sets are placed in the icy waters of the stream where Asa hopes the animals will step on them during the night. On a good morning, Asa will collect three muskrats. Some he finds drowned; others have chewed oil their trapped legs and es¬ caped. But most are still alive, and Asa kills them with a stick. The muskrats are the bread-and-butter animals of Asa's trap line, selling for $2.50 a pelt. A mink, however, will bring six times that amount — but, correspondingly, they are easih six times more difficult to trap. The mink, though, does have a fatal weakness— inquisitiveness. And Asa makes full use of it. Wearing gloves to keep from leaving am human scent, he builds a tiny archway of rocks in a stream bed. After he has gone, the mink sniffs his way up to the little construction job {called a cubby). The animal's curiosity gets the better of him and he darts through. Day after day, the mink returns and repeats the procedure. Then one morning he goes through once too often. One of Asa's traps is under the arch. Asa nets about $100 a year trapping. To earn it, the only risk he assumes — aside from the dapger of frostbite — is a social one. On the mornings he removes a skunk from a trap, he invariably is rele¬ gated to a faraway seat at school. ^ ^ PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY WILLIAM VANDIVERT

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45 I I Iieavrr trap is wired to Y -shaped elm Hull) with small aspen tree hraneli across crotch as bait. W lode set is shoved in water under iee. Trapped heaver drowns To trap mink, Asa first builds roek archway, then leaves. Curious mink darts beneath. Asa later sets trap in plaee (above) to catch mink next time through Collier’s for February 7, 1953 Head\ to douse eaptor with *eeiit. a trapped •‘kiink. tail high, stands poised for action. Asa shot it Vfler-school chore is killing human scent on traps by boiling in solution of water and logwood chip*

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46 HOW TO SMUGGLE At I It - a linr art lor llio^r larmioiis mhiIs who sneak across our frontiers with illegal ONI hitter Januaiy night in 1051 an Air I otec sergeant was driving through the h nc > h ntulaiul beyond the town ot Fort hi ,• M.uik SuddcnK his ear skidded into the hi ■ i n|i .long the St Johns River, which forms the bordei between the United States and Canada. As he htiehcd away tiom the tangled alders, the sergeant beheld a sight that made his jaw' drop. I .1 r i ut on the Iro/en river loomed a dozen shadow v ere, tines I hey were silent as wraiths in il e moon ight. and as they glided along they blew huge iridescent bubbles which floated ghostilv on the s ill air I hen a eloi d covered the moon, and the appari¬ tions vanished So did the sergeant at the rate of f " n es an hour back toward his base at Presque isle 1 here he made out a report and tiled it with his captain L nder questioning, the sergeant in¬ sisted that he was sohei and that what he had seen w, s no mirage. 1 he doubting captain finally agreed to put customs ofhcidls on the trail of the bubbling ph- nt i ms I he climax was like a scene out of Alice in Wondei land. Sliding and slipping through snow¬ drifts, two customs agents searched the river for hours. 1 hev encountered nothing but chilblains- — and a scries ol Footprints apparent!) made by weaving drunks. 1 hen. just as they were about to •jive up iri discust thev turned their binoculars on the ( , ii wli n si ore 1 hue in the dawn's earls light stood ihc c\- p! nation ol the sergeant s phantoms cows with g i o* lies on then leet and soapsuds oil their laces. With them we e iwo ( anadian tanners, who sale across the boidei trom the customs agents— looked even moie contented than the cows. 1 he K.rnicrs had hit upon t tie happy device of using galoshes to mask i he cows' hoofprmts and soap h' distract them from mooing. (Soap, it should be explained. U a tasty treat to cows.) And the farm¬ ers had t fuis smuggled the rest of the herd into Maine in relays all night. The incident became known as the Case of the Bubbling Bossies. But it was just a ripple in the wave of cattle smuggling that is swamping under- stalled U.S. ollicials. In the past 10 years, at least $ I 2,000.000 worth ol beefsteak and butter on the hool has been slipped past guards on the Canadian and Mexican borders. The smuggled cattle, if legally imported, would have brought the United States 5600,000 in customs duties. And the slick business is on the upgrade. C attle smugglers l’tnd a ready market in this country because of heavy demand and high prices -the result ol inadequate home production and a law barring importation of cattle from any nation alllicted with 1 oot-and-mouth disease. Spread by a virus, loot-and-mouth disease is the most con¬ tagious and devastating animal disease known to science. It attacks all cloven-hoofed creatures, and there is no was to control the plague except by de¬ stroy ing the stricken animal, its companions in the herd, and every bit of has . grain and feed they have touched. 1 he last outbreak in this country occurred in 1026. Since then only a lew nations, provably free of the plague, have been allowed to ship live¬ stock into the United States. At present they in¬ clude Australia, New Zealand. Greenland. Iceland, Cuba and the Central American republics. However, a sea voyage swells the cost of cattle. I here! ore, Americans have traditionally relied on nearby Mexico and Canada for the bulk ol their imports. But an outbreak of foot-and-mouth dis¬ ease in Mexico in I 04b shut out all Mexican cattle for six years, our government linallv lilting the ban only last September. However, Mexico still re¬ stricts the export of its dairy cows. To add to the shortage, Canadian cattle have been barred from the United States since last February, when a foot-and-mouth plague struck Saskatchewan. All these circumstances have led to a further upsurge in smuggling on both borders. Smuggling is particularly rife in New England, which depends on Quebec and Ontario to replenish its dairy herds. Cut oil from this source of supply by the foot-and-mouth-discasc embargo, Yankee farmers pay as much as $500 lor a milk cow from Canada — with no questions asked. As Chester A. Emerick, Deputy Commissioner of Customs In¬ vestigations, points out: “The setup is perfect for smugglers. They can buy a cow in Canada and sell it for live times as much in the States.” Unguarded Trails Across the Border The terrain also is ideal for smuggling. It stretches for hundreds ot miles over lonely pas¬ ture land and tangled second-growth forest. Only the main highways are guarded. But snaking back and forth across the border are innumerable lum¬ ber roads, wagon trails and footpaths which ap¬ pear on no map. Smugglers shuttle cattle dow'n these byways bv the ton. Their skill is such that not more than one smuggler in ten is apprehended. “There seem to be more recipes lor smuggling a cow than there arc for beef stew,” one weary customs agent says. Typical is the plot cooked up last March by a band of canny Vermonters. It started when Leo Bergeron, of Newport, and William Desbicns, of Coventry, went to eastern Ontario, picked up 18 cows, and hit the trail homeward. The journey covered 100 miles as the crow flics, but the cows and the men walked even farther. Plodding along steadily with the cattle, Bergeron and Desbicns crossed Ontario into Quebec and

Page 411

47 COW (‘stork. Their tricks will siirj headed clown the west shore of Lake Memphicma- gog. Overtaken by a blinding snowstorm, the smugglers just strapped snowshoes on their feet and pushed on through the night. Five miles from the international border, the cows became balky. One tumbled olF a footbridge. Two others got stuck in a snowbank. They raised such a commotion that a nearby Canadian house¬ wife thought her heifers were being stolen. She telephoned police, and a Mountie came galloping up to demand an explanation. The smugglers were ready for him. Producing a legal bill of sale, they explained that they were delivering the cows to a Quebec farmer three miles away. They added that they would have to hurry because they were not sure of the road or how much longer they could keep the cows from be¬ coming frozen beef. Satisfied, the Mountie rode back toward his base. And there he might have stayed — if he had not suddenly begun to worry that the cattlemen might get lost in the storm. Picking up their tracks, the Mountie followed the trail in the snow. The tracks led south, when they should have led west; he decided the men must be lost. Spurring his horse, the Mountie topped a hill. In the valley below was the border. And in the middle of the border stood a barn — with the entrance in Canada and the exit in Ver¬ mont. Bergeron and Desbiens were trying to get the cows inside. But the doors were stuck, and so were the smugglers. The Mountie confiscated the cows and called American customs agents, who arrested the two men. The smugglers implicated Gerald D. Sloan, a Derby, Vermont, cattle dealer, and Melvin J. Dunn, whose farm straddles the border. All pleaded guilty, and confessed that Dunn’s barn — located aptly enough at North Troy — was a Trojan Bv BLN MLKSON \<MI horse for smuggling cow s across the inter¬ national line. I he four men were lined a total ot $8,500. I nek i ly for the cows, they were seized on C anadian soil. If the cattle had stepped across the middle of the barn, they would have been doomed under America’s foot- and-mouth-disease law. It decrees death for any Canadian cow which so much as puts one leg in the United States. The law makes no exceptions, a fact which has given all concerned some ex¬ ceptional headaches. Fiundreds of farm¬ ers — both American and Canadian — own land that adjoins or straddles the border. Their cows, being illiterate, tail to heed the warning signs. So they wander back and forth — unless they are caught in the act by Bureau of Animal Industry inspectors. Then the cows either are shot dead on sight or hauled away for execution. Killing of Stork Arouses Resentment The BA1 inspectors have no choice. But the cow' killings have led to a surge of sullen resent¬ ment along the entire 3. 000-mile Canadian border. In Vermont this mood has flared into open rebel¬ lion. Outside Holland, angry neighbors poured sand into the gas tank of a BA1 man’s truck to prevent him from confiscating cattle which had ambled across the line on a farm straddling the border. At Franklin, a dozen Vermont farmers blocked the seizure of another herd by driving ofT border guards and threatening to overturn their truck. When the guards returned with reinforcements, the cattle had been spirited away. Other farmers have filed suit against the govern¬ ment, threatened to shoot agents who shot their patrolmen of the l .S. Bureau of Vnirnal study a map of Te \a*-Me\ico frontier, is still a hotbed of ru-tling and smuggling: cows, and even renounced their American citizen¬ ship and moved to Canada. Co-operation with the government is so rare that only one ease is recorded m BAI archives in Washington. It stars Kenneth S. Foster, a cattle¬ man of Fort Fairfield, Maine, whose farm adjoins the border. His land is strongK fenced But it was no proof against the romantic urge of his bull, which bowled over the barbed wire and let t for a honeymoon in Canada with two heifers that at¬ tracted its fancy. Knowing the law — rind the laws of bovine be¬ havior — Foster grimly loaded his rifle and sat down in the pasture to wait. At ten o’clock that night, the bull strolled back, lovingly trailed by the heifers. Foster pulled the trigger three times, end¬ ing the honeymoon. Then, still obeving the letter of the law, he telephoned the news to Dr E. L. Miller, Agriculture Department chief, at Houlton, Maine. “Congratulations,” said Dr. Miller, “Isn’t there anything now we can do for you0” “Sure,” said Foster. “Call up my neighbor and tell him those two heifers 1 shot arc his.” Along the Mexican border, the smuggling prob- Border Industry which Sprints during illegal trek into the United States. Here one of the smugglers leads hatch of cows across the snow-covered border into Maine pis iwSf T % -jmr. ~ ' •* • tn W. / . 1 \ V, I \ JL v- fa _ * yu Pc '

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48 One \or(/i Dukotu gutty rustletl and smuggled $750,000 worth of cattle in four years • I U IM 1 » C v. U ' C I oi it is a oupled ' f, \ "i i f pistil i'i’ W est t a Xiis > , ■ (IN I fMi.fi \ It did in u'v eied- ..O .] t* ll * St *11 t h a Ioi-aIv land ■ • i Mi 11 u faint. th is and ravines "* ^ 1 * f • a. 1 hide t'llts lor cattle Ko »h ale few and only 200 • l B \ 1 in>;K c ti is guard i ■" 1 'll! k hi tide i lot me J by the (i Hide \ a-t Her voiith of Border Mr ; . » . in the Mcxia. ii state ( vvheic uue he ids mam ■■ ' i ■ ,'k. i»d iic mein ted (.mi l\ at .. -t p mimi 1 lie a l, ilk ,ik the tei- ... ' I a \ s 1 usi ers , itcl the Rio ( > , u i :u' .imili \t most ■ i*a 'he r i \ l i i' 1 1 ist .i muddv » f h Too th to plow and too I -i s - *■ • • ( h ole e Steefs Ol 1 • i h . a the he I ds alld dr in on , it v. . t tils to the border. ■ : in remote uinons. t t h eN ale ted t o 1 1 C 11 e* ej «u ad 'S i II IK lehl inded. i fit ^ . tile ae bio ken up « ■ • -i t I h is and trucked to ■ 1 . i s hundreds ot miles h re theN NNlh be SolJ e e t in 4 blddeis d 1 . . . t! ‘Its go unde- •' * (OCI^ re, l! like' Holly- I • \\ e ter iis I he latest ot i' i t ** (it hi s not gone in lii> ..n t M - ' s ns i men so ficti- i due* .o- heme Jsed at the . •" K : t s i .quest i involves \l i - ( ion/.u ■> a ( hihuahua . • a ho -v ^ i. le ntal n blun- *•*1# luole N d'lWllg oil II ' *" . vtceis Realm z • I 1 § ti- . *' ( ion/ales sum- min» 1 * t • » >H. «• / /\ l lle'N took i t n 1 Rut hM it Nvhen the thie\es he v I oNe". the mountains lor the 1 iv-| • lie - *fivhei reported the theft to V **. ; i eiistoms . cents at 1 aiedo, K lie ^ud that he also had been lot \|i ol >oo other steers during the I *st >\ monihs Ite h d assumed the ' st e*s nncc le low Me Meads NNho had p Mfiie.lK sold the eatt e m Me\ieo. lit ( now rie said, he siiNpeeted the this Van a a e \n ei leans ( - i ms cuts sluied 1 hat suspicion. II'cn.i . ofit a'c d t hen in\ estimation on i eon fi .ioosn the Ku> Ci ,*nde trom •hi I'k ii 'ds where the thieves dis- «¥pc i'ed \ I te* Aeeks a'1 1 1 111 t less nvji Ji the\ ( ( thci hist lecd trom a R \t ms» veto* He said he had been pi tiolhu i!k v utsknts ot ii liver liineh when he w.<s suddenlv stopped bv the ownei. ail i ise 'k I c\an nnc shill call Je'iies. 1 he laiiehe'i nn as e.u tying a e ii h* ne When the *nspedor . sked him what he Wi's huntme. Jones up'ied point¬ ed v. “I or people who don't mind thou* ow n business " 1 he next dav . while patrolling the same area, a shot w s t a d tit the in¬ spector trom the otlie side ot the river. ( onvinced thev woie on the right track, customs agents began looking 'or evidence to link Jones with the sto'en Chihuahua steers. 1 hev round a truck¬ man who said the gun-toting rancher had tried to hire' him to haul 20 head to i n auction ring. “Rut I turned down the te)b utter I heard a dnmken Mexican uiqinro sun the cattle were hot/' the ti uck man explained. “ 1 he uiqucro claimed he'd seen 'em swiped, but had kept quiet because he was afraid ot Jones.” t hat tip cracked the case. Agents anested a cattle dealer who confessed he Wiis in cahoots with Jones. And. one In one, the steers were rounded up, although some had been shipped as far as ( olorado and Kansas and had changed hands a dozen times. Wh.it customs officials needed to NNtnd up the ease N\as the testimony of the Mexican vaquero who said he had witnessed the theft of the cattle. But he h.id long since returned to C hihua- hua. I wo agents set out to find him. Dili ting from village to village tn Mex¬ ico. thev encountered onlv shrugs and tamales. 1 heir quairy vs. is always one jump ahead of them. 1 hen suddenly one diiv he popped out trom behind a clump of cacti as the agents were rid¬ ing In . ’Welcome, amigos/' he greeted. "You have come a long wav- to die.” 1 he agents turned, and found them¬ selves staring into the muzzles ot two rifles and a submachine gun aimed by thiee beady -eyed marksmen. ” I hose are m\ friends.” explained the Mexican politely. When they heard you wished to kidnap me and take me to 1 eXiis they decided they should kill \ou ' He shrugged. “Have you any last words r* the agents had quite a lew. In a 15- mmute oiation. they pointed out that thev had come unarmed, had no inten¬ tion ot kidnaping the vm/ucro . and had made their arduous journey in the role ol diplomatic couriers. “W e have come iiktlIv to invite vou to Tex. is,” they sulemnh assured him. ’ \ i invitation?” the vaquero was overwhelmed. “All this way you have come to bring me an invitation!” the agents nodded reproachfully. And I treat you like this!” The Mexican looked conscience-stricken. “Can you forgive me? Can y ou forgive me enough to take me back to Texas with you now?” I he agents said they could, if he would get his Iriends to point their guns el sew here. “Rah.” sneered the Mexican. “My friends' guns— they are not loaded. So let us boldly depart.” Jones and his confederates, includ¬ ing the cattle dealer, were indicted on charges ranging from smuggling to avoiding customs duties. Although most cows which cross the Texas border illegally do so on their own lour feet, others arc smuggled in piecemeal. Agents at official ports of entry are constantly stopping tourists with steaks in their hats and coats, or suspended from hang¬ ers in their luggage. Customs agents seized one motorist who had trained his bulldog to snap at customs men instead of the 15-1 pounds ol beet he had hidden in the car's upholstery. Periodically agents halt drivers who have spare gas tanks hidden under their hoods — and steaks hidden in their regular gas tanks. Then there was a sixteen-year- old cyclist who used to pedal back and forth daily over the bridge between Ciudad Juarez and 1:1 Paso. Inspectors always thought he looked a bit paunchy. But they never stopped him until one day last April, when he came waddling back with his stomach almost protruding over the han¬ dlebars. Search revealed that he had 15 pounds of meat wrapped around his middle — and the meat had slipped, giving him a corporate bulge entirely out of keeping with his age. “Now you’ll have to find me a new job,” grumbled the youngster. I he youth had been employed as a smuggler by an El Paso res¬ taurant. In I 1 months he had toted three and a half tons of meat across the border on his bicycle — enough to feed 14,000 customers. The boy got off scot-free. His father and three partners in the restaurant drew four-month jail sentences, but these were suspended. The three restaurant men also were lined a total of $6,000. A Mastermind in North Dakota However, it was North Dakota which furnished the backdrop for the most spectacular gang of rustlers and smug¬ glers in recent years. Masterminded by six-loot four-inch Frank Barker, who had a face like Abraham 1 ineoln and a mind like an adding machine, the mob made olT with $750,000 worth of cattle in tour years during the late 1050s and early 1940s. Barker's rus¬ tlers stole cattle on the Dakota border and sold them in Canada. Then, on the return journey, they stole cattle in C anada and sold them in Dakota. Divided into a dozen groups of five men each, the gang terrorized the entire western half ot North Dakota, striking in a dozen dilTercnt places at once. In Mercer County, south of Barker's own ranch in Bottineau, they slaughtered the steers on the spot, buried the hides with their telltale brand, and boldly sold the fresh meat to butchers. In other counties, they rebranded the cat¬ tle and sold them on the hoof. Or, if the market were glutted, they hid the steers in the petrified forests and gro¬ tesque valleys of North Dakota's Bad Lands. Then, when prices boomed, they rushed their loot by truck to unscrupu¬ lous dealers in Iowa, Illinois and Ohio. The cunning Barker never joined in the raids. Posing as a fish dealer, he traveled throughout North Dakota, Al¬ berta and Saskatchewan, casting about for cattle his rustlers could hook — and in his spare time heading up a separate ring of wool smugglers. Authorities were completely confused. They be¬ lieved the cattle thefts were the work of individual gangs, not an organized mob. At first, they didn’t connect Barker with the rustling, even after they jailed him for wool smuggling (the re¬ sult of a slight error by a truckman, who delivered the wool to a legitimate dealer ) . During Barker’s imprisonment, the cattle thefts increased. He smuggled out instructions from his jail cell to two trusted lieutenants. And with more time on his hands (his sentence for wool smuggling was 15 months), he made every moment count. Under Barker’s goading, the gang added faster trucks and rolling slaughterhouses to their equipment, arid even branched out into horse stealing and sheep rustling. I ,, A gainst a W all of Silence Outraged by their huge losses, the North Dakota Stockmen's Association called on local, state, federal and Cana¬ dian oflicials to join in a concerted investigation, A year later, the first sus¬ pects were arrested. But they refused to talk; they feared Barker more than the law. Despite the most adroit ques¬ tioning, they would not admit so much as their names. As one sherilY recalls. We kept butting our heads against a wall of silence.” The climax came when a cowboy, caught stealing a calf, refused even to admit the animal had four feet. Exas¬ perated, officials sent for truth scrum and a lie detector. That combination did it. Wired for sound and his inhibitions dissolved, the cowboy talked as if he had been vacci¬ nated with a phonograph needle. He not only identified Barker as the ring¬ leader, but implicated half a dozen other members of the gang. Confronted with this confession, the other suspects confessed, too, causing a chain reaction which resulted in 50 arrests. The mem¬ bers of the gang all had been guilty of scores of other crimes — ranging from arson and embezzlement to manslaugh¬ ter — and Barker had used this knowl¬ edge to blackmail them. Barker was convicted of smuggling and rustling, and died in 1942 while serving a two- to five-y ear term in State's Prison. In pioneer days. Barker might have wound up at the end of a rope. But with the passing of the vigilantes, cow- cadging has become a comparatively safe occupation. Not more than one thief in ten is caught. And even if caught, the man who purloins a sirloin usually gets off with a fine easily pay¬ able out of his smuggling profits. The high price of beef and dairy prod¬ ucts plays into the smuggler's hands. If and when prices fall, smuggling will be¬ come unprofitable. Then the natural law of supply and demand w'ill accomplish what man's law has failed to do — stop cattle smuggling. ^ ^ ^ Collier's for February 7, 1933

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49 I find im>elf heaving huge .stacks of old newspapers aboard a truck at daw n Lets Appoint a Committee! By JOHN I. kllASLKK If vou gel stuck with all llie work — anti who hasn’t? — read this I 1 if n JS ve d W' J me if r» ay- J- If he* aW -Ah I HAVE seanned the miraelc drug counter of my local drugstore re¬ peatedly, seeking a cure for a mys¬ terious malady whieh affects me chronically. 1 have committccitis. This malady broke out first at the age of nine when, completely against my will, I was appointed to the Trail- blazing and Moss-observing Commit¬ tee of Cub Scout Pack 38, and came down promptly with a fascinating case of poison-oak-eovered wasp bites. They cleared up, eventually, but my eommittceitis didn’t clear up. This ailment grows progressively worse with age. No matter what organization I be¬ come involved with, 1 end up invari¬ ably as a member of the Program and Planning Committee for the An¬ nual Fish Fry and Dance — Fun for All. Which means that I clean the halibut. Or else I get enmeshed in the Spe¬ cial Fund-raising Events Committee and find myself heaving huge stacks of gravity-ridden old newspapers and magazines aboard a truck at dawn of a Sunday, while all sensible club members arc sleeping through the All-Out Paper Drive. I could go to any given club meet¬ ing and come out appointed as a member of a committee to check on delinquency in the Congo, forthwith. In a moment of desperation the other day, 1 decided the only eure for my trouble was to let my dues lapse in all organizations exeept Soeial Se¬ curity, and become a hermit. What brought things to a head was that telephone call Irom the pres¬ ident of the club out in my suburb. “Say,” he said, “what have you done about the ragweed situation?” “What — the ragweed situation?” I mumbled. “You’re on the Ragweed and Pol¬ len Committee, remember?” he said. “The committee we got up August before last, after all the hay fever eomplaints. Any progress?” That did it. A man can take only Collier’s for February 7, 1953 so many committees. 1 confessed the ragweed situation seemed pretty well stalemated, and departed my office at a brisk earner toward the nearest travel agency to check for a hermit¬ age with reasonable monthly rates. 1 had spent a goodly part of the morning pricing sparcribs and dill pickles, having been roped into the Food and Beverage Committee for the office picnic, so perhaps 1 was overwrought. At any rate, if 1 hadn't bumped into Charley Mittson, a fel¬ low member of a local civic club, 1 probably would be the most antisocial hermit in my entire bloek today. “Haven’t seen you at meetings lately,” Charley said, over a brunch- eon of imported olives, very dry. “And you won't,” I said grimly. I confided in him. Charley studied me intently. He leaned aeross the table and said in a low tone, “1 may be able to help you.” “You mean — ” I was too choked up to go on. “I mean 1 can give you some trade scerets used by some of the leading noncommittce members in the na¬ tion,” he said. “First, as a basic test, why are committees appointed?” “Well,” I said, “.Some of — ” “Wrong,” Charley said. “Commit¬ tees arc appointed so the board chair¬ man or club president will have something to do when urgent busi¬ ness arises. He ean’t just sit there, you know.” “But why do 1 — ” “Quiet,” Charley said. “That’s your trouble now, you talk too much. For instance, remember the night the chair asked for suggestions on whether to repair the meetinghouse floor before or after the termites dropped us all into the cellar?” “All I said was — ” I began. “That was too much,” Charley said. “That's how you ended up on the Renovation Committee, better known as the ero.sscut-.saw brigade. Rule one in staying off committees is never to open your mouth concern- ILLUSTRATED BY ROBERT DAY ing any question. If you do, bingo! Automatically you’re on the commit¬ tee to fix it, whatever it is.” “But even when I stay perfectly quiet — ” “Simple silence is not enough,” Charley said. “Sometimes you have to outsmart the chair. Seating ar¬ rangements arc important. Try to sit behind a post. It" you can't do that, second motions.” “Second motions?” “Sure!” Charley said. “Whenever somebody moves to appoint a com¬ mittee, you second the motion, loudly and boldly.” “Why?” “Because when the president starts appointing the eommittce he will feel you’ve already done your share, somehow. Nobody ever appoints a motion-seconder to committees. I thought everybody knew that. Mo¬ tion seconding is even as good as ta¬ ble moving.” “Gee!” 1 said. “You give me new confidence. What’s table moving?” “A last resort,” Charley said wisely. “When all else fails, and pure instinct tells you that you can't avoid a committee that threatens, leap to your feet at the last possible seeond and say, T move we table this matter pending further study.* Works every time.” “Thanks a lot for these tips, Char¬ ley,” 1 said, wringing his hand. “Don't mention it,” he said, with an airy wave. T just hate to sec com¬ mittee trouble get a man down. Guess we'll be seeing you regularly at the club now?” He made me promise to attend. I haven't had a chance yet to try out Charley’s rules thoroughly, but I see no reason why they shouldn’t work. Only one thing bothers me a trifle. Charley is the fellow who sat across the halibut tub from me last year, and I just learned he got himself ap¬ pointed to the Attendance and All- out Membership Drive the day before I ran into him. ^ ^ ^ I Aromatic California cedar, iwd to make 1 iconderoga pencils, comes from giant trees at lr:M *>00 \ears old. Firm, >trong, thC is the wood suitable for precision Lradjasteninf' of lead — for exact centerimz. even ; sharpening every time! It took 500 i/ears to make this pencil Complete laboratory testing, manu¬ facturing controls, imported white clay, smoothly waxed Typhonized graphite leads. Lead fast construction — all guarantee Ticonderoga to he the easiest-gliding pencil known. TICONDEROGA JOSEPH DIXON CRUCIBLE COMPANY Pencil Product*, 52327, Jertey Cily 3, N J

Page 414

,he main ,1,, h. amM .la- plank to tin- cobblestone,. and headed as fas, as he could for Marberrv * C I 1 ^ 1 i i •warn u Li M 1 f*Oh. it "s an e\ il world. Aunt Bella head — idea> about the nefarious ways said, and then she started pulling ideas into Marlin s of river pirates, and why they might want Martin killed ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK MCCARTHY 50

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rvi Colonel Tliomas. He only hoped that Colonel Thomas was still in lii.s office ON a blustery spring afternoon in 1851, Mar¬ tin Taylor came out of the Cincinnati Land Agents Bank carrying a small black bag. He was twenty-two, dapper in slightly worn finery, apple-eheeked and energetic. Pearl Street was de¬ serted except for a man at the curb, a big man, prosperous-looking, with a glossy mustache and a braid-decorated greatcoat. Somehow the man's hat jumped off and flew into Martin’s arms; it was almost as though he'd knocked it off himself, clum¬ sily, with his own sleeve. The man rushed up, thrust out a silver dollar, changed his mind and re¬ turned the coin to his pocket. “Won't insult you with filthy lucre,” he said. “Eustaehius Logan, ironmaster from Pennsylvania, at your service. May I stand you a glass of port?” His tiny eyes never left Martin's bag. “I've got to be getting along,” Martin said po¬ litely. “Busy day.” Collier’s for February 7, 1953 “Nice little valise you've got there.” “Thank you,” Martin said. “Full of gold, eh? I'll wager you're somebody’s paymaster, eh?” “It’s full of cigars,” Martin said. “Tanletter’s Choice Supertines.” Mr. I ogan began to tremble. “You’re joking,” he said hoarsely. “You stepped out of that bank. 1 saw you.” “I’m a tobacco salesman.” Martin said. He didn't add that he was Cincinnati's worst, that lie barely survived. He stared. Could Mr. Logan be an act of Providence— like out of one of those penny paperbacks? Needy lad, on windy day, returns hat to benevolent stranger. Martin proffered his busi¬ ness card, that last, soiled card with a bent corner. Mr. Logan accepted it. “ ‘ I an letter's Tobaccos for Personages of Re- 51 hn " n- i 1 ’ \\l tnd K . C * 1 1' hi w \ c t 1 ump U 1 w C. ii . v !■ i Hc- S , r •# t ' » - - . 1 ii.' i l-l i : l . i- i heel . (|.| 'A . >, s out 'uu loss III ' he hint 1 1. n tl In the lie \l thici. f.s , lisci ns. oht.iii eu , | n . » .• v* r t one nunc Oisiomci I L o Y . . of three eUsiomefs a sscD. lions with Mi I nVtkr ’.u", ■ . . I he hideous and secret I ml • il M didn't sm >kc. chess or I ike . I I something Molent to him nut !«' to his giaildpa and i.gwecd It* hi' u . 1 1 smoke horn a humm1* u'mi 1. i ■ u him lose contiol id himsc 1 cornpkteL V o’clock lie went hack to the Jailors HP HI building was ol new brick, beefsteak »• A and lliish with the flagstone sidew.i k On • e ground Moor ss . » s a sm. retail shop. Il ideU .*• two doors, one leading hack to ihe factors i - * the other ascending to the othecs Malt: i r ini u.! the stairs. Below, woik had stopped lor tile night, and the building was silent. He came up into a barnlike room ighted n , dim lamp. Along one wall was a continuous coin ter. along which were spaced ai miei\als c erks stools, inkpots and ledgers. I lie room was empu but lor .i girl in calico, sitting on Malm's stool At her feet was a basket with a wooden lid IV Hopkins was her name, and she was . street-* nd- otlicc vendor ol eonlections. As Mai tin came in. she asked, " An\ todas?” Mai tin said. "One. Mr. Singleton at the Apex (Mindless oiks, and was he rough!” Somehow, thes'd become close ft lends. Martin was an avid buser ol her wares, but he was tnrgal and a little o\ ereritieal. She lilted the basket lid. and he craned lorward. "Quince jells,” he said. "Bottled straw beri ies. siruped tigs. Is that earawas cands He chose a piece, munched it and laid down a hallpemn. It'll pass.” lie said judiciously. She looked Battered. Every evening lor a month now she’d been end ing her daily itineiary in this olliee. so thos could walk to the corner together. As usual, she waited while he made his report. lo reach Mr. lanletter's private office. sou took a cramped passage hack to a hidden closet, en¬ tered. loitnd rough timber steps and ascended. I he si a i is popped sou du cells into Mr. 1 an let¬ ter’s presence. 1 his space was otherwise unusa¬ ble, so Mr. lanletter treasured it; he treasuieJ all that was unusable- candle stubs, tobacco sweep¬ ings, rusts pen points and escntualls tound a iuc lor them. Here, ceiling and walls lollowed the slope i)l the roof to the lloor. and thcie was no s\ indoss; the on Is light ssas Irom an old coach lamp. Ihe imprisoned lamp t umcs suing Martin's eves as he came into the loom. Mr. lanletter sal behind his desk He was a smallish man. hons . in shodds bioadcloth. Once, in a rage, he’d broken his spectacles both lenses, and he had then paticntls pieced them together with homemade glue. Noss his magnified os e- halls looked at sou through a notssoik o I cracks Silkils, he said. "Had a ssondeilul das, I'm sure. Didn't lose ans more customers?’' "I lost Mr. Singleton, .it the Apex.” Martin s.ud. Mr. lanletter recoiled in mock ama/cmcnt "But that’s not possible. Not Mr. Singleton Dear Mr. Singleton ssonldn t lease us.” "He suic did.” Mai tin .said. Mr. Lanletter leaned lorward. dramatiealls . “What’s the secret ol sour power. Martin?” He cupped an ear. “Whisper it. How do sou knock olf all our old liicnds so ellie icntly 7" He pretended great intimacs, conspiratorial eagerness. Mr. I anlcttci didn’t knoss s\ hat the s ers thought ol a cigar could do to Martin. "You're tired!” screamed Mr. lanletter. He boss led eerily. “Vanish!” It ssas then that Martin sass the card on the I

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See your General Electric dealer today l There's a size to fit y >ur family’s needs! fJ O AUTOMATIC ELECTRIC WATER HEATERS You con put your confidence in — GENERAL ^ ELECTRIC de It was hi own business card, the card with the hem corner that he’d given Ironmaster l ogan. “That’s my card.” he said mildlv. “I see Mr. Lo¬ gan's been here." Mr. lanleiter seemed not to hear. “Get out’" he screamed. “II Mr. Logan’s been here," Martin said, “and has placed an order in my name. I'm due my commission before 1 leave." “Logan, Logan?’ said Mr. Tanletter. “People come and go. I don’t recall. If you’re going to be quarrelsome about this, I II tell you what I’ll do. Forget Mr. I ogan, and I’ll rehire you. Take it or leave it." Martin hesitated. "I’ll take it,’’ he decided. “And bring vour own broom," Mr. Tanletter added. “My what?" Mr. Tanletter bared little, chipped- china teeth. "Starting tomorrow," he said, “you’re the janitor’s helper, con¬ fined to the premises, and with a pro¬ portionate diminution of stipend, of course. Good evening." “Good evening.4’ Martin said, and descended the stairs. 1)01 I Y was leaning against the wall in the murky room, waiting. She picked up her basket, and together they went down to the street. Shopboys and tradesmen were hanging shutters against the night, and mist from the river webbed the street lights. At the corner the> paused. Polly to go east to the warrens of Battalion Court, Mar¬ tin west to his cellar lodging on Plum. She seemed preoccupied. "If a sales¬ man." she said, "hooked just one cus¬ tomer — the right one. that is — he could get married, couldn’t he?" "There aren’t many customers like that." Martin said. He didn't tell her he was not even a salesman now. "You caught one this afternoon." she said. "A Mr Logan. I was in Tanlet- ter’s otliee when he placed an order in \ our name." "1 ifty Choice Superfines, commis¬ sion eleven cents." "Mr. 1 ogan’s an ironmaster." "I know it." She spoke rapidly: "Let me tell you about ironmasters, like Mr. Logan told Mr. Ianletter. An iron furnace is like a little town. The furnace Mr. Logan owns is called the St. George, and about si\ hundred men work for him, he says teamsters, colliers, harness makers, forgemen and foundrvmen. They rent their cottages from Mr. Logan and buy their merchandise at the St. George store." Martin saw a haze before his eyes. “You mean he placed an order for his store? A big order?" he said. "Ironmasters have an organization, Mr 1 ogan explained. He's president of the Tour State Association of Ironmas¬ ters, with fit tv -nine member furnaces. All told, he can huv for about twenty thousand tobacco users. Regular. Month in and month out." I wice Martin tried to speak. His mouth felt lull of tanbark. "How much did be order?" “This was just a trvout. Fight hun¬ dred dollars’ worth lor the St. George. It the furnaeemen like it, then he‘ll sign up the whole association with sou.'4 Light hundred dollars. "Did he pay cash/’ Martin asked. "No. freight on delivery. The ship¬ ment is to go upriver tomorrow on the Pittsburg Pilot Girl." Martin thought of twenty thousand furnaeemen pulling and munching Tan- letter I obacco. “1 don’t even own Mr. Logan any more," he said numbly. "I traded him for a broom." It made no sense to^ Polly, so she ignored it completely. "Good night, Martin," she said. "Good night," he said. He watched her go, feeling very' much alone. Frowning, he turned down Harrison Street. Any way he looked at what had happened, Mr. Tan¬ letter had taken Ironmaster Logan from him by fraud. But what to do? Mr. Logan belonged to him, to Mar¬ tin, and would certainly follow him wherever he went. Martin would quit Tanletter‘s and hitch up with Crescent Tobacco of Louisville or, say, even Old Honesty of New York. And Mr. Lo¬ gan would trail right along. New York? Why not? He might even find some¬ body there and get married, as Polly had so thoughtfully suggested. There were two things to do, and quickly. First, if possible, he must stop that shipment on the Pittsburg Pilot Girl. Second, he must get in touch with Mr. Logan— visit him here in town or write him a letter at his home address. The trouble was that, though there had been a lot of talk about Mr. Lo¬ gan, nobody had happened to mention his home address. , . . The Pittsburg Pilot Girl was a Thomas Line steamboat, and the Thomas Line dominated the western rivers. Its packets were legion: the num¬ ber of land-hungry emigrants trans¬ ported westward on their crammed decks was astronomical. Headquarters for the company was 227 Marberry Row, near the public landing, and Colo¬ nel Rufus Thomas was its firebrand potentate. After a frugal supper alone in his cel¬ lar. Martin set out for Marberry Row. The streets were deserted, and as he approached the river, the warehouse smells of wet sawdust, rancid hides, and spices, came to his nostrils. Marberry Row was a narrow, brick- paved yard, and number 227 was a tall door with a tiny, sulphurous light above its lintel. Martin twisted the china doorknob and entered an empty, plas¬ tered room. "Hello!" he called. At the far end of the room was a second door; he tried it, found it unlocked and went through. This room was elegant with fine carpet and floral molding. Its plaster walls were hung with cards listing freight rates, notices of boats-and- stagecoach connections, certificates of Thomas Line speed records. OLONEL THOMAS sat in an arm¬ chair by a small marble fireplace, buttering a chunk of cake with his pocketknife. He was eggshaped and dressed in tight, mustard-colored wool, and he was stubble-faced and weary- looking. As Martin appeared, he asked amiably, "And who are you?" Martin told him. In a rush of words, he told him the whole story — Mr. Lo¬ gan's wind-tossed hat, Mr. Tanletter’s sharp bargain, the twenty thousand to¬ bacco-starved furnaeemen. Colonel Thomas listened, fascinated. "But why come to me?" he asked at last. "If I stop a shipment, it won't help you. Leave me out of it. If vour story’s true, you’d better grab on to this Mr. Logan and explain it all to him." He took a bite of buttered cake. "I don't know where to find him." “An ironmaster? That's easy." Colo¬ nel Thomas groped under his desk and came out with a business directory. "Metal trade," he said, quickly turning the pages. Finally he closed the book. He closed it slowly, very gently. "No Ironmaster Logan," he said. "None at all. And no St. George Fur¬ nace, anywhere." He licked his thumb. "What you up to. son?" Martin seemed turned to stone. "Whatever your game is," Colonel Thomas said kindly, "I wish you luck with it. But try it on somebody else." Stiffly, Martin left the room and went out into the night. He tucked his chin into his thread- 0 Collier’s for February 7, 195

Page 417

53 eourt. Out of the darkness, elose to his shoulder, a voice asked guardedly, ‘You Martin Taylor?” It sounded very mueh like Mr, Lo¬ gan — Mr. Logan altering his speech. What now? Martin thought. “That’s right,” he said, and he added easually, ‘Who are you?” “Don't move,” the voiee said. “Stand perfectly still.” It was Mr. Logan, no Joubt about it. “Put on your thinking rap. If Farmer Jones builds himself an aetagonal house, nine feet to a side, ind wishes to roof it half slate and half shingle, the slate eoming from an old nilkhouse and a third of the shingle ;oming from an old henhouse, how nueh new material will he need?” VTARTIN was stunned. “Why, that’s ▼ JL a problem in geometry. First you ake — ” He was so involved, he seareely enscd the motion. Awareness eame to him, and he lueked quickly, A knife blade, razor- harp, was slashed toward him and ipped his eoat sleeve. He threw himself forward, in an ef- ort to eseape a desperate bear grip, and ie felt Mr. Logan’s waxed mustaehe gainst his ear lobe. He was eonfused, ut he knew he was fighting for his ife. The knife clattered, and Mr. Lo¬ an was disarmed. Panting, he succeeded in foreing Mr. ,ogan to a knee. He pressed into him, ito his struggling body, and Mr. Logan inched in sudden panic. Crazily, Mr. .ogan threshed himself free, and was (one. His footsteps echoed through the reh, fading away toward Front Street, bey Martin got up, brushed of! his elothes ^.nd erossed the eourt, ’ollier’s for February 7, 1953 Martin liked this erowded, rural room. There was no fog here, only warmness and the smell of food. IN ONE eorner was a massive four- poster with a patehwork cover, and faeing it aeross the floor was a planta¬ tion-style stove, large enough to feed a dozen field hands. Along the walls were eroeks and jugs and jars, overhead were loops of dried herbs, bright peppers, braids of onions. Aunt Bella was a stocky, bull-faeed woman, suspieious of the entire world, Martin and Polly exeepted, and living entirely in a dream world of eookery. Alone with Polly, she seolded her bit¬ terly for not getting married; alone with the pair, she stufTed Martin with eookies and sweets. Now, chomping a gingersnap, Mar¬ tin brought them up to the minute on the Logan-Tanletter-Colonel Thomas affair. “I’m pretty sure this Mr. Logan wants me dead,” he said in conclusion. “Why?” They shook their heads, and he shrugged. He ehanged the subject. “Got any more of that earaway eandy?” he said. Candy here at Polly’s, on her hearth¬ stone, was, of eourse, always gratis, “You’re a pretty good eonfeetioner, Miss Bella.” “Thanks,” Aunt Bella said. “1 try to be. 1 do everything the honest way. In my eandy, I always use sugar.” “Is there any other way?” “Oh, sure. Rinsings from molasses barrels or sugar hogsheads. Some old sugar hogsheads have up to fifty pounds ol leftover eaked in them. I steer elear of it and use eoffee-grade sugar. Take So many people enjoy ROMA its Americas largest selling wine always your best wine buy! Treat yourself, ,iu. pleasure of fine ROMA wine*. I bey taste so £ood yet eost so little. 1 bey taste •so £ood because ROMA lias tire world s largest re¬ serves of a£in»2 wine and bottles eaeb wine only when its me 1 low - perfect Won* derful llavor — lor so very little — makes ROMA your best wine buy. WHY BUY ANY OTHER WINE ROMA

Page 418

54 1 • *s! tl ■ ' I . V IlLUt. .1 1 . -i i ' k ‘ S.Ild \ tl 1 B r * ' 1 ( * . MIC. 1 1 1 1 L ' . , '■ • v u 9l -Mvi .'v. V t 1. ' I ' . .i Oh, it's an t w 1 H . i t • v i l-vi world brought .1 I O t - M. i til's ni'iid N a ■. . i M I oj m happen to v. ' ■ H 'i.'n'i, t unit w • it in u h r . ' h- t»G«i \\ \ \ -i -iaUi acJ \* ui here horn ( .«•*._ I oil ie \unt Bel h LM rJL^el \\ i s Ju- cot against me * ‘ Nae li1 a nd *s about to do it. f" t ♦ .»' Icfils M.r'in hejms to meddle. S * K a. rts M.inii out i 1 the way \\ u: ' e 1 ret ri u Martin this altenioon IN M Strict Ml I oj. ui was list oil •pro.*. euieiaMx 1 le t ikes Martin's l ■ I then oid thinks Win, I can use • I «t»JL Ik iJ 1 i vhow this eard to ’anjnce me and I 1 steal some to- lhv.n the dunderhead Begins to tlillc .ooBnd uid Mi I olmh sa\s, I not • gv od 1 d Better get rid i 'f till d 1 1 i dv. ' 1 e . d 1 do i i thn k Martin s a dunder- v id Ne 1 e. do 1. \unt Bel a said. “1 . *• I v)i k over eight Imndrcd dollars lore it passes into his hands 'r ou /t think Mi I . nletlcTs going to • I out ih. t mnOi merchandise ust > Le.aise ti st i tin . ci has .1 business eard ■ f lane do you* Mr. lantelter’s i'i 1 .1 4 * But he never ran into Mr. 1 og:in hv*or e \unt Bel a said 1 h t tv' s, cen s pcrlecth safe,” Mar- t n 'iMsied 1 :■ t s w hat Mr laiiletter thinks. ” V • Be ■ s vi 1 tte , ' e* *d v. > i it on the heat ill. M lit i Cl * a* I'leel then With t, e*s ’ K * u >v h 1 >od It Was .'Boll! the onl\ i«M*t'd o: hi'pv’i i -i I- v.e ii hts hie. his ! 'i ovl a* v he i ell inisceil t e\er\ op- ii n i , ■ i • \ h kv. .. i old m n BoMv tts 11 wh e v 1 j i t v. 1 1 a ' I \ p. te eMcd m tf". q* e K o p . Ved with It was toil o e \ 'e k W • v 1 1 he let t I he tvig li v* J-n.h»sv.j Bi t the court Wt s a soddi.fl 1 >. . VI C th a sk\ v't Sv>vH\ ^ v> lvls \\ i O d v sse'd tile Bctiten e.uth tv> the ,iu l f t.ie scc u* of lus unple v nt experieiue w he I is shvK* tvHlwhe'd sv'lVlhl'lg sv'tt. he* ’v*nt down and picked us ( wad ol t.iBrie He' Cat ned it vKnui the passage at t onto I rout Mrecl. and held it hoiieall- a stieet Limp. It was a cap. a steaniBodtei \ etip wath a patcnt-leMthci \ isoi Once it h id be'cn an olliee't’s cap. long discarded, no doubt, because ot its shabbiness. 1 tided letters across its front said Pitts¬ burg Pilot (iirl. Mr. I Kigali had dropped it. Marlin threw it ove'r a fence quickly, as though it were si//.hng hot. and con¬ tinued east on l rout Street. Alter a bit, he came to the public landing. Aunt Bella had disturbed him. Maybe Mr. lanletter’s tobacco, value eight hundred dollars, was actually in danger. If Colonel Thomas, steamboat poten¬ tate. wouldn’t stop the shipment, per¬ haps the Pilot Girl’s captain would. . . . The great landing, acres in area, was threaded in the darkness with the bobbing lanterns of cargo workers. Half a dozen boats stood in a line, their stems shoved up on the cobbles. In the center was the Pittsburg Pilot Girl, a giant of three hundred tons and a forty- foot beam. Of her three eakc-layet decks, the first showed no lights, the second many, and the third a twinkle here and there. T he plank was down; Martin boarded her without interfer¬ ence. This wasn't going to be a happy interview. Steamboat captains could really explode. Where to find the captain? Martin had never been on a steamboat in his life. On the other hand, he'd had many elaborate conversations with his curb¬ stone f riends on this sporty subject and understood the plan of a boat thor¬ oughly. Now he was on the main deck, the lowest layer, devoted to freight and ma¬ chinery and steerage. This was the lower layer of passengers too, deck passen¬ gers, cut-fare travelers. Down-river this deck would be crowded with emigrants; upriver now. the few sleeping men who were stretched on its planking were mainly farmers returning from New Or¬ leans, and here and there was a trapper in a buffalo hide. It was doubtful, at this hour, that the captain would be found here. Martin went up a sweep¬ ing staircase to the second deck. This was the deck of elegance, the saloon deck. Here he immediately ran into compli¬ cations. At the stairhead was a small office blocking the entrance to the deck proper. A tough-looking little man stood behind a folding counter; he eyed Martin with distaste and asked coldly, “W here to?” He was the purser, the watchdog. Martin knew, of all the saloon-deck lux¬ ury. the cut glass and mahogany and crystal, the tassels and velvet and bro¬ cade. Gold letters on his cap said Pitts¬ burg Pilot Girl. “J can’t find the captain,” Martin told him. The little man looked concerned. “Have you tried the French Quarter in New Orleans? I distinctly saw him there. I saw him indistinctly in St. Louis, but that's another story.” “Thank you,” Martin said politely. “I’ll tell Colonel Thomas.” “Oh.” the man said. “Oh. In that case you’ll find him above, in the bar¬ bershop. You go up them steps there , between them two smoke pipes, and it’ll be the officers’ staterooms. You go aft to the barbershop at the stern rail. You can’t miss it.” This second flight of steps brought Martin to a deck forty or so feet above the river. The bobbing lights in the night below him seemed very far away. He followed the rail and made his way to the rear of the boat. The parade of little doors to the oflicers’ cabins were shut, the ports dark. At the far rear was a deckhouse about twenty feet square and a dozen feet high. It had windows, not ports, and its windows were blazing with golden light. Martin lifted the latch and went in. r | Ml Hi room was lighted by two cut- I JL glass chandeliers. There was a tur¬ key-red Axminster on the floor and a ' great gold-framed painting on the wall — a little boy in silk pants tending a flock of sheep, A couple dozen men — planters, many traveling merchants, a J few gamblers perhaps — lounged about in argument or laughter. Martin was | unnoticed in the doorway. Across the . room, directly under the painting, u^as a barber chair. 1 he chair had a customer, a man with muttonchop whiskers and a furious bel¬ low. a man in a captain’s jacket. He was demanding just about everything ' on the shelf. Balm of a Thousand Flow- 1 CoIlierN for February 7. 1933 j Mli> million- limrn’t ln oiiirlit him huppim*-- lmt they’ve glenn r collier $ -lire helped brighten my life** bernhardt

Page 419

55 crs, Hair Invigorator. Ox-Marrow Pom¬ ade. I he barber, a plump man with an ! apron tied under his armpits, hopped about, fawning, trying to please. j he barber turned his head a little and Martin saw a glossy mustache. First he recognized the mustache, lhen Mr. I ogan. Boat's barber on the Pittsburg Pilot Girl was Mr. I .ogan. Silently, Martin drew back and shut the door in front ol him. I hought- fully, he descended to the saloon deck. The tough-looking little purser was still behind the counter, at the moment gazing sentimentally at a pressed fern in a miniature volume of love poems. He put the book away. "Find him?'’ he asked. "Yes,” said Martin. "Who is the bar¬ ber working on him?” "Slippy Batson. Pretty comic, eh?” "Been with the Pilot Girl long?" "Yes, indeed. We couldn’t get along without old Slippy. Why?” "Got anything to do with the cargo?” "You’re thinking of his brother Dres¬ den. It’s Dresden Batson that's the Pilot Girl’s shipping master.” II ARTIN thanked him and left. He I 1? J ran down the stairs to the main deck, across the plank to the cobble¬ stones, and headed as fast as he could go for Marberry Row and Colonel Thomas. Martin only hoped that the colonel w'as still in his office. He w;as, and he greeted Martin cor¬ dially. The fire had gone to embers in the little marble fireplace, the vvindowpanes were beaded with cold, and Colonel Thomas had wrapped an old yarn muf¬ fler around his throat. His pocketknife was in his hand again, spreading more butter on more cake. He chewed and listened, sad-eyed, while Martin poured forth his story. "This Mr. Logan, really Slippy Batson, must have seen me here with you, and got suspicious that I’d show him up; so he followed me to Bat¬ talion C ourt and tried to kill me.” Mar¬ tin said. "Sounds logical,” Colonel I homus agreed. "His brother, this Dresden Batson,” Marlin said excitedly, "is the kev 10 the whole filing. He's the Pilot Girl’s shipping master. Once they get valu¬ able cargo on hoard, any kind ol cargo, the shipping master can simply relabel ii. readdress it and unload it anywhere. His bills of lading, and your hills of lading, would be in per led order, hut the merchandise would simply vanish. Could this be?” "It not only could be,” said Colonel Thomas slowly, "you've hit the nail ex¬ actly on the head.” He wiped his lin¬ gers carefully, one by one, on a fine linen handkerchief. "I’m greatly in¬ debted to y ou, son.” Martin waited. "We’ve been having cargo abstrac¬ tions on the Pilot Girl for some time,” the colonel said. "Before that, I had them on the Supreme. The Batsons, Dresden and Slippy, were on the Su¬ preme then. Shipping master and bar¬ ber, We've been thinking it was deck thieves. Deck thieves can he hard to catch. So it was my own shipping master, eh?” The room was cold and moist, and the red embers in the fireplace had burned themselves into a dusty white powder. Suddenly it came to Martin that it was Colonel Thomas, not Mr. I ogan, who had been his act of Providence. Here was Colonel Thomas, the king¬ pin of river traffic, indebted to him, even affectionate toward him. The idea came to Martin that perhaps Colonel Thomas would buy a few boxes of ci¬ gars. If he struck while the iron was hot and snagged so important a per¬ sonage, then Mr. Tanlettcr would have to reconsider him. "I represent fan- letter’s Fine Tobaccos for Personages of Refinement and Taste.” he said. Colonel Thomas smiled receptively, BUTC1I »)*l Collier’s for Fehruai 1953 am goiiF to buy myself a valise. I happen colliers to be waitin'’ for a good sale, lliaCs alF* LARRY REYNOLDS f.p 1 benev olonib "’Select ■ c Sj n- ish, Ohio and keniuckv C\il \ Km grade honevdew cut chewing Gab' "Did you s.iv xuhr' *« r cJ ( * oncl ’I horn. is. bhnknu! Ax usual. M. trim's emotions look over completelv. ihe remembrance ot his tirxi. youihtul experiment wnh lu- bacco overwhelmed him. V usea flooded him. and his lace look on a ghostly pallor. lie tried to smile bravely . "Are you sick’’” Colonel 1 hernias asked. "You’re making a repulsive lace." I he colonel seemed a litile shaken. "I don’t think I d care ior any Tanlettcr cigars. You work where they make them you should know.” I hen a greater power seemed to take hold of Martin. He scarcely heard the words he spoke. “You like cake. Do you like candy and jam?" he asked. "Fact is, I do.” Colonel I homas said "Me too,” Martin said. A panorama of all the cake and candy he’d ever eaten passed before him, and his lace glowed beatifically. Colonel I homas glowed uncon¬ sciously in response. "Let me tell you about candy,” Mar¬ tin said urgently. "C heap candy is made from barrel rinsings. You didn't know that, did you?” Colonel 1 homas shook his head. "Now let me tell you about jams and jellies — the commercial product. Cheap jelly is right out of the apothecary shop. Strawberry? Cochineal for coloring — ” "Why, cochineal is nasty little red bugs!” “ — cochineal for a nice red coloring, orrisroot and acetic ester for flavoring. Pineapple? Turmeric for a nice yel¬ low and butyric ester for flavoring.” Now it wax Colonel Thomas who looked nauseated. Martin pressed him. "You sell sweets on the Pilot Girl, don’t you?” he said. "Sure. Well, tomorrow I want you to meet some friends of mine. Miss Bella and Miss Polly Hopkins. They’re hon¬ est confectioners. They put fruit in their fruit. Maybe you could place a small order with them for a try out.” THE colonel became enthusiastic. "You're going to turn out to be a godsend!” he said. "Steamboats are known, build their reputations, on the grade of food they serve. Such horri¬ ble, trashy jam Fve been selling. I ship droves of emigrants, and emigrants are insatiable jam and jelly eaters. Is this Hopkins Company a large one?” "A small one,” "An idea has just come to me. Here's what we could do: I'll buy into it. for the line, and buy you into it. and we ll really go into production. Now let me figure.” He closed his eyes and moved his lips in calculation. "I’ve six boats like the Pilot Girl.” he said. "She carries about seventy-five xtateroomers and maybe three hundred deck passengers. Call it twenty-live hundred jam eaters, counting officers. I belong to an asso¬ ciation of steamboat owners. Alto¬ gether, we must carry fifty thousand passengers ...” Martin traded twenty thousand lur- naccmen for fifty thousand emigrants. "I need you, son, I need you,” Colo¬ nel Thomas said. *, And then he looked worried. "The catch is Mr. I .in letter," he said. "You’re a smart lad. smart. A nickel says you're the keystone of his organization. How can we get him to let you go; how can we get him to release you?” “Let me handle it.” Martin said. 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Page 420

I KE’S PIPEFITTER Lx-plnmhcr Marlin Durian, the new Secretary of Labor, teas yanked oat of relative obscurity to become tin most controrersial member of the ('abinet. lie may prove a surprise to the officials he uorks with M\l Secretary ol I ahor in the l I abor still work in o' oi t know who i cc i m mended him. Ills phoi-e rang one .itcinoon, in i!k \\ avinucton olhees ol the l mted w ■ n o Joi.iiKwmcn and Apprentices of the I* "in'Miic ti$d K pc I ittiiu IndusiiN. and a \oice d I l(K s I lc belt Buns ncil. ’ \\ oi s'scl! Du i km B i such I a in calhne lor General 1 isen- I) km uojm/cd the iuiiil- ol the then Attor- 1 ili l. f a ' *l!c n iv’ n ate . said a-e t o come to New 'i ork to talk m ..ssunui a the eenei tl me cl\ wanted s.i.acst mines loi Sec ■ cM.tr \ c» 1 I . bor, .» Nl a 'i oi i ii .i n w.in taken to the I isen- h l 1 1 1 Mcinmjside Duse, met the it ti k h'i the i st t me and w.is mioimed h *v! iKeU L pped I oi the ( abind i L * tl su, lowed Mid . mf s.nd "CicUlclal. 11. S "A^ocls u-M sou 1 11 at I m a Dchhki it . iuf voted O' \ I . Sic S L ilM'l . ’ "Do Sc • i link t hat would mter'eie with the ps*!o u ike lH v oui duties.’ asked 1 isenhower. ' No. si i \ '! i 'gnt. then . . . ’ Martin Du kin was started on the biggest job o t f s pipelining l.i ec*i lasing a pipe me between the uw Rcpub k n adnun-sti atiiMi and the -abor mosement. I he Tan ss ho was e.i led to th s Ms ects up at 5:' \ m. ewers das ssuhout talk to .v to Mass. Hef v'lnmunieatcs at the Sin me of I e Most Blessed Saer i le it. mst across the line m \\ ashnuton from his Chess Chase. Mars land, home, has his break- last and then goes to his otlice; he is usualls lirst grew up in Chicago's South Side and left school at 1 5 to a packing house. Yet lie remembers liis childhood fondly By SAMI EE GUAETON in. When he is on the road, he svill drive 50 miles before breakfast, if necessary, to tind a church in sshich he can fulfill his daily duties. In our determinedly secular society, in svhich sell -denial is not a characteristic mood, Durkin is an unusual figure. He not only doesn't use the supports ol liquor and tobacco enjoyed by so main people, but he has given up the subtler props of impatience, temper, irritability. “Durkin?" said a Washington friend. “I’ll tell sou about Durkin. He hates to be late. If he has to catch a tram, he’s at the station a half hour early. If he has to meet someone and he’s late, he’s miserable. "But if you have an appointment with him, and von come late, very late, he waits patiently and greets you with a smile. He isn't worrying about improving uni. He figures that’s your problem. ’I here's only one man Durkin fights, and that’s Dm kin.” Main people give up smoking and drinking for the keen pleasure of living to persuade others to de> likewise. Not Durkin. He keeps cigars and drinking liquor lor those who want them. “Light up!" he says, in his own home, and he shoves an ash trav toward uni. He had declined pleasantly to be interviewed in his office at the plumbers* and pipefitters’ head¬ quarters (“I don't do anything there I wasn’t hired to do." he said) so, trying not to be late, 1 had gone to his whitewashed brick house in the suburban area where Maryland hooks on to the District of Columbia. I he house sparkles inside and out; ev¬ erything that can be waxed has been waxed, and everything that can be pol¬ ished has been polished. There is a certain symmetry about the internal ar¬ rangements; absolutely nothing has been "strewn’ or “flung’’ in the modern decorative wav, and I lelt I was visiting a family in which the ideas of beauty and order are closely connected. We talked about Durkin's Cabinet post. “everybody's surprised by this ap¬ pointment," he said, “mysell included. It s always been that way with my jobs. In 1921, in Chicago, they made me business representative of my local, and everybody was startled. In 1933, Governor Horner made me director of labor for Illinois, and people said: ‘Who's Durkin?' It’s a kind of pattern.” He lets himself be interviewed the way he would let a barber cut his hair. A large, placid man in blue serge, he answers each question precisely but volunteers almost nothing. He has all the time in the world. If you pause to think between questions, he waits with you. After a while, the interviewer gets an uncomfortable feeling that this easy. smiling man is viewing him as an occasion for exercising the virtue of patience, and that breaks up the meeting. Physically, Durkin is a strong man with good shoulders, but he doesn’t play games and never takes vacations. He tried golf conscientiously sev¬ eral years ago and managed a number of rounds on a municipal course, but it didn't take. His idea of a rattling good time during a hot summer month is to make a motor tour of American and Canadian cities, visiting locals of the plumbers and pipefit¬ ters union. He takes as many members of his family along as he can induce to come; then, in 1 each city, he disappears into the offices of the local for a day of conferences and speechmaking. Then he goes on to the next town. His family once persuaded Durkin to rent a summer cottage at a Minnesota lake. After three days, every morning of which he drove 25 miles to Mass, he went back to his Washington office. Once, during a week end at a cottage on the Fox i River, near Chicago, his friends, walking out of doors late one night, were startled by a loud voice, I booming over the water. “It's just Marly saving his prayers.” explained jjj his wile, Anna. He was saying them at an open window. Durkin's voice, which is low, is raised only in prayer. At church, say members of his family, he forgets himself and can he heard above the others: at home, when he goes to his bedroom to say his Rosary. his devotions are sometimes au-, dible throughout the house. Years ago, he decided, without saying much | about it. always to keep some poor family undo his wing. But it occurred to him that merely tc I write a check, giving up only the cash and a mol Collier’s for February 7, 195.‘J

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ment out of his day, was an act without signifi¬ cance, so he buys food tor his protege t amity in person. Once a week, lie turns up at a Washington market and walks among the counters, thought¬ fully assembling a basket ot groceries. W hen his current poor family includes small children, he confers with his wife or daughters-m-law about what sort of baby food to buy. Collecting groceries tor tolks who need them is a pleasant occupation for Durkin, blit collecting thanks is not. So when he has made up his bundle, he usually sends it over by one of his sons or a messenger. When one family graduates to sol¬ vency, through recovery from illness or a new job, he looks about for another family, sometimes ask¬ ing a priest to scout one for him. Among the luxuries Durkin does not allow him¬ self is self-pity. 1 have stood in the streets of Chi¬ cago’s South Side, near 50th and Morgan, where Durkin grew up. It is a patchy area of frame houses, factories, empty lots, railway overpasses; metropolitan dolor hangs heavily over it. Many a modern novelist has bitterly resented, for three or four hundred pages at a crack, a childhood spent in such surroundings. Durkin remembers his child¬ hood fondly. “We had quite a few empty lots,” he says, “so we could play ball Saturdays, and Sundays after Mass. Monday and Wednesday nights wc went to an indoor gym at one of the small parks. We got our recreation that way. 1 still like to go home to Chicago and walk down those streets and call the fellows by name.” Durkin spent his boyhood as one of a family of ten, supported by his father’s earnings of $2 a day as ,i stationary fireman at a glue works His father worked 12 hours a dav . seven di\s a week Once a fortnight, to make the turnabout Iiom dav to night shitt, he worked 24 horns through Maitin, the oldest child, who lo\cd school, switched to night courses at lit teen so he could haul meat on the killing and cutting floor of a packing house, but even in discussing this he shows no emotional scar tissue. “I’ve had a happy life ” he says “Coming, as 1 did, from the poorer class of people, I've had a good life, an excellent life.” Durkin's wife, the former Anna Helen Mc- Nicholas, grew up on Halsted Street, not tar from Morgan. They were married 31 vears ago, during Durkin’s first year as business representative of l.ocal 5‘>7, and have three sons- Martin IT. thirty, William J., twenty-nine, John Francis, nineteen. \\ ife Consulted About Acceptance W'hen Eisenhower, at 60 Morningsidc Drive, broke the news to Durkin of his Cabinet appoint¬ ment, Durkin asked time to talk it over with his wife, “to see if she thought it was a proper thing to do.” The new administration waited until the family conference was hefd before making the announcement. When 1 asked to talk with Mrs. Durkin, a slight, amiable woman, Durkin called her in, presented me. and gravely left the room so as not to influence the conversation. We talked at length of Durkin's early days in C hicago. Later, when Durkin returned to the room, 1 spoke to the new C abinet member about his life as a union member and leader. Durkin’s emotion 57 ih» nf th 1 h ' r rii -ven '*rit i r v r v p A \ • he describes how ii ’ a • r .lKUJiul U ■ the ( h _ _ ’ • •? t p and pipefitters In n to f iv h o n a social aspects, which no novelist ! , vet ^ r icled. Several veirs ago. Durkins in i fe M«r William J . married June Kedrin i d d u “ te* on a construct ion job in Washington, where union has headquarters. Besides his union activity, he served eight years as state director of labor in Illinois ha*® s a t ».

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58 >>011 s Idvonte. m the hope of finding him some¬ where on the ( ontinent. though he had only an \LO number lor an address l)iijr> n landed . t Oilv Auliekl, near Paris, and dise o\ ci cd that his soi ujs stationed right there, hut was oil on a 24-hour puss He climbed into a on, maud e n the wav saw his se>n. standing In the roadside, w. mug lor a hiteh I he colonel, lor a gag, stopped the car stepped outside, arid, addressing the voting nun sc\c el\ ordered him in Bill, trembling in eveiv joint comp led, saw his lather and almost lei back into the road. Son Too St arocl to Pick l p Hi* Date 1 hev drove into Paris, where Bill had a date w i h a girl who was waiting tor him on a street corner Sitting between the august presences of the colonel and his lather, he didn't dare say any¬ thing about it and thev drove bv the miss. Bill never did see her again. Bill remembers dimlv a house in Chicago, dur¬ ing depression vears, when Irom two to live steam- litters would show up eveiv night, silent, strained men. being given shirts and food and other help to tide them over hard times. In 19T a group ol Chicago labor representa¬ tives met to suggest names to the newly elected Governor Henrv Horner lor the post ol state di- lector ol labor. Members ollered Durkin's name. Durkin ret used tu entertain the idea. "1 was ihirtv -eight ' he savs. “1 felt the appointment Tuu d go to an older man, as a eruunmg glorv to his labor lit e.” But in the end he vielded. It was a veastv time, earl) in the New Deal, when there was a vast amount of new labor legis¬ lation to absorb and digest, new emplov ment ex¬ changes to set up, unemplov ment compensation pi ns to start I he Illinois Department of Labor grew lrom 250 emplov ees to 3,000 during Durkin's incumbent). and it's a measure of his success that he never was seriously accused of pa) roll padding. I le staved on lor eight vears under three governors, leaving eight months alter the Republican admin¬ istration ol Dwight Green took olfiee. Durkin's break with Green resulted from the Libor official's refusal to approve unemployment compensation for striking mine workers: the gov¬ ernor. under heavy pressure, sided with the union. "1 got along with Mr. Durkin all right." Green said recently. "He was let out lor political reasons." 1 he late Governor Horner said of Durkin's ap¬ pointment: "The best 1 ever made." Durkin is given a large share of the credit for the passage in Illinois ol a so-called antisvveat-shop law, a minimum-wage law for women and children, an eight-hour day I or women, and legislation l or un¬ employment and disability compensation. "I’d give a tip to anybody who is going to work with him," says a man who has known him a long time. "He expects a full day's work for a day’s pay. He's amiable and forgiving with people, but not about slackness. Those who work for him, work." Durkin drives himself hard. His oldest son, Martin B., now a pipefitter for an engineering firm in the Washington area, remembers taking walks with his father, while a boy; he always had to run to keep up. Yet Durkin usually avoids forcing peo¬ ple to match his pace; where others are involved, patience reasserts itsell and he slows down. In his early years as a pipefitter in Chicago, he would go to the stockyard taverns with some of his friends, drink ginger ale while they drank stronger stufif, and then help take them home. In the same way, he listens patiently to anyone who wants to talk to him, never losing his smile. Durkin's youngest son, John Francis, is a stu¬ dent at Devitt School in Bethesda, Maryland, not far from Chevy Chase. He is thinking of going into religious life; he is especially interested in the Trappist order, whose rule includes a vow of si¬ lence. Durkin sometimes goes along with the boy when he makes retreat at a Trappist monastery on the banks of the Shenandoah, near Berryville, Virginia. What kind of Cabinet officer will Durkin be? 1 think 1 know the answer. Those who expeet him to aet like a wild Democratic bull in a Repub¬ lican ehina shop will be disappointed; that’s not his way. He is a man who likes to end an argu¬ ment, rather than start one. His method is con¬ ference, not public statement. His old desk, in the Tilt* now «*e< relarv with hi* wife, Anna, ami youngest *<»ik John. T wo other soils, Martin and W illiam, work a** pipefitters in \\ aMiington area. John, like his father, is deeply religious, and may join Trappists HARRIS A EWING olTices of the plumbers and pipefitters international, actual!) stands at the head of a conference table, in a conference room; the table was his tool, as a saw is li carpenter’s. I asked him what he intended to do as Secretary of 1 Libor. He said: “I'll study the legislation whieh sets up the department, and we’ll do everything we can to place into effeet the policies required under the act.’’ In Durkin's ease, even a legislative eliehe takes on a special importance, beeause of his earnestness; he is the kind ol man who gets a eliehe into his teeth and tries to carry it through to reality. When he says he will try, as required, to "advance profit¬ able employment,’’ one feels he has studied the words and wi 11 soberly try to give them meaning. One newspaper walloped him after his appoint¬ ment on the ground that he was going into the gov¬ ernment to represent labor rather than the public. He shrugged it olT. “You ean't long displease the public and make gains for anybody, labor or indus¬ try," he said. To his Cabinet mates in the new administration, he may prove a little hard to understand. Most of them are men of large afTairs, and Durkin's life may appear to them rather narrow. He has never belonged to a country club. He hurries home to his lamily at 4:30 p.m., the Washington elosing hour. At Easter, he buys his four grandchildren bunnies almost his own size, and delivers them himself — a big, serious man carrying the great stulTed animals up the front walk. At night he often just vvatehes television. He is not a club or lodge man. His Enthusiasm for Education There is in his life little of the eomplieated, or¬ nate, expensive fun that ean go with success in America. He worries about education, and feels “you can’t get enough." Both his older sons take or audit college eourses constantly, though it’s not easy — “a pipefitter is heat at night." When Durkin hears of a new course one of them might take, he hurries over to talk about it. He buys books constantly, and gives many away. He buys dogs the same way. He used to bring dogs home unexpectedly at day s end, and Mrs. Durkin would patiently help care for them. Now he usually gives them to others. His idea of fun is to find somebody who needs a dog. He discovered that the Trappists at Berryville needed a new sheep dog for their herds; he bought a pedigreed animal and delightedly drove it down in his ear. Yet the brilliant and successful men who sit at the Cabinet table with Durkin may find him, de¬ spite (or perhaps beeause) of his homely qualities, a euriouslv formidable figure. Having fought and disciplined his own will, he has made it a more powerful instrument than ever for the performance of his duty. His unconeern about his dignity has given him a dignity which is truly impressive. Reuben G. Soderstrom, president of the Illinois Federation of Labor, who has known Durkin for 25 years, remembers best, out of that quarter cen¬ tury, that once when a man had had a fit in front of a Washington hotel, Durkin promptly left a group, went over, made himself responsible and obtained assistance. “I can still hear him saying, in his low voice, The man needs help,’ ’’ says Soderstrom. Father David Fullmer, assistant superintendent of paroehial education in Chicago, a friend of Durkin, said: ‘ Wateh him when he's talking about something that interests him, and somebody in¬ terrupts him, perhaps thoughtlessly. He will stop, turn to the interrupter, answer him politely and fully, turn back to the man he was talking to in the first plaee, pick right up where he was, and show no sign that he's irritated." If 1 were pressed to say what I have learned from Martin Durkin, it would be that 1 think l un¬ derstand a little more completely what the word “meek" means, as used in the Bible. It doesn't mean groveling in your relations with others, or thinking yourself unworthy in comparison with them; perhaps it just means not thinking about yourself at all. AAA Collier’s for February 7, 1953

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59 Man Here Owns a Fire Engine Here’s a Jones that anyone would have a hard time keeping up with t f d|. ie w :d ; n- I rd it l or itb vat k f + [ 35 1IKE most of the rest of us, Proctor Patterson Jones grew up with a dream of glory. He * always wanted to he a fireman. I ast sum¬ mer, at the age of thirty-six, Mr. Jones, a tax con¬ sultant, caught up with his dream. He bought himself a genuine fire engine. Proctor Jones discovered his engine in a junk yard near his home town — Atherton, California. It was a 1914, right-hand drive Seagrave hook- and-ladder truck, painted a fine, deep red, with old gold lettering that said “Truck Company 62.” It was 35 feet long, and he knew immediately that he was going to buy it. To justify his purchase, he told Mrs. Jones the old truck would make a won¬ derful plaything lor their children, Beverly, a four-year-old boy, and Martha Feme, two. “It will be educational," he said. It is not recorded whether Mrs. Jones fell for the flummery, but she agreed. Mr, Jones made out a check for $250 and the truck was his. Once he had the behemoth hauled to his back yard, he looked under the hood. The massive, six-cylinder motor (each cylinder has four spark plugs) fairly reeked with potential power. "It would only be sensible to put the motor in run¬ ning order,” Jones mused. He called a mechanic, and was soon in business But it takes two men to drive the truck: one (Jones himself) at the driver’s wheel, and one at the tiller wheel, which guides the rear wheels. A man with a real hook- and-ladder in his yard, however, can never be without friends, and shortly he had almost enough volunteers to man a battleship. Now, with the motor fixed up, the body and trim polished to a high shine and the running crew chosen, Truck Company 62 was ready to go. But where? And why? Proctor Jones didn't have to look far for answers. I lie neighborhood kids and his own two children had for several weeks been impatiently waiting for the call. One bright Sun¬ day morning they got it. Almost two dozen young¬ sters and a handful of adults scrambled aboard. Jones started the thunderous old motor, and the hook-and-ladder rumbled out of the back yard for the first of its weekly tours of Atherton, “Where’s the fire?” passing motorists called. “There isn't any,” Chief Jones shouted back. Then everybody laughed — especially Proctor Jones, for his dream had come true. Robert de Roos Proctor Jones, in driver's seat of his 191 1 right-hand-drive fire engine, tries to make his excited crew hold still for the camera PHOTOGRAPH FOR COLLIER'S BY JOHN FLOREA

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The Time of Year B\ II AMI I'N III XT (iR! LR HOUSE, an iv) -covered brick build- mg on the Charles Ri\er, had a well-tended * look, and tonight, with all the windows lighted because of the annual house dance, it also had a look ol elegant gaieu. Students were having parties in their rooms, and through the open win¬ dows quick conversation and laughter streamed out like the \er\ banners of the army of south. Ann 1 cl\, however, was a veteran of twenty- nine, no longer pait of that noisv army. She stood heside one ot her living-room window's and sighed because the autumnal wind made tier heart ache. Evervone else was voting and excited and care- fiee while she. although she was blonde and pretty and had on a partv dress, had duties and responsi- bi i ties. Even John, her husband, was free and on the w ing John was an instructor in history and Ann worked in one ol the university libraries, and even their combined salaries did not add up to much. 1 hev lived in this lather formal academic luxury because John was housemaster ot Greer. He ad- v sed and tutored students, while Ann had Sunday- altef noon parties lor lonely boys. When there were big social functions, both the master and his wife we e on duty . I hat was why the l elys were having open house tonight. 1 rom time to time, couples would come into the housemastei s quarters to pay their respects, and then they would go back to the dance, or their ear doors would bang as they set out tor some¬ where else. Ann turned away from the window with a guilty start when a girl whispered from tie doorway: ‘Please, may I come in r* "Ot course,” Ann said, moving torward to the punch bowl set round with gleaming glasses. How orderly and elderly the scene must appear! ‘AVe’re delighted to have you.” “My name’s Lucy Farnham,” the girl said, then added, fiercely and abruptly, “I can’t go back there!” Ann said hospitably, “Stay as long as you like, and I hope your friends will join you. How’s the dance going?” If she sounded wistful, the other did not notice. “Terribly, for me,” she said, and it was painful to see how much it mattered to her. “What's become of your date?” Ann asked mat- ter-of-f actly. No girl came to a Greer House dance without having been asked by one of the students. Of course, occasionally something unpleasant, or even startling, happened. Undergraduates had been known to drink too much. Cars smashed up. Fights occurred. “He’s in the infirmary, and I don’t even know him very well,” the girl said. “They think he pulled a ligament in his leg this afternoon, playing squash or something. But 1 was already here for the week end, and 1 couldn't go back to college. He told some friend of his to look after me and take me to the dance.” “And it isn't working out very' well?” Ann asked. “He never showed up,” the girl said bitterly. “I stayed upstairs in the rooms after my roommate and the others lett. Somebody came and got me and danced once and said they’d see if they could find him. My roommate's gone ofT with the boy she’s engaged to. and they've got my car, so I can’t leave. We drove up from Connecticut together. She made me come — I suppose because she wanted the ear.” There was such bitterness in her young voice that Ann was startled. Lucy Farnham had a very white face framed in dark hair, she was quite lovely, and she wore an obviously expensive eve¬ ning dress. Beside it, Ann’s amber-colored velvet¬ een seemed clumsily made. But the girl, who was not more than nineteen, didn’t have much confi¬ dence in her capacity to have a friend, or a date, or even a good time at a dance. Vaguely, Ann remem¬ bered the abysmal shame that came from failure at a dance. “1 feel like a frog in a swamp out there,” the girl said. “If my roommate had even stayed around a while, I might have got started, but she’s in love, and nothing else matters to her.” “Haven’t you ever felt that way?” Ann asked, more to make conversation than for any other reason. The girl obviously needed to talk away her misery. Lucy said, “Frankly, I’m not impressed by love. My mother’s on her third love match, and my fa¬ ther’s on his fourth divorce. Neither of them ever gave me much time or thought. Even my room¬ mate’s been engaged before.” Ann said the obvious thing. “You’re very young. Someday you’ll change your mind.” “No!” the girl said. Suddenly she flung her punch glass to the hearth, where it crashed. “Lis¬ ten. I’m rich. I’m sugar and railroads. I’m a curi¬ osity. Boys ask me out on a bet, to see what goes with my name, or else they’re scared to turn up.” “I see,” Ann said. The girl looked at the broken glass. “Em sorry about that,” she said. “Ell pay for it.” She touched her small velvet bag, then flushed. “Em sorry again. I’m so rich I never have money like other people. It’s all charge accounts and checks. I haven’t even enough cash for a train ticket, or I’d leave.” “The punch set comes with the job,” Ann said. “It doesn’t matter if a few' glasses get broken.” There were footsteps which Ann recognized, hut the girl turned panicky. “What am 1 going to do? 1 can’t go back!” JOHN LELY looked like any of his students, though he was thirty, and he was eager and flushed by his social duties, which he loved to per¬ form. An hour ago, Ann, seeing him go off to the dance, had felt jealous and forlorn because she had to stay with the punch bowl. She had felt so old and so nailed down by marriage, she had been startled by her fierce envy of those who were young and free, with all their big decisions still before them. “John, this is Miss Allen,” she said quickly, and the girl looked at her, startled at the new name she had been given. “She’s had a little difficulty, and at the moment she’s without an escort.” “Obviously through no fault of her own,” John said quickly. He glanced at Ann and then said im¬ pulsively, “Do let me take you dancing. Miss Allen. I’m alone, too.” He drew her arm through his and smiled down at her, attracted. And why not? Ann thought. “I couldn’t,” the girl said, but her face lighted as John looked down at her. It was plain she longed to blot out the dark stain of social failure, wanted to be seen whirling and dancing and going from one partner to another, and the housemaster could arrange that. If she could he sought after tonight, when nobody knew she was sugar and railroads, the triumph might be endlessly important to her. It might be victory. “Run along,” Ann said, as though she were speaking to a loved and nearly grown daughter twenty years from now. “Have a wonderful time.” The girl had already forgotten Ann as she went laughing down the stone corridor, and Ann, sweep¬ ing up the last of the broken glass and settling her¬ self once more behind the punch bowl, did not even care. The music to which others were dancing no longer haunted her, and the sound of cars coming and going did not make her restless. In herself, for the first time, she felt the time of year, and it was admittedly early autumn. She was not nineteen and never would be again, but what she had was love and marriage and a reasonably secure future of modest proportions. Gathered to¬ gether, these made a bright and ample harvest, which she could even afford to share, and as she heard young laughter approaching, she began to ladle out punch, neatly and carefully. A Jk A 60 Collier's snoitT snoitT

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62 The Finger of God CONTINUED FROM PACE 15 among them who had seen the sea. ‘What is it like'*” they asked him He said “It is like a big dam. A dam as biu as the world Water as tar as the e>e can see, and salt. Water that is not worth a curse. He had it all figured out. There was a weak place in the wire. He looked at the sun When it was high in the heav¬ ens and burning hot, he would slip through. The other prisoners would stage a fight in the far corner. In this heat no one paid much attention to things— not when the sun was so hot that the sentries burned their hands on their rifle barrels. The Rooineks, the red necks, as they called the English, could not stand the heat. Of course, he might be shot. But it was not likely. Anyway, in war there was always that chance, he refused to think of it. The next thing wa a horse. That was planned too. For a month, ever since he had been taken, he had watched. He had missed nothing. thought he was mad. Ja, mad, but in a very sane way, he thought now. How to pass among the British, that had been the question. Why, like a Britisher then he would be invisible. The morning roll call went off smoothly. So he had not been noticed. Next morning, though, when they called the roll again and counted, they dis¬ covered he was gone. He heard the bugles blowing, heard orders shouted, and men mounting and riding out. Let them look, he thought, and went to sleep again very comfortably with his head on his old Boer clothes. He stayed hidden three more days. By then they had given him up. He’d even heard the except a sentry on the outpost who, see¬ ing a cavalryman ride by in the moon¬ light, thought no more of it. An orderly taking a message, he thought, and not in any hurry either. Once clear, Jan began to canter, turn¬ ing his horse northward. “Ja, my friend,” he said, “you are a Boer horse again. A free horse, with less food but all Africa in which to loop. Space instead of food.” The stallion laid back his ears, flicking them to listen. He seemed glad to hear the Taal again. Jan laughed to be free, to be riding over the veld again, to be riding to¬ ward the mountains. Once in the Wa- terberg, he was safe unless his own ALL morning Jan waited. He had the hunter’s ability to wait. He watched the sun crossing the burned im¬ mensity of the washed-out blue sky. He watched a vulture circling above the camp. At midday he lined up- to draw his rations. He ate them calmly. It was nearlv time now. He watched the sen¬ tries standing sleepily; he waited for the raised voices of the quarrel to start. He was still watching the vultures when it began. He heard Du Toit shouting. He saw him hit Piet Swart. He saw Piet fall with Du Toit on top of him. He saw' the others run up. The sentries, still lethargic, strolled toward the trouble. I he time had come. Moving quickly, he reached the wire It took him only a moment to cut the few remaining strands with the cutters he had stolen and to creep through. He was out. Now for the plan The mistake most people made was to try to get awa> too fast. Moving slowly now, and easily, he drifted toward the quartermaster’s store. This was a big field tent. Another mo¬ ment and he was inside. Half an hour l iter he curled up in the nest he had made between a pile of crates. The worst was over. It. as he hoped, his escape was not discos ered until the tollowing morning, if Jannie Moolman was not spotted as missing, thev'd figure he was clear away and start after him 1 hey wouldn't be¬ gin to look until they were ten or twenty miles away. During the night he made a foray and collected food tor himself from the opened crates and stores on the shelves. He took bully beef and condensed milk and some herrings in tomato sauce. I hen he outfitted himself with a nice new' British uniform. It made him laugh to himselt as he did it. Me. Jan¬ nie Moolman a Rooinck. he thought. But he could do it. He could play the part. \s soon as he had been captured, he had borrowed shaving things and had taken off his beard. I he mustache he had left, and he spent much of his time twisting and twirling it. till the ends stood out like a British sergeant major’s. From the very first he had studied their drill, watching them and copying them. He knew how to salute. He knew how to stand at attention, to stand at ease, to salute by turning his head smartly and dropping his hand when he was mounted. His fellow prisoners the horse had done, Jan picked up the saddle and led the animal through the front door of the ruin. Inside he found a fallen rafter and put it across the door¬ frame. “There, my boy,” he said. “Now you’ll live in a house like a man. To¬ night you will graze on the veld, and tomorrow we are on our way to the Waterberg.” He patted the horse’s neck. Then he went to explore the house, which was larger than it had seemed from a dis¬ tance. The horse was in the voorkamer — the front hall. There was a doorway to a room on the left and one to the right. They would have been bedrooms. The one on the left had no door, and he went in. It held nothing but some charred remains of furniture and fallen thatch. The right-hand room had a door that fitted badly. He kicked it open and was astonished to see a woman ly¬ ing on the floor with a child sitting up beside her — a little girl who was all eyes. The woman under the blankets propped herself up on her elbow. “So, you are back. What do you want now? There is nothing more to take here and little left to bum. Ja /’ she said savagely, “you can take us. But you will not get far with us. Leave us, leave us to die in our home place. Leave us so that our man, when he comes back, will find our bones.” COLLIER'S ‘When he's proved to himself about twenty more times that it's safe, lie’ll let me take a ride” BOB BARNES quartermaster say so as he sat in the store doing his paper work: “Got away, that’s what he did. Him with a price on his head already. They’ll have to put it up again, and high, if they want to catch him.” THAT was all he needed. As soon as it was dark, he crept out of the tent and walked smartly toward the horse lines. He even knew the horse he wanted — the colonel's bay stallion. It was one that had been captured and could live off the veld, which was more than the big English chargers could do. Fine horses, ja, but fine only with twelve pounds of oats a day in their bellies. He had an envelope in his hand. He’d taken it from the office in the front of the store. He walked straight up to the sentrv on the horse lines as if he were bringing a written order. The sentrv grounded his rifle to take the paper, and as he took it. Jan’s hand closed on his throat. In a second he was gaeeed, in three minutes he was bound hand rnd foot and dragged into the forage. Jnn then got a saddle and bridle, put them onto the bay. and led him out and mounted. With the big envelope in his hand, he rode slowly out of the camp in the direction of headquarters, ten miles away. There was no one about people shot him, thinking he was a British cavalry trooper. He rode past gutted farmhouses. Their lifeless windows stared out of broken walls like the eye sockets in a dead man’s skull. The work of the Eng¬ lish, all of it, the cattle and horses taken, the houses burned, the women and chil¬ dren sent to camps to be secure against the restless Kaffirs. Boer women were unused to confinement behind wire. It had been done with kindness — if one can burn a man’s house and take his cattle kindly, if one can abduct his fam¬ ily with gentleness. He knew they had done it to break the heart of resistance, to remove points of rest and succor for the tired Boers. It was war. Ja. it was war, but it was hard, and many women and children had died. Still, one of these ruined houses would give him shelter. He could hide there and rest, and graze his horse, knee-hobbled, in the night. He figured he had ridden about sixty miles when he found a place he liked the look of, a burned-out house with a fine view in all directions. Here he could see who was coming and, if he had to run, would have a good start. He dismounted and watered his horse at a little dam below a spring. Then he off-saddled and let his horse roll. When JAN fell back. Then it came to him: she thought he was a British soldier. “Bring in the others,” she said, “bring them all in to watch a Boer woman die.” “Nee” he said, “nee Mevrou, ek is nie Engels nie. I am a Boer who has escaped from the British. I am Jannie Moolman.” “Moolman,” she said, “Jannie Mool¬ man. The man with a price on his head? The man who blew the bridge at Klip- drift?” “Ja, I have escaped. You are starv¬ ing,” he said. “Ja, we are starving. Bring us water. We can walk no longer. Before God.” she said, “walk, we cannot even stand.” She pointed to a tin cup. He took it to the spring. This was something. Ja, this was a devil of a thing. He looked at Waterberg, a blue haze fifty miles to the north T No, not now, now it was five hundred miles. He went back and gave water to the child. The woman was too weak even to hold the cup. “Now tell me,” he said. “Ja," she said, “I will tell you. It was a month ago that they came. I saw them coming. They had assegais in theii hands.” “Assegais?” “Ja," she said, “long horse assegais.’ “Ah,” he said, “lances.” “Ja,” she said, “their points glitterec in the sun. I knew' what they woulc do. so I took my child and some biltonj and rusks, some blankets, and hid in th< bush. Meneer, I saw them burn rm house as 1 lay and watched. They tool the cattle and the horses. In three hour it was done. In three hours, Meneer the work of a lifetime went up in flames Then we came back. By some accideni my man made the ceiling on this roor very thick. It was built to hold again* the' Kaffirs in the old days. I was hi second wfife. This was the first roor of the house. Then, when things wer more quiet, he built the other rooms “Ja” Jannie Moolman said. “We lived on what I had saved.

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63 See what we mean ? TF you le an advertising man, you can see 1 something very interesting as you go through this magazine. You will notice that no ads are huried —that every ad enjoys an equal oppor¬ tunity to he seen and read. : z I r / if irl 1 This is no accident. Rather, it is the planned result of Collier’s new “through-traffic” makeup. Just note how each editorial feature is a com¬ plete unit in itself, with virtually no runovers. Leaf through and you’ll see there are as many important features in the middle or hack of the magazine, as in the front. It’s a makeup that carries each reader from cover to cover, that puts each advertiser on the mam highway — where Collier’s hard-hitting editorial contents and longest reading time per page11 are busily at work insuring Visibility Unlimited for every advertisement. Add to this, Collier’s low space cost, and you can easily understand why advertising in Collier’s represents Value Unlimited! * Advertisers: have you seen “The Third Dimension Survey”? If not, write to Collier’s now for this challenging new study. Collier's Best-Read of the Big Weeklies The Crowell-Collier Publishing Company, 640 Fifth Avenue, New \Wk 19, N Y.

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64 NEW RELIEF for M cooW&L {(COUGH OHOP i Th^B^teWnwrat WITH PLEASANT SOOTHING 1 LIQUID MEDICINE * LIQWID S CENTER COUGH DROPS QUICK DOUBLE ACTION COUGH RELIEF wk , lr beautiM '*■' A 1 r'" kin* metal boxes s tuo l«» Miri|>*r | - V, .1. hi / „ > !r* • ' vcr «•*». ol sV ^ 'V * lt— . Made by the j rTa^ef(. of lodenl fuoth Paste Happy IsThe Day When Backache Goes Away . . . . Nftk'tf * « v at ku -1 « h f p**r am! energy. head- fa. i r " ''ii i'i-'Mii i>M' ul-*. si iwi'uwnofkulriL'y f _ •» i. 1j*l! rs sin. g 1 kliney function is very Vi *t g h * hi a 1 » h . \V ht •‘tribe* an i htiain, causes this im- t .. 1 t i .:>■ * r. t > •». w «1 ■ w n. many folks sutler fi h'fc ' ti t fe fen ruisera'le. I1 . *. r.tri; • t v- r k .• y» if these conditions 1 ‘ • r , J • y Le «*r - 1'k.s a rr.i t* . s !e in -> give f'Ui k'v relief fr. m *• • * n fi ■*- f.i JI * r.e U m U*s ur dc.:.- ■ >t u rile f >r i.tlaloi; EVEREST & JENNINGS 76 N H qhland Ave lov Angeles 38 Calif nm 11 SllllE HORSE OWNERS N.V hs pa* Lino pr Lis ior s.iddUrs \X nit for PHIL ( u .i tog that lias n s s. d re I or v s tor ihouvand* ol (torse Hen Dc sen his over -4)0 popul r items of Engl s( and \ i erre *n tatk 1 slop saddlery on ap pros j! \\ rue today . l'ltle »oe‘ W IE SI MU D Dept. CJ Hal.imore 1. Md Itch . . . Itch ..I Was Nearly Crazy l> D l> Prc- I ' y Very first use of soothing ue •in¬ scription positively relieves t iv, • eczenu. ruslK's. scalp irritation, ch.d -,g ■ * . »* >u. hies Greaseless, stainless 13c lr i k •* ,s>. s.y ^fy or money back Ask druggist for 0. D D. PRESCRIPTION killed and ate the cats. Twee mooi katte, Mcnccr. I killed them when they came home, with a club. The door was burned, so I took one from the fowl funk and hung it here. Then we lived on water. Mcnccr, for fifteen days we have had nothing but water.” ‘1 have no food,” Jan said. ”1 was traveling light 1 hey thought 1 was an orderly with a message, and so 1 carried nothing.” "Ja." she said, ‘‘you have no food. But there is game here. There are buck.” ‘Tan I catch buck with my hands?” he asked. ‘There is a rifle,” she said, ‘‘and am¬ munition hidden. I can shoot, but not buck. No, I cannot hunt Fight, yes — I have fought Kaffirs with my man. A Kafiir comes toward you, but a buck runs away. 1 tried, Mcnccr, but it was no good, so I saved the ammunition. It was in my heart that the Lord would send someone. A Rooinck that I could kill, or a Boer who would save us. Had you come three days ago, before 1 grew so weak, Mcnccr . you would be dead. Ja, 1 should have shot you dead as you stood in the door.” "Jn." he said. “It is the will of the Lord that I did not escape sooner. It would have been a pi tv if I had been killed.” "Jn, Mcnccr, you would be a sad loss. All Africa mourned when we heard you were taken.” “My horse was killed,” he said. “A beautiful horse, a black with a star on his forehead. Mcvrou, I loved that horse.” “ Ja ,“ she said. “Where is the rifle?” “Here beside me.” THE woman rolled back the blankets. He reached down for the gun. She pushed a bandoleer toward him. “Clothes,” he said. “I suppose there are no clothes.” “1 here are clothes. My man’s clothes are hidden in a box in a cave in the kloof. You see,” she said, “I wanted to make it clear that there was no man here, that I was alone. But then when the> came, 1 was afraid. It is his Sun¬ day suit.” “ Ja he said. “Then I can burn this uniform. If I am caught dressed like this, and armed, they will shoot me.” “Ja," she said. “It will give me much pleasure to burn it,” he said. “But not the shirt and the boots.” “No,” she said. “I am going now,” he said. “I shall come back with meat.” “ I he Lord protect you,” she said. He found the cave in the kloof. He found the box. and changed. It made him laugh to think of himself clean¬ shaven and in her man’s Sunday suit. It was a rusty black, with a long-tailed coat, and there was also a top hat bound with crepe. He slung the bandoleer around his shoulder. Jannie Moolman had vanished, or would have as soon as he burned the uniform. Now for the meat. Less than a mile away, he saw a small herd of spring¬ bok. They were grazing quietly. Mov¬ ing carefully, he got to within three hundred yards, and, sitting down, took careful aim and fired. He brought a nice buck down. and. going back for his horse, he put the carcass on the saddle, fastening it with the horse’s head rope. He mounted and rode back. It did not take long to dress the meat. Now at least they had food. But the woman and the child must not have too much, starving as they were. He made broth and fed them a few spoonfuls. He kept the fire going and fed them every cou¬ ple of hours. Next day they were both stronger. The little girl, Sannie, was on her feet again, and her mother could sit up. His plight began to worry her. “You must go on,” she said. “We can manage now.” “How can I go on?” he said. “You have food only for two days. Without salt, in this heat, the meat will go bad, even in the shade. No, I will stay and hunt for you until you can travel. Then you must ride my horse, and I will get you into the mountains.” “It will take time,” the woman said. “ Ja t it will take time,” he said. “But we have time. In all the world, time and air and water are the only things that cost nothing. They are the gift of God.” “You are the gift of God, Meneer,” she said. “1 was sent,” he said. “It is in my heart that I was sent.” Jacoba de Wet was her name. She had blue eyes and blonde hair and was not more than twenty-five. The child resembled her, was a tiny copy, a minia¬ ture, of her mother. In a week he had them both up. Ev¬ ery day he shot buck and picked wild spinach from the abandoned lands. He found some apricot trees in fruit. He found a guinea fowl’s nest with fresh eggs. He trapped small birds for va¬ riety and was satisfied with his patients’ progress. In a few days now they would be off. Once in the mountains, they would find other people. Women and children and old men living among the 1 rocks like baboons, but free — freedom, « that was what counted. HE WENT to the room where Jacoba de Wet was cooking. She was well enough to do that now. The 1 child was playing beside her. “Well,” j he said, “two more days and I think we can be off.” “How long will it take us, do you think?” “Two days,” he said. “We should be I able to do twenty-five miles a day.” “And you?” she asked. “You will walk?” “Ja, I will walk beside you and the child.” “You are a good man,” she said. Then she went on, “My man is dead.” “But you said when I came — ” “I said that because I did not wish to believe he was dead. Those were lies. Ja“ she said, “he was killed at Modder River. A fine man, he was, a brave man. That is why I wanted to stay. I could have managed, but now — ” “We will find people,” he said vaguely. She suddenly seemed beautiful to him. She had always seemed beautiful, with her blue eyes and blonde hair, but he had put the thought away from him till she had told him of her husband’s death. As a hunter he had had to be free, to be able to move swiftly and to take great risks. Ivory hunting was no hild 50 $1 !CC£ ■Dll. H Collier’s for February 7, IS I ^ kT don’t think I could stand looking at the same old face across the colliers breakfast table every afternoon’’ fat JOHN RUGE

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65 *4 woke up with chills anil fever and headaehe and sore throat and earaehe COLLIER’S and upset stoinaeli — hut it didn’t work” stan fine Iiild’s game. But now? Anyway, it was |o soon to think of such things, but the lOught was in his mind. And he had own to love the child. Besides, what )uld they do alone? He brought wood for the fire, and as i put it down, the little girl ran in. vlen are coming. Men on horses!” she id. Jan went to the door. There were en, a detachment of British lancers, hey were so near that he could hear e rattle and clash of their equipment, e adjusted his top hat. smoothed down s tail coat, and went to meet them. k YOUNG officer, on a smart straw- V berry roan mare, rode forward, ery politely Jan took off his hat, put s hand on his stomach, and bowed, iir,” he said in English, “I never ought to welcome one of your race, it the times change, and I, being a an of perception, change with the nes. In the house, in what is left of e house, after the improvements ected by your cavalry, lies a sick )man and a child. They need food, ead, tea and sugar. Perhaps you can are her some?” You talk English well,” the officer mplimented him. 11 J a” Jan said, “it is my good fortune be well educated. Ja, Meneer , I am very lucky man.” He thought of his :ape and the fact that Jacoba de Wet d been too sick to shoot him. ‘‘I am going into the house,” the offi- r said. ‘‘Corporal Brown, come with Bring two men.” The corporal me with two troopers. They carried rbines in their hands. “Enter,” Moolman said. “We can er you little hospitality, partly bc- use you are enemies, but mostly be- ase, as enemies, you have destroyed poor woman’s possessions. But we ye water — very fine, clear water with trace of brak” The officer said nothing. Jacoba de Wet met them, holding the ild by the hand. “The English are back again, Mev - at 510 monthly New develop¬ ment adjoining Ocala N:\tionat Forest Host fishing, hunting Folder free \Yct»b Vernnr. Pel. and, Florida.

Page 430

Telephone exchange al Almond, ^ ., located in private home, in typical of small-town independent phone company. Dial system recently replaced old switchboard operated by Mabel McIntosh. Lineman Alonzo Dennison tests circuit | l 5,000 WAYS T( Bv BILL DAVIDSON IN THE early hours of a chill February morn¬ ing, a Bell telephone operator in Watertown, New York, received an anguished call from the operator of a tiny independent telephone com¬ pany in nearby Cape Vincent. The Cape Vincent operator shrilled, “We’re on fire — everything going up in flames! Send help!” And the line went dead. The Watertown operator called a plant chief of the huge New York Telephone Company, a mem¬ ber of the nation-wide Bell System. He rushed to Cape Vincent to find the center of the village gutted, the telephone exchange in ashes, and no communications available for the fire fighters, doc¬ tors and other emergency services. The plant chief put in a call to New York Telephone Company executive Edward V. Moran in Albany. The New York Telephone Company has no stake in the little independent. Nevertheless, Moran went to work like a commanding general in an Army headquarters. Another little independent telephone company in Manlius, New York, 80 miles from Cape Vin¬ cent, had just cut over to dial service and hadn’t yet dismantled its old two-ton switchboard, which was like the one destroyed at Cape Vincent. Moran rushed a truck and crew over the icy roads to Man¬ lius. His men loaded the ponderous switchboard onto the truck with block and tackle, and sped for Cape Vincent. They arrived at 7:00 F.M., and went to work installing the board. Less than 24 hours after the fire started, complete telephone service was restored. The owner of the Cape Vincent Telephone Com¬ pany, Mrs. Frances P. Ross, later wrote to Moran’s division representative: “It still seems a miracle . . . I cannot contemplate what my problems would have been without your help.” Two elements of this story may puzzle many readers. First, fairly few people, especially city dwellers, realize that thousands of independent telephone companies exist in this country, side by side with the 21 multimillion-dollar giants of the familiar Bell System. Most of the independents are tiny one-man and husband-and-wife affairs, but a few, like the 200,000-phone Rochester (New York) Telephone Corporation, are fairly good-sized. Second, some Americans have the impression that big business is a voracious monster set on gob¬ bling up little business; the events at Cape Vincent certainly don’t bear out that belief. Collirr's for IVlirunry 7, 1933

Page 431

HAKE A PHONE CALL There arc* that many — and more — independent telephone companies still in operation in tin* l nited Stale*. Aided by the vast Hell System, the* little* fellows actually are expanding to «*iv<* bi^-eilx -l\ pc* ser\ ic c* The Cape Vincent story is not unique, or even unusual; other versions of the story occurred last year in California, Iowa and Ohio. Time after time, the big Bell System companies have rushed to the rescue of independents after disastrous floods or storms, or have offered them thousands of dollars' worth of free technical and administrative aid in less troubled times. “To my knowledge.” Hamilton A. Cunningham, executive secretary of the New York State Telephone Association, told me, “it's the only industry in the world where such free offer of the helping hand exists.” Cunningham’s phrase, “the helping hand.” was a happy choice; it best describes the relations I found all over the country between Bell and the little companies which might, under other circum¬ stances, have been its competitors. But why is that? Why, instead of swallowing up the tiny in¬ dependents, docs the great Bell System go out of its way to lend them a helping hand? The answer lies partly in the nature of the inde¬ pendent companies, which are anchored deep in the bedrock of our folkways. Most of them started in rural areas in the late 1890s and early 1900s. The big Bell companies were busy consolidating Collier’s for February 7, 1953 their hold on the cities; if a group of farmers wanted telephone service, they merely got together, contributed ten dollars each and bought wire and telephones. Then, often with an outdoor commu¬ nity party to mark the event, they cut chestnut poles from the woods and strung the line from farm¬ house to farmhouse. In many communities, an enterprising citizen later hought up several of these farmers' switching lines, as they were called, tying them together with a switchboard which generally was run by his wife, perhaps in her kitchen. The new owner — often the village feed merchant or hardware-store proprietor — was his own repairman, telephone installer, pole climber, bill collector and night operator. He became the most rugged of rugged individual¬ ists, remaining aloof from the mighty Bell System, except when he put through a long-distance call. The local telephone office became the nerve center of the town. The local operator knew what every¬ one was doing, and she dispensed her information to anyone who might inquire — and in time of emer¬ gency. her services were invaluable. Rural America still has 60,000 of the old co¬ operative farmers' switching lines and 5,435 pri¬ vately owned independents; between them, they operate 8,222,800 phones — some 1,750.000 of them the old-fashioned, hand-cranked magneto type. It's not surprising that the old traditions have survived, along with the old equipment. In the little town of Holcomh. New York, 1 heard operator Martha McKay answer a ring with. “1 just saw him go up to the lake with a fish pole, so 1 don't think his phone will answer until about six o’clock, when he generally gets back.” Mean¬ while, the other operator. Monica Flanagan, was passing out information like, "Yes, there wdl be a dance at Baptist Hill on Saturday,” and "Mr. So- and-so hasn't died yet. but he’s very sick and if he passes tonight, as the doctor expects, the funeral will be on Friday." The girls also took messages lor the doctor, the deputy sheriff and a man named Harry Shappee. who is the local artificial insemi- nater of cattle. (They had to take the messages tor Shappee because the five-mile line to his establish¬ ment was out. In almost every case, the embar¬ rassed farmer called his wife to the phone to discuss his cows’ mating requirements with the operators.) The most dramatic demonstration 1 saw' of the personal service still rendered by the country tele- 67

Page 432

I,,,,, print I, ■ .• . . ork 1 he local elec ■ ftv.t.i'1 vs as cal ed out OH all c lllc'l gc I1C\ th 1 u one eunin^' His vwle w o sn l l„mic and he had no hah\ sitter to , tv'i his thiee swung chiJdiefi, so he ii d operator Barba a Shu Ills Bur i.,ra He said, 1 m uoing to lease my u cpl one oil l he hov k near the babies’ lH)!l Wou d sou ist en III once in a a l-iu and it sou hear them crx , call me at the (jiahein house r Ihe I ono-phoi-e Mai gaietx illc sss- tei i is a tspieal independent opeiiition. I is piesideut shin, handsome Sheldon Uudscll. ss a > horn into the company. While Sheldon ssas going to high .Jiool he ssoiked as the night opera- n dome his tu nessoik at the sssiieh- Kv.rd. duinij lus seats o t college, he 1 1 1 U . 1 his saeations at home, climb- i e poVs a d repairing the thirty miles ■ n tuns , sl heai -in tested in tii ms WUn Sheldon Hi i else Is Liber died in iSH2 his mother took os or nun loeinent ol the com- iMus . nd ss hen his mother ,hcd in Sheldon be¬ came loss On Mai eh 2 W\ the t Miip.ms s hues sserc wiped out by a seseie bl iz- /. id Birdsdl orgam/ed his tsso linemen, picked up K ur solunteeis trom ihe , illaoe boi oss ed snoss- shoes m m the State ( on- sers itmii Department, and el v ut to lestore the lines, t fint ess hscs depended Pot siuiss di i! ts. the men ncv me so exhausted that Hildse 1 had to send them oi- 1 in teams ol tsso so one man could gisc the alarm >" ease his teammate col- psed 1 sen so one Bell stem hi email. Harry Wuichell ssas so con¬ sumed he ssas a goner at o ic pi vint that he sc i ibbled his ssill m a notebook, end¬ ing "l* l neser get to the f i c* \ 1 pvue. this is it li 1 ge tii the next pole. 1 base some more to ss i iu " 1 or- f u i > a t e 1 s he ssas able io s l . i r ;ei back til CIS lll/ation without .ul^liie uiis eiid icih tii bis ssdl 1 he men put into t arm- houses Ui e it alls! sleep, ti tc ssiukmg bs pin table floodlight mi I past e esen each fiigln Bi dscl1 lerr'ed supplies bac k and lorth. and Mrs. BiuKel tended die sss itcliboai d 2d horns a day . sslnle she attempted to keep her haln alise in a house heated bs . single ss oo d stose Bs Wediics- du\ , three days a tei the storm, nearly all Kma vails sve re going th lough. Bs i'riday. Margarets illo oime aeain ssas eonneeted ss th the outside ssorld. Cases of personal hero¬ ism are so numerous in the independent phone sersiee that sub¬ scribers take them pretty much lor granted. In \oith Anson, Maine, a famous independent named Kenton L. Quint crippled his knee in a 1943 sleet storm and ssent aiound lor tsso months on dutches, calmly repairing his lines. (Quint is best knossn tor the time he rushed into a neighbor’s flaming home to rescue a telephone instrument that vs as ssorth ) 1 he old-timers' dcsotion to duty is matched by the nesveomers. I he C iti- zens lclephone Company ot Bridgman. Michigan, tor example, is ossned by 1) \K Oasis and his son. I ieutenant Colonel John \ Oasis, a Silver Star ss inner ssho lost both tect in Ciermany in W orld War 11. > oung Oasis saved the money to help buy the company svhiie he lay in Arms hospitals lor three vears utter' the ssar: today he is the as¬ sistant manager under his father, with his brother svorking as a foreman, his mother as tuatlic supervisor and his sis¬ ter as night operator. Last year, svhen a freight-train svrcck at Sawyer ripped up all the company's lines in the area, the wreckage ssvarmed svith Davises un¬ til they had run an insulated wire around the svrcck and restored sers iee. Men like the Davises, Quint and Birdsdl are merely the latest upholders of a long and honorable tradition. No one observing the operations ol today s independents can he surprised that they sserc able to hold their own svith the Bell System in the early days of the tele¬ phone industry. Perhaps they would not have fared so svcll svhen Bell be¬ came stronger— if the giant phone sys¬ tem had not x’oluntarily guaiuntced the independence ol the thousands ot small ing and the demand for up-to-date serv¬ ice was becoming impossible to ignore. Nearly all the independents had come through the war with old-lash- ioned hand-cranked magneto tele¬ phones, ponderous old ssvitehboards, and patched and repatched lines that lay, in plaees, on the ground and on barn roofs and fences. When the boys and girls of rural America came hack from the armed forces and war in¬ dustries they weren't satisfied. They wanted the kind of phone service they had seen in the cities. Meanwhile, in¬ dustrial areas and suburbs expanded, and ex-city dwellers moved into the country. They, too, insisted on the city service they were used to. In some eases, the poor little inde¬ pendent telephone companies were thoroughly overwhelmed. The owner companies in \ EXT WEEK Wit Selling Out Our Disabled VETERANS! titirv ami ineptitude endanger the live* of \ A hospital patient* >1\ Father’s CHILD llv 1* XI L IIOKLAN Tin* *tor> of a moving encounter v*ith Lincoln in the midst of war COPTER COMMUTING- New v our You'll IU> l)oit i It SODS hclieopter-lni*** travel lime b> , vi ill cut tvM> lliiriL BROADWAY'S BUSIEST BABE Helen Gallagher, new still spend* hours at show star, her clashes 913 commitment un¬ der which the American lclephone & Telegraph Company agreed not to take over the territory of any independent that was offering its subscribers ad¬ equate service. 1 his virtual freezing of the status quo, coming at a time when other large companies were expanding frantically, amazed the business world, and there is controversy to this day over the reasons for it. In the background, un¬ doubtedly, was a desire to free the industry of any antitrust-law taint and to foil any future government nationalization attempts (it is much more difficult to nationalize 5.000 small businesses than one big one). But more than that, the big Bell companies ob- viouslv realized that the basic strength of the in¬ dustry lay in the fierce American pride of small- business ownership among the independents; a man and his familx would work twenty-four hours a day, it necessary, to keep then company going — and, op¬ erating among their own neighbors. thev probably could give better and less costlv service than the big impersonal Bell System companies. 1 he A.T.&T.'s commit¬ ment was conscientious!) observed, and the inde¬ pendents continued their belligerently proud exist¬ ence throughout World War II. But then there was trou¬ ble. The economic adjust¬ ments of the postwar period were especially dit- lieult for small phone com¬ panies, and many of them would have gone under if it hadn't been for the vig¬ orous helping hand ollered b\ the Bell Svstem. * The problem was sim¬ ple, even if the solution wasn't: a severe shortage of modern equipment had developed at a time when subscribers were inereas- of the tiny Sanborn Home Telephone Company, near Niagara Falls, had poked along for nearl) 50 years serving 200 rural families; suddenly an im¬ mense Bell aircraft plant was plunked down right in the middle of his terri¬ tory. demanding that he handle thou¬ sands of phone calls a day through his little switchboard. A Problem in High Finance In lord m ! larr m .an. ithc fleet I crib For the independent telephone man, the problem seemed insurmountable. His only solution was to string new wires, install new phones and convert his entire plant to a modern, economi¬ cal automatic dial system, like the big- city phones. But such a conversion costs from as little as $25,000 to more than $500,000, and the local telephone man, like the local grocer, could get no more than a small-business loan of a few thousand dollars from the local bank. Where was he to get $500,000? Part of the answer was provided by the Rural Telephone Loan Act, passed by Con cress in 1949, which allows the small independent to borrow money from the federal government s Rural Electrification Administration. But by then an even better solution had devel¬ oped, free of any possible federal en¬ croachment, and relying to a great degree on that old stand-by of the mde- pendents, the helping hand ot the Bell Sxstcm. C alled the Ncwr York Plan, it originated with the Public Service Com¬ mission of that state, an able body headed by former state Senate majority leader Benjamin F. Fcinberg. of Platts- burg. One of New York's five Public Serv¬ ice commissioners is a brilliant little pepper pot named Spencer B. Eddy, a native of a hamlet called Eddy's Cor¬ ners who got to know the importance of rural telephones early in file wher illness struck the family, and his fathei had to summon medical aid by horse hack. With the backing ol I einbertf J and Governor Thomas E. Dewey, Edd; went to the big hanks of his state ant said. "We're sick of people talkin about Iree enterprise and doing noth ing to save it. Unless you want us t> support legislation allowing ledert financing for the independents, th New York banks must preside th money.” Behind this tough talk, Eddy ha some real inducements for the hank He promised that the Public ServiC 13 Commission would investigate the st.1 bility of each company before appro’ ing a loan, thus practically guaranteeii Collier L* for February 7. 195*^ Be

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69 pjic'fi disaster strikes, the wlt4>le chin pitches in Jo f its long-distanee calls, was ready to ■ jive independents all the free enginecr- ng and administrative assistance they iccded in their modernization program. After talks with Hddy. three New fork banks came into the plan, then evcral small insurance companies, and inally the powerful, influential Chase Motional Bank. Loans to independent telephone companies became fashion- ble, and various versions of the New fork Plan swept the country, enabling he independents to weather their sever- Ist storm. In Lancaster. South Carolina, Frank James's Lancaster Telephone Company lad been nearly swamped by industrial rowth in the area; today, the company as nearly trebled in size. The nearby Iatthews & Waxhavv I elephone Com* any, Inc., in North Carolina, most of l/hose wires were lying on the ground * fter the war, now is a thriving outfit iving good service to its 450 subscrib- rs. John Chcesmans West Point Tele- hone Company in Wcstpoint, Indiana 24 1 customers), has converted its hole system to dial. So has the Pyma- ining Independent Telephone Com- any in Pennsylvania, which serves 350 ibscribers. In Wcavcrvillc, California, W. Gil- lan Snyder's Western Telephone Com- any has grown from a 57-phonc, 3,000 weakling to a 1,600-phone, 390,000 stalwart. Snyder is using his Chase National ank loan not only to install dials, but ) bridge vast mountain distances with microwave radio system. Furious Subscribers Protest In Alfred, New York, William Brad- >rd Harrison’s Allegany Telephone ompany, Inc., was so successful that arrison was asked to run the nearby ncea-Gorham Telephone Corpora- 3n, which could not get the Public irvicc Commission to approve its loan ithout a change in management. I as with Harrison when he had his first eeting with the Seneca-Gorham sub- ribers, all of them furious over the nd of service they had been getting, here s so much lallcn telephone wire ing on the ground,” said Dr. F. M. lalfcc, ‘that vve ought to electrify it to nee in our cattle.” After listening to the bitter com- aints for more than an hour. Harrison tiled out a blueprint of a completely w telephone system engineered for m without charge by L. C. Denison of ~ Elmira ofiice of the New York Tele- one Company. As the crowd looked the plan lor the new, modernized ncea-Gorham Company, the protests 'd down. When the meeting was over, prominent local farmer, Charles ;jrm, said to me, “This is the first hope ’vc had in twenty years.” i| Bel 1 assistance takes various forms. I hen Frank A. Kelly, Sr., became seri- sl.v a few years ago, he had to turn Berkshire Telephone Corporation inderhook, N.Y.) over to his sons. Eank, Jr., and Jack, both proficient .Ijgineers but neophytes at running a Asiness. In a regulated utility, where V incorrect filing of business forms Ilin Y for February 7, 1933 - - - , \! Ar \j - r p?* CHARLES PEARSON the He 1 1 S. Mem h -s u m 11 \ ,r. me place t the change trom the old to the rk.v \ \\ mIoyC.h Courageous Hattie I he ownei ot the local I injer I 4 es I elephone (m potation is a ri« th''\ ex-telephone operate r named Mis M u\ Clary, whose husband died .• \eir . d a hall alter they hou Jit the comp. in. n 1925. Her son, Jim. w.-s only one \ear old at the time, and she strueA’d to hold on to the company until he w,ts old enough to take it oxer. Now. Jim had been graduated tiom HoN Cuss College, and had undert. ken the moi j- mcntal magneto-to-dial conxeision ah. I he new svstem was installed with the help of Commis.oner 1 ddy and the New N ork I elephone C ompanx and a dozen other helping hands, and * II the neighbors turned out at midnight to celebrate the switchover. I list. Mayor Mirnum S. ken\ on pulled the cords that disconnected the old switchboard. I hen. while the neigh¬ bors gathered around banks of flowers in the new ollice. Mrs. Clary made the first phone call, to eighty -y ear-old “Grandma” Clary. her husband's mother, in Baldw in.sv ille. New Yoik. Mrs. Clarv. blinking nervously, said. Hello. helSo, Gram? How do you hear me? I can hear you perlectlv. Isn't it wonderful, just wonderlul?” I he neighbors cheered. I hen the Reverend M. Dennis Lee. rector of St. John's Episcopal C hurch, improvised a little prayer: "O God. 1 hou hast taught us that man does not live by bread alone, but hy every word which procecdeth I t orn I hy mouth. We thank I hee that I hou hast given us this means ol communication. In which vve may be bound together in brotherhood, through understanding.** The neighbors said, “Amen.” and sat down to a supper ol ham. turkey, to¬ matoes. cookies and eolTee. In the old ollice a block avvav. grav- haired Maty McAvoy. operator lor 2() years, sat over her now -silent switch¬ board. Her job had been taken over hy a machine, she had received a substan¬ tial separation allowance and was going to Syracuse to look lor another job. Both the F inger 1 akes and Bell com¬ panies had olTered to help her find a place with some business concern. “It's all over.” she said, “and it s been such a long time. W hy, that hoy Jimmv grew up with me.'' She picked up her old- lashioned operator’s mouthpiece, a sou¬ venir which she was planning to use at home as a little vase lor flowers, and she got up to go. “I don't know.” she said. “Machines or no machines, these little small-tow n telephone companies will never change.” She was right. With the old mag¬ neto system, every phone on a Finger Lakes party line rang whenever there was a call for anyone on the line; with the new dial setup, only the individual phones rang. But within two days the farmers learned that if they placed the new phone on an inverted dishpan. it would magnify the vibration set up when their neighbors’ parts -line phones rang. Then they could take the phone oil the hook and listen in — just as thev had tor the last 50 vears. aaa

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ARRY DEVLIN Barriers to Western Unity PRFMH R S I ALIN'S 1952 Christmas greeting to the tree world was another of his occasional assurances that capitalism and Communism can live peaceabK side b\ side. 1 hese cheers mes¬ sages neser come through diplomatic channels, where thes might start some action, but arc alssass eisen to prisate indisiduals or the tor- eien press l 1 he journalist who got the latest message was James Res ton ot the New ork 1 lines ) But. as usual, Stalin created a good hit ot excitement and again aroused some hope that this time he meant it We don t mean to he c\ niclil. But. in view of the recoid. we have to put more reliance in a Stalin manuscript, written for home consump¬ tion, which appeared in the magazine Bolshe¬ vik. It was a major policy pronouncement and, unfortunately, more in character than Stalin s answers to Mr. Reston's questions Capitalism, the dictator explained to the home folks, is characterized by a struggle for world markets. And the only way for capitalism to find markets, use up its surpluses and stimulate 70 its economy is through war. That, he says, is , what brought on World War 11. He was saying the same thing, of course, back in the days of the Nazi-Soviet alliance, before Hitler’s attack on Russia produced the interval of common effort with the United States and Britain, and caused Stalin to discov er that- the Soviet Union was a “freedom-loving democracy. i odav , Stalin insists, the struggle for markets goes on. and the basic conflict is as great as ever. So he concludes that war is inevitable — but war among the capitalist powers, and not against the Soviet Union. His prediction is clearly a case of the wish fathering the thought. And there are essential flaws in Stalin's logic, because his devotion to Marx's century-old theories sometimes clouds his vision of present realities. Marx believed that capitalism tends to put more and more wealth m fewer and fewer hands. He believed that the exploited proletariat of the West would erupt in a sudden, violent revolution. Stalin still seems to believe this. Pav More to Save More THREE YEARS AGO we suggested, on this | page, that congressmen are underpaid. Now I the National Committee for Strengthening Con¬ gress, a group of private citizens, also suggests they are underpaid. But Representative Usher L. I Burdick of North Dakota disagrees. A lot of people are having trouble making I ends meet these days, says Mr. Burdick, and if I a congressman can t do it on SI 5.000 a year he ■ had better trim his living standards or resign. I After 14 years in Washington, Mr. Burdick | must surely agree that a congressman’s responsi- 1 bilities are meat. He must also know that there arc thousands of positions in private life that pay far more for much less important duties. The biggest business in the free world, which is the United States government, needs the coun¬ try s top talent. It shouldn t be forced to take second-raters, and it shouldn’t ask the members of Concress to make financial sacrifices for the burdensome job of helping to run that business _ We do not consider it a paradox to urge higher pav for members of Congress as an early step toward a more efficient and economical opera tion of the government. Collier’s for February 7, 195: ( v tl tier's Editorials I he evidence is to the contrary, especially in the United States, where Stalin finds his most powerful opposition to world conquest. Capi¬ talism has diffused wealth, as is proved by the increasing millions of American “proletarians” who own stock in capitalistic corporations. And the “revolution” has been of a generally peace¬ ful and long-term variety, in which organized labor has gained ever-widening objectives through collective bargaining. The free world is stronger economically than the Kremlin thinks. But it also has some obvi¬ ous weaknesses. And we may be assured that Stalin is using every nonmilitary weapon at his command — trade, propaganda, anything — to exploit those weaknesses, foment friction among the Western nations, and gain a victory without general war. Most of the West’s weaknesses stem from dis¬ unity, and perhaps the most dangerous example of disunity is in the field of international trade. It should be remembered, in this connection, that the Iron Curtain is an economic as well as a political device. It keeps the enslaved Soviet people in, but it also keeps Western trade out. And the Soviet empire, with its vast territory and natural resources, can much better afford to play this game of wait-and-see than the free but disunited world. Last November, Collier s published an edito¬ rial supporting the idea of "Trade, Not Aid,” and urging fewer tariff restrictions. A good manv readers disagreed with us, and said so. We hope that those readers will do a little thinking ] about Stalin's aims and policies, and realize that there is nothing that would suit his purposes better than a hedge of high tariffs and a conse¬ quent decline of trade in the West. We are glad to see that the new administra¬ tion apparently favors the "Trade, Not Aid ap¬ proach, and we hope that the nation will back up such a policy. The countries that oppose Communism must draw closer together. They must lower, not raise, trade barriers. They must cultivate friendly relations and mutual under¬ standing. These are freedom’s best and least expensive weapons in the cold war.

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» : i e i, k it i (i* « is he $$. Iff 53

Page 436

NOTHING-NO, NOTHING-BEATS BETTER TASTE! You c». n even see why Luckies fast \s»v t this lursti"' Why do I smoke? Y { i \ouiself, \ »u s it )ke for enjoyment. And s- >n' v tic m ‘he taste of a cigarette. L'. u stnj tlv paper from a Lucky • * ■ fU' : .vn tlu m . h > u * t that y i‘ir Lu. kv is made better , be- vn as a pe It -a cyl.n ler of fine tobacco — »' n* 1 ‘ i ,r i ull\ pa*'k ‘d. 1 ^ fz rnpatuj better — cleaner, fresher, smoother Second, you see Luckies' famous fine tobacco itself- i long strands of fine, light, truly mild tobacco with \ rich aroma and an even better taste. Yes, LS/MFT- Lucky Strike means fine tobacco. Nothing— no. nothing— beats better taste, and Luckie taste better cleaner, fresher, smoother, So . . . Be Happy- GO LUCKY! AMERICA’S LEADING MANUFACTURER OF CIGARETTES I

Page 437

TWO LINCOLN PICTURES WHY DIDN’T YOU GET THAT RAISE? R.LI rtGA Ft)&UC LIBRARY rj in ^ au'M. , RACIAL PREJUDICE How One City Beat It p&wi MrEtSMEM? MbSlteisEiiS! fifteeA cents

Page 438

Page 439

3 6 Billion Dollars? Yes, Buster, that's a hill you inherit. It’s t He eosl to date of government jn>\\er — fedcra I -government -in -t lie-electric -business — the money put out for eleetrie power plants, electric lines and all that goes with them. Big Baby, Eh? ^ on het. (hncrumeiit power has grown like a giant. It's 3T> times bigger than it was 20 years ago. In money, that’s a big chunk of the whole L . S. debt. Just paying interest on it costs Americans over $130 million a \ear. Who Gets Nicked? Well, your parent- do. \nd everyone cbe. In llie taxes they pa\ on food, cloth¬ ing, smokes, income — even baby |>owder. That means that everybody’s taxes help pav tin* electric bills of the people served by government jKjwrr. Is This Necessary? {Not a bit. Most people get electric service from an independent eleetrie light and power company. They pay for wluit they use, and at low rates — for electricity is a real bargain. And no one else has to pay part of their bills. Why Can’t Somebody — ? Do something about it? Everybody can. By objecting to am more unnecessary government power projects, and help¬ ing Congress resist those who want a $13 billion tax-supported federal monopoly of clectricitv. I’ll Yell Bloody Murder! I \ en better than that. Sonny. Kneonragc your family to help get the federal government out of all business as miicli a> possible, so you won l grow np to Ik* jnsl a helpless subject of a socialist nation. America's Electric Light and Power Companies * "MEET CORLISS ARCHER '— ABC — Fridays — 9: 30 P.M., Eastern Time ♦Names on re juest from this maqazmo

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4 Perfect Pair To Help You Tell Her! Say if with Flowers-By-Wire Hearts and Flowers’ Perfect combination for Valentine's Da>. Perfect, too. for Birthda>s, Anni\ ersaries, Breud-and-Butter “Thank- You’' . . . any event. > ou sa> it sotiK . . . >ou say it sweetly when you . . . So Ir With Fi.owi rs- By-Wiki You can depend on me. folks ' I help add that extra touch of thoughtfulness to any occasion by flashing your floral greetings . . . telegraph-fast . . . anywhere in the world, through more than 18,000 members of F.T D. and In fi rm ora. LOOK FOR SPEEDY AND THE FAMOUS MERCURY EMBLEM THEY MEAN GUARANTEED DELIVERY! Florists' Telegraph Delivery assn. HEADQUARTERS: DETROIT, MICHIGAN ALBERT E. WINDER Choir man of the Board CLARENCE E. STOUCH President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CIIAPI.IN, Assistant Publisher CORDON MANNING, Honoring Editor DAN ID MANESS, Astlstont Monoging Editor MACI.ENNAN FARRELL, Fiction Editor ALLEN (I.FATOV .Senior .litoclote Editor J A.MF.S I IIRAsIlER, Editorials WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director G LUNEV WILLIAMS, Cartoon Editor JAMES A. QIICNEV, Photo Editor Associate Editor, JEROME BEATTY, JR. • WARREN BROWN • GERTRUDE BUCK MAN JENS U. CAMPBELL SEX ClIASsLER • HOWARD COHN • WALTER DAVENPORT BILL DAMDsON • HELEN WORDEN ERSKINE • EVELYN IIARN FY DIANA IlIRSII HOMER JESKS ♦ C II NR LOT TE KNIGHT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED M LANSING JOHN LEAR FRANKLIN C. 1 OHAV.EI1 ♦ TOM MEANY BLCKLIN MOON JOHN C. PELLEW • IUM.EH P1PPETT • ELEANOR PORTER • CORNELIUS RYAN JANET SIIEPS • FRANCIS WALLACE • WILLIAM WEAVER MARTHA WEINMAN ♦ ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research • ROS ANNE >lcV AY, Chief • M ADF.LI.N ALk • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS • ALAN M. LEV ENxOII.N • JANICE MOSES • JOHN NEW HOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON: JAMES C. DERIElX, Chief ; TODD WRICIIT WEST COAST ( Los Angeles ): Till ODOIlK STBAlSS. Chief; ROBERT CXI IN, JOHN* FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOlH FHEIDIN, WILLIAM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): PETER KALISCIIER J February 14, 1953 \it rici.rs Why Didn't You Get That Raise? . HOWARD WHITMAN Broadway's Busiest Rain* . JAMES POLING Lincoln As You Never Saw Him Before. . . .ROBERT s. harper We're Selling Out Our Disabled I eterans! . SAM STAMSKY Racial Prejudice- lloiv San Francisco Squelched It . joiin gerrity “ Lovely . Schneider , Lovely /” . COLLIER’S COLOR CAMERA Speaking of Hot Coffee . PAI L r. DFt’TSCH MAN Fains on First . RALPH BERNSTEIN Copter Commuting \ ou'll Be Doing It Soon . .FRANK TINSLEY’ l ie I IO\ The Little Bride . Ladies' Day . The Cub . (THE SHORT SHORT STORY) The II i ue of the Country My Lath er's Child 1 lie Long If inter. . ANN CII IDESTER . JOHN F. WALLACE LOIS DY REMAN KLEIII ACER . . . . MARY-CARTER ROBERTS . PALL H ORGAN . WALTER IIAVIGHLRST 48 States of Mind . Walter davenport Well, He's About This Wide . JOHN I. KEASLER 'They Call It June Russell Hill . PETER KALISCIIER Editorials . . . Cover . lee blrke 13 17 20 24 36 44 58 61 70 22 32 42 48 54 62 8 10 30 74 The choroctert in all stories ond serials in this mngozine ore purely imaginary. .Vo reference or ollusion to ony tiling person It Intended. Subicriphon Deparlmeni, 204 W. High Slreel, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Executive Offices, 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIER S Tti r. Nor-su Wrun V PUBLISHED WEEKLY l.y I: Cn>»i- > luOiiri* ( on pm* "i»r n*ti' i (i L .*» A I ( 0I r » \\ >n an « lloi > ( »t iJIST. -n l*hti l W iiS'T « rn r J * >* i»n> » Anthc.ni 1 P >. x m *-ir V - (.| i . • -IV.- »•* l >»■!».hn W VI * t » Sullix jo. SI r.'t > e r X. r-vx r 1 1 * > It i-ir SUBSCRIPTION PRICES l m* >1 ixtH sioii*. 1. auuii* !’■ •. i - 1 • ■•> I*- 1,1 ' 1 > -,r S'’ - >i *ri |.S nn > > rnm 130 $9.00. 3 y.mru $10.00. 4 your* $ 1 ^ (Mi I’un- Aiimti Tin o*«iiuln»w in thr L njnti l v«v\r $>’, no ,\1 >»tln r u'liDtn.-. 1 ,vi\ir Mi 00 I'u> im-oLc froru f.T. icn •mintri'* r\v«*pt hto ENTERED »«•. The Nm .n i Wrvkl» ♦*.* .ifn i pimi»**I b> a*idrov»od etn oi'T-* •xn • rctnrti p*»*t ■*' 1 hi I'uHnhcr n«uine« do ris%pmi«il i ity for rvt rn of niwol" iU*i1 manoscripta or art. , CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reach us five weeks in oovonce ^ p of the next issue dote. Give bath the old ond new addresses. ” COPYRIGHT. 1 Q.“3. RY TIIL CHO W FI L-COl.I IFR PIBLIMI1NG CO'IP VNY I \11 richt* rccrvcdl Publi^lirr* of Colli«r*», The Ami-nran VlatJ^inc, Woman’s. Home Companion The Cover It’s shopping day at the supermarket and the junior members of the family have dropped their important business at home to lend a hand with the gro¬ ceries. The armed guard on this cart¬ load of valuable vittles is artist Lee Burke’s son, Lee, Jr., and the happy passenger is Guy, his younger brother. Week’s Mail More Potable than Potent Editor: Like many others, 1 enjoyed the article. Washington’s Third Party — The Cocktail Party, by Andrew F. Tully (Jan. 3d). I must take exception, how¬ ever, to the unfair as well as untrue statements in reference to vodka made in this article. The author refers to vodka as a na¬ tional poison, and also as a corrosive distillation of potato alcohol. Mr. Tully advises his readers to beware of dy¬ namic vodka Martinis which, according to Mr. Tully, “knock you flat” and “stomp all over you.” Apparently Mr. Tully obtained his information from storybooks, because all producers of vodkas made and sold in the United States use grain neutral spirits and not potato spirits, just as do the manufacturers of the well-known brands in Europe. Furthermore, most vodkas are bot¬ tled at 80 proof and 100 proof — al¬ though the lower-proof vodka is the biggest seller by far, probably ten to one. So why should a Martini made with 80-proof vodka he any more potent than a Martini made with 90-proof gin? It isn’t. In fact, by using the same pro¬ portions of liquor and vermouth, the vodka Martini is less potent. We, as sole United States distribu¬ tors of SmirnofT Vodka, the largest-sell¬ ing brand, devoted a great deal of time as well as money in promoting vodka, particularly in a vodka Martini. I am sure you will appreciate why we take exception to those disparaging refer¬ ences to vodka in Mr. Tully’s article. Frank C. Marshall, G. F. Fleublein & Bro., Inc., Hartford, Conn. Navy Stories Editor: With a new year ahead. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Collier's for the many fine Navy stories of 1952. The carrier and the submarine arti¬ cles (Sea Power’s Sunday Punch, Oct. 4th; America’s New Dreadful Weapon, Dec. 20th) were two of the Navy maga¬ zine high spots of the year. We received much favorable comment on both of them. Lewis S. Parks, Rear Admiral, U.S. Navy, Chief of Information, Washington, D.C. The Bulge Editor: Von Rundstcdt's story of The Battle of the Bulge (Jan. 3d) was very good, but as usual told by someone in the rear. Having been a dogface in the 28th Inf. Div.. I happened to be in the break¬ through area quite some time before and during the supposedly surprise attack. To the rear echelon and to the pub¬ lic I’ll admit it was a surprise, but to

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The story of two fat men . . . One acted unwisely ... he always ate too much; he tried to lose weight quickly through strenuous exercise, self-pre¬ scribed drugs, and other short-cuts to weight reduction. One reduced sensibly ... he consulted his doctor about his weight problem, and followed a properly balanced diet to bring his weight down gradually, and keep it at a desirable level. Overweight is our country’s Number One health problem today. In fact, it is estimated that there are about 25 million Americans who are burdened by excess pounds. Medical authorities stress the health hazards of overweight more than ever before. The rea¬ son for this is simple: Continuing studies show that overweight people do not live , on the average , as long as those who keep their weight at a desirable level. This is be¬ cause excessive fat tends to increase a person's chances of possibly developing one or more diseases of the heart and blood vessels , diabetesy liver and gall bladder disease and other disorders. Overweight may reduce physical efficiency and often is a serious handicap in the event an operation is needed, or an acute illness occurs. In addition, overweight is apt to place an un¬ necessary strain on many vital organs, especially the heart. It has been estimated, for example, that for every 20 pounds of excess weight, one’s heart must serve about 12 extra miles of blood vessels. So, it is important to keep a watchful eye on your weight and start reducing as soon as any unwelcome pounds appear. Safe and sensible weight reduction should always begin with a visit to your doctor. He will examine you and suggest what weight is best for you. His decision will be based, in part, on your height and age, as well as your bone structure and the kind of life you lead. Nearly all cases of overweight are due to eat¬ ing too much. There are various reasons for excessive eating-emotional difficulties, for ex¬ ample. Whatever the cause, the doctor can usually help you to develop a sound weight reduction program. This will usually include a properly balanced diet; one which will bring about the desired reduction slowly, usually at the rate of about two pounds a week, and also supply the body with the necessary protective food elements. However, no diet will produce satisfactory results, unless there is a determined effort made by the patient to reduce. With the doctor’s advice and a firm resolution to cooperate wholeheartedly, an overweight person can usually attain the desired weight — at which he will look, feel, and act best. Remem¬ ber that proper weight , in terms of everyday comfort and longer life , is worth whatever effort is required to achieve and maintain it. COPT ItlAHT 1 a • 3 — MlTNOPOLlTAN UP! IN<U«AMC( COAPANT Metropolitan Life Insurance Company {A MUTUAL COMPANY) 1 Madison Avence, New Yotik 10, N. Y. Metropolitan Life Insurance Co. 1 Madison Ave., New Yark 10, N Y. Please mail me a free copy of your booklet, 353-C, “Overweight.” Name _ Street. City— Stare

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•2l yeMMMu Golden rule days of book learnin’ can be made mighty sweet with the help of Mars Toasted Almond Bars — pure milk chocolate cover¬ ing smooth, creamy nougat and crisp toasted almonds. Time to stop your look yearnin’ and get on the out¬ side of a big Mars Bar right now. Buy several for later. IM h 1 nt 6 Week's Mail CONTINUED the doggies in the front line it was elear that the attaek was apparent and eoming soon. 1 myself reported the mass prepara¬ tions that eould be heard and seen with the naked eye in my sector alone, and 1 know the rest of the front-line observers reported the same. 1 he rear eehelon, through all these reports, would always say: “Pay no at¬ tention to the activity, it is just relief troops eoming up.” We even eaptured German troops dressed as Americans. I recall one American (German) major who had the very location of our rifle and mortar positions 15 days before the break¬ through. The higher-ups, ineluding SHAEF, thought nothing of it. Then they hit and it was a great surprise. Harold P. Hayes, Tiffin, Ohio . . . I must question one incident in Von Rundstedt’s account of the battle. You printed a picture of American dead at Malmedy with a caption explaining that SS men, hurrying to the front, came upon them (the captive American troops) and immediately opened fire, thinking that they were an American unit heading for battle. You also state that this was the explanation given by Von Rundstedt. I can see the plausibility of the ex- euse being accepted by one who has never seen eombat, but as an ex-infan- tryman, I cannot swallow such rot. If the officers in command of the SS troops failed to see that the American troops were unarmed they might have given orders to open fire, but there is no such thing as a combat oflieer who orders his troops to continue firing until every one of the enemy is dead without one shot being fired in return. Giorge Kaiser, Brookline, Mass. . . . Thank you for the work and effort it must have taken on the part of your staff to put out an article on the history and truth of the Battle of the Bulge. I was a heavy machine gunner with the 99th Di\ ision holding the line in the Ardennes seetor. I was eaptured Dec. 17, 1944. At the time a lot of things that hap¬ pened in that battle looked funny, e\en clear down to the viewpoints of a lowly Pic. Your article cleared up some of them by explaining the strategy a man must use to try to reach and take a nearly impossible objective when the elements are against him in war, such as was the case of Yon Rundstedt’s try¬ ing to reach Antwerp. Ok\ lt.t r W. Snyder, Bedford, Pa. . . . If it is nai\e to be surprised to find it raining on Monday when the weather report predicted rain, then it is correct to claim that Field Marshal \on Rundstedt’s assault at the Battle of the Bulge was a complete surprise. An article b\ a military analyst ap¬ peared in the New York l imes pub¬ lished a week or more before this event wherein the author stated that in his opinion Yon Rundstedt would attempt one more all-out attaek from the Ar¬ dennes Forest. 1 think it was this same military man who also predicted in an article pub¬ lished in the Times several days before the event that General Rommel would strike out from the Kasserine Pass. An article by a military man under the title of What Will Be Japan's Prob¬ able Course in the Event of War in the Paeifie? (I quote from memory) ap¬ peared in the Times several weeks be¬ fore Pearl Harbor. In it the author stated that Japan would attaek Pearl Harbor and try to destroy our fleet. Nevertheless our top commanders were completely surprised in eaeh in¬ stance. Why? Lee R. Robbins, Norwich, Conn. Collector’s Items Editor: Eleven months ago we became the parents of a daughter and received, among other gifts, tw'o of Cydney’s chil¬ dren ballet pictures. Upon seeing your Jan. 3d issue on the newsstand we im¬ mediately recognized another Cydney. May we thank you for this fine addi¬ tion to our collection. It now hangs with the other two in the baby’s room. Mr. & Mrs. Joseph Asher, Bronx, N.Y. U;Y etc Hope , . . i\eiv Understanding” Editor: We deeply appreciate the pub¬ lication of the article, Would You Share Your Home with a Mental Case? (Dec. 20th). The account gives splendid ex¬ pression to our experience of how' pa¬ tients may benefit from an opportunity to return to the community, and to the remarkable contribution of caretakers like Mrs. Tucker. Reactions to the artiele have been most interesting. Families of patients in the hospitals have told us of their renewed hope for the eventual adjust¬ ment of their relatives. One family said that the article helped them to a new understanding; they had regarded men¬ tal illness as hopeless and saw for the first time that it was really possible that their own relative eould have a chance to recover and return to normal life. Frank F. Tallman, M.D., Director of Mental Hygiene, State of California, Sacramento, Cal. . . . The article on family care for men¬ tally ill people was superb. Because I supervise mentally ill veterans in fam- ily-eare homes sueh as described made it particularly meaningful to me. It is gratifying to note the improvement that most patients make under this form of supervised eare. Certainly it is hoped that all states wall reeognize the good that is derived and wall adopt similar programs. James H. Ivory, Veterans Administration Hospital, Tuskegee, Ala. CollierN for February 14, 1953

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Jei r> Yi unc.. > n h iu,ir J t;, , \* ?t • )f Pflnti £Mf>h b\ inffli’t' Itruk “Me?— I Make Mud Pies!” By JERRY YOUNG as told to GRANT LAND RICE, Noted Sportswrifer and Commentator \ EAH, THAT’S RIGHT— I mess around with mud for a living. Could be I make mud packs to chase away wrinkles but I don’t. I might be vice president in charge of sludge pits at a pottery. But I’m not. The kind of mud pies I make, it’s an art but it’s a science, too. Just m case the suspense is getting unbearable . . . I’m the gnv who says, "Here’s mud in your eye” to an oil well. They tell me and some¬ times I believe ’em that I’m one of the most important guys on the drilling site. Here’s why: Mud does a lot of big jobs around a drill site. When a well is drilled by the rotary method, mud lubricates the drill-stem and keeps it cool. It flow's up out of the drill hole and carries out ground-up rocks from the bottom. It hardens the cla\ around the sides of the hole, and makes a well that won’t ca\ e in. This isn’t ordinary mud, either. We bu\ it bv the sack, made-to-order for the kind of ground we're drilling in. Some of it is made with South American fibres, with alumina, silica lots of different chemicals. Flic boss-driller on each job usually has bis own fa\orite mud recipe and I’m the guy who mixes it, adding just the right amount of water, salt, and other chemicals. With the help of me and my fancy mud pies. Cities Service last year drilled 375 miles of holes, contributing toward the production of 43,000,000 barrels of petroleum liquids which it turned into more than 400 products you can use around the house, m vour car, on your farm if you have one, and in the factory. Are these products good? Why man, I was there when they were born! Sure I think they’re the best on the market today. CITIES SERVICE

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8 / _ iiss? SAVE SPACE AND DOLLARS Shown above: General L-K Model R-520. In only 27 Is" width and less than 5 square feet of space, combines 4 cu-ft. refrigerator with horizontal freezer holding 9 ice-cube trays, big inner door shelf and storage drawer, 12"xl6" sink, 3 gas burners, and timer. Unit is standard 36" height. Also available with electric burners for 220 v. or 110 v. Top left: General’s L-K Model S-550 makes complete Kitchen-\Vith-Oven in 48" by combining with any 20" apart¬ ment range! 4 cu-ft. capacity, storage drawer, inner door shelf, horizontal freezer, and topped by 1-piece porce¬ lain sink, drainboard and back-splash. Middle: General Chef combines 4 cu-ft. refrigerator with 3 electric burners, 220 volt, in only 4.1 sq. ft. of space. Also available with 3 gas burners or 2 electric burners for 110 v. plug-in use. Range heats do not affect refrigerator temperatures. Below: General’s Executive Refrigerator has acid-resistant formica table top and choice of finishes: flame-grain ma¬ hogany, blonde, walnut, knotty pine or gleaming white. Size, space-saving fea¬ tures, same as units above, including ice-cube tray capacity. Ideal for offices, home bars, apartments, hotels. YEAR GUARANTEE ON ALL UNITS CONTRACTORS. ARCHITECTS. ANO PROPRIETORS OF MOTELS APARTMENTS. HOTELS. RESORTS ANO INSTITUTIONS Write today for illustrated catalog and specification sheets (iEXEKAL Air C ondidoning Corp. _ Lot Angeles: 4520 E. Dunhom Street ^.,7;r | New York: Dept. N, Suite 543, 1 1 W. 42nd St. feSfe!# I Chicogo: Dept. W, 323 W. Polk Street NATIONWIDE SALES ANO SERVICE ST A TES OF MtNB By WALTER DAVENPORT Here’s a doleful tiding for you folks whose gold mines were closed down by the government during World War II. If you’re thinking of suing the govern¬ ment for the dough you think you might have got if you'd been permitted to go on digging, you’ve got to prove down to the last possible nugget that “condi¬ tions” are the same today as they were then. And anybody who can do that wins a hatful of folding money. ★ ★ ★ Dr. Burgess Gordon, president of the Woman’s Medical College in Philadel¬ phia, foresees the day when men may have to wear girdles if they hope to meet female competition in industry, business and politics. Girdles make for better and deeper breathing, he says, re¬ sulting in more vitality; and there are far too many middled men in business. ★ ★ ★ Bit of professional advice discovered in the Iowa Association of Chiefs of Police and Peace Officers Magazine. That, by the way, is the name of the journal, not the contents. Advice is, “Don’t argue with the eop. Maybe he just wants to give you a friendly warn¬ ing. Don’t sit in your car hollering you’re a taxpayer. You can no more win an argument with him than a ball¬ player ean with an umpire. Instead, congratulate him for being on the job. Thank him for giving you a ticket. He has been examined physically and has a stout heart. He will not drop dead.” ★ ★ ★ Having read that the true rebel yell begins “on A-sharp, slides up immedi¬ ately half a tone, changes to D-sharp, holding there and ending with a trem¬ olo,” Mr. Simms O’Brien walked to the corner of his street in LawTenee, Mas¬ sachusetts, and gave it a try. Three times brought results — two cops, sev¬ eral dogs and an ambulance. ★ ★ ★ Before being asked what we think of the housing shortage in Washington, D.C., we say it’s nonsense. Plenty of room if they’ll just take old 48’s advice and throw away those 4,000,000 eases filled with triplicated, quadrupled and sextupled forms we the people have filled otit and the government saved. Costs $70,000,000 a year to store them in space as large as seven Pentagon buildings. Why not use this space to file away leftover Truman administra¬ tion personnel? Or at least the stranded, but still hopeful, eronies. Lots of room then for Ike’s guys. ★ ★ ★ Because his picture on his campaign literature was said to have been taken from a photograph made 12 years ago, the Honorable Earle H. Hill, recently re-elected to the Oregon legislature, has been asked to resign. Oregon law' says politicians may not broadcast photo¬ graphs more than five years old. Mr. Hill’s opposition cries “fraud.” Mr. Hill replies “nonsense.” Situation tense. ★ ★ ★ Judge in Rutland, Vermont, asked* the cop whether he was sure the pris¬ oner was drunk w'hen arrested. Cop said: “Well, Judge, it was like this: I saw this man drop a penny in the park¬ ing meter and look up at the courthouse eloek and holler that he’s lost twelve pounds. What do you think?” ★ ★ ★ From Beatrice, Nebraska, w^e receive w'ord that a lady asked to be excused from jury duty because she did not be¬ lieve in capital punishment. But the judge told her she shouldn’t worry be¬ cause this case merely involved a fellow whose wife gave him five hundred dol¬ lars to pay for a fur coat she’d ordered. Fellow didn’t buy the eoat but went on a pub-crawl with a dame he’d picked up in a bar and spent all the money that way. “All right, Judge,” said this lady. “I’ll serve. Maybe I was wrong after all about capital punishment.” ★ ★ ★ The sign on this eatery near Pomona, California, announced: Hamburgers Ten Cents. So George Irwin entered. He ate one hamburger. The counter¬ man demanded 40 cents. Mr. Irwin pointed to the sign. Said the counter¬ man: “You had it on a bun, didn’t you? That’s ten cents. You said yes to pickle relish, didn’t you? Ten cents more. IRWIN CAPLAN Nodded w'hen I asked onion, didn't you? Another dime. Anything else on your mind, mister?” The bewildered Mr. Irwin couldn’t think of anything. ★ ★ ★ Large sign on a trailer truek seen one recent night by Mr. Fred Wetherbee out in Greenfield, Indiana: DIM DEM DAM LIGHTS. Collier’s for February 14, 1953

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Every trip is a pleasure trip when you drive on safe, dependable Kelly Tires! For Kellys live up to a reputation for quality, value and trouble-free performance that is unsurpassed. Their tough, slow-wearing Armorubber tread gives you extra thousands of safe miles — and it's these “bonus miles" that make Kellys a better value for your money! Yes, you're miles ahead on Kellys — and you're dollars ahead if you trade in your old tires before they're worn smooth and risky. That's because your Kelly Dealer gives full credit for all the unused mileage left in them! So don't wait. See him today — and sec how inexpensively you can get set for worry-free driving! %oved owl Itup/umd Jot 59 y KELLY FAMILIAR SIGHTS IN CHICAGO FAMOUS MICHIGAN AVENUE DEPENDABLE KELLV T P ES Wherever you go .. . GO WORRY-FREE OIV KELLYS!

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Business trip or pleasure jaunt —you’ll look at ease when you feel at ease. And you’ll feel fully at ease when you wear Jockey brand Midway* . Extra comfortable because it gives you extra coverage. Jockey Midway fits you perfectly because it's tailored of I 1 separate pieces! Special heat- resistant rubber in waistband stays lively longer — exclusive angled front opening is most convenient, won't gap — special groin seams stop sagging, bunching and binding! So wherever you go ... be at ease . . . wear Jockey brand Underwear. And be sure it's Jockey . . . imitations won’t do ! time for W> full comfort . . . U'ear Jockey Contoured Undershirt, too wear the one-and-only n Oier-Knet1, SI Well, He’s A bout This Wide I!' JOHN I. MCAH.KK k4Oh, it's too large, isn’t it?” my wife said unhappily IXACTLY why wives find it im¬ possible to remember their hus¬ bands’ clothing sizes is a mystery I have been unable to fathom. At least I’ve been unable to fathom it from the dark folds of my latest birthday present, which my wife handed me the other evening. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I said greedily, shaking the box to see if it gurgled. “Now what in the world could this be?” “A fine way to find out would be to take it out of the box,” she advised. “Try it on for size.” I executed these maneuvers but seemed little nearer to the answer. So far as I could determine, the box con¬ tained a bright-plaid pyramidal tent or, perhaps, an elephant blanket. The present turned out, however, to be a sport shirt. “Oh, it’s too large, isn’t it?” my wife said unhappily, as I emerged from the bedroom, tripping over the shirttails. “ I distinctly told that clerk I wanted size sixteen double E.” “Sixteen double E?” I croaked from somewhere inside the shirt. “My shirt size is sixteen thirty-three “That silly clerk,” my wife said. “I w'ish you could get your shirt size straight. Well, I’ll just have to take it back and exchange it.” “Never mind,” I said hastily. “They're wearing elephant blank — I mean, sport shirts roomier today.” I was taking no chances of coming out even worse. The complete in¬ ability of the female mind to cope with the standard measurements used in men’s clothing has long been a source of well-swathed confusion to me, but I’ve learned not to fight it. For instance, there’s my aunt in Philadelphia, an otherwise orderly minded woman who can memorize the ingredients of a complicated cas¬ serole at a glance. But for years I’ve been receiving undershirts from her which a midget couldn't enter with a shoehorn. It is small comfort to realize this distaff blind spot is universal. This was brought to my attention recently while I was in a men’s wear depart¬ ment, to exchange some socks a niece had given me, apparently under the impression I wore them over my shoes. I was yanked bodily into the suit department by an elderly lady customer. “My husband’s about this big in here,” she said to the clerk, as she absently delivered a nasty right cross to my mid-section, “but he’s a little taller. And he’s not sc flat in the back part. What size suit do you wear, young man?” “Size forty,” I gasped. “Is that all?” she asked suspi¬ ciously. “I wear a size thirty-eight myself.” She demanded a size forty- four, just to be safe. She probably had known her hus¬ band only a few decades and natu¬ rally couldn’t be expected to know his suit size. “With men’s sizes so confusing, it’s a wonder women understand them as well as we do,” my wife, Margery, said self-righteously the other day when her mother sent me a pair of corduroy slacks, the only slacks I ever had which stood still the first four steps I took. “I know your sizes, sort of,” I wailed to Margery. “Well, naturally,” she said. “Any¬ body can learn women’s sizes. Even you. They’re so simple.” Here before me I have a working chart of women’s sizes, worked out unerringly through simple calculus and blind instinct. The woman in point shall remain unnamed. She wears a size-twelve blouse, ex¬ cept sometimes. Then she wears either a size ten or a size fourteen. Of course, she also wears a size-thirty- four blouse or, occasionally, size thirty-six. The reason given for this is that it all depends. These statistics may apply to slips but not to dresses except at some stores. “Half sizes” allow for anatomies which are larger in some places than in others. The “Miss” size bracket has nothing to do with age, or any¬ thing else the mortal mind can con¬ ceive of, and may or may not be larger than a “Mrs.” size, of which there are none. Lastly, none of this makes any dif¬ ference because, through a strange quirk in natural law', your wife will take anything you buy her back to the exchange counter, whether or not it fits. Simple? Of course, I admitted to my wife. Matter of fact, she is so im¬ pressed by my grasp of these funda¬ mentals that she has promised to quit trying to wheedle at least a size-ten hat for me from salesmen simply be¬ cause she wears a size twenty-two and is afraid I’ll catch cold. It’s dark in this fedora. ^ A A All the world wears Jockey1 Cooper* Incorporate Kenosha. Wis Licensees end registered user* Canada-J. R Moodie Com¬ pany. Limited; Austrebe S pee do Knitting Mills. British Isles Lyle & Scott. New Zealand-Lane *elkar. Rudkin; SwiUerland- Vollmoeller. France Verdier . Colombia Ttitiles, Ego, Italy Seat. Denmark Taco, So Afnta-Niman & Lestar. Germeny-Volma , Collier’s for February 14, 1953

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1 1 V i I I )n •>' Ijfi 6 Air France puts the world before von. 1 15,000 miles of routes linking the ti continents are at your service. You will en joy the Hectness and luxury of the Air France travel mode. Wherever your overseas destination. Hy Air France’ \ew t\ pe C onstellations Hown by million mile pilots . . . the special charm of French elegance . . . the World’s Largest Airways System. AIR FRANCE ~ Tfe. Luyuiuj VJoM iVida A«a fi/C - 77ff‘ './bftAfftJf luxury service from N Y ., Boston atid Montreal to Paris cuteway to the world 'TTtf' . /}///. w/n f'J/jf/i/// famous non-stop overnight flight from New York to Paris. Extra fare. Air h ranee: New ^ oik, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland. by Constellations, the most powerful in tourist service to Europe. Detroit, Philadelphia, Dallas, l, os Angeles. San Francisco, Washington, D. C., Bogota, Caraeas, Havana, Montreal. Toronto, Mexico.

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YOUR SAFETY IS A FIRST AND THIS IS WHY There are engineering reasons for every benefit your new Chrysler Corporation car offers you EVEN BEFORE you turn the starter key, you sense the strength built into e\ery new Plymouth, Dodge, DeSoto and Chrysler. The tight, firm way the doors lateh hints that here is a bodv -and-frame struc ture ruggedly safe throughout. You notice, too, the wide, full-circle view through the smart new curved one-piece windshield and added window space all around. On Comfort-Level seats, you sit naturally erect, better able to see the road. THERE ARE REASONS. Chrysler Corporation engineers manhandle every inch of a car’s body and frame. They jolt it, strain it, literally try to tw ist it apart. Every component of the body is checked for endurance — locks, hinges, springs, window regulators, even the fabrics. Then the car is subjected to thousands of severe road-test miles. When our cars shrug off this punishment, we know they’re read) to guard the safety of your family. UNDER WAY, you control vour car with complete confidence. All your stops are smooth with Chryslcr-engineered Safe-Guard Hydraulic Brakes. In case of a blowout, exclusive Safety-Rim W heels hold the deflated tire firmly, let you make a safe, controlled stop. A new method of “springing'’ helps give vuu a sure, steady ride even on the worst roads. And in rain, the constant-speed electric windshield wiper keeps your vision clear at all times. THERE ARE REASONS. Putting on the brakes a thousand times a day w ith a test dynamometer is one way Chrysler Corporation engineers make certain your brakes will stop your car safely and surely every time. Tests like this helped develop Cyclebond brake linings, w ith almost twice as much useful lining life as ordinary linings. Safe-Guard Hydraulic Brakes furnish quick stopping power through six cylinders instead of the usual four. Hack of every development that makes your (hrysler ('orporation car so safe to drive are the talent and experience of engineers , scientists and technicians with the one aim — to produce fine cars of superior worth . CHRYSLER CORPORATION engineers and builds Plymouth, Dodge, DeSoto, Chrysler Cars & Dodge Trucks Chry>J«r Marine & Industrial Engines Oitite Metal Powder Products Mepar Parts & Accessories Airtamj Heating, Air Conditioning, Refrigeration Cydeweld Cement Products

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Collier's. Cehruavfi I I, I I WHY DIDN’T YOU GET THAT RAISE ? By HOWARD \\ III I’M V> Mavbc your idea of how to <h4 ahead is out of date. Psvrholoj'Ms Jia\'e ereated new standards and tests. If you understand litem, von may j£et that iiterea^e \< t THE way to get ahead in the world is changing just about as fast as th*e world is. Science is moving in to help big companies decide who gets the better job — and the bigger pay check. That old rogue known as “Pull” is being thrown out the window, and so is its side-kick. “Lucky Break," In their places are new methods, fresh from the psychological laboratories, for determin¬ ing not only how good a man is at his job but how good he is as a person — and what he can develop into, A good many old notions, and some old vir¬ tues, too, are going on the scrap heap. Consider, for example, the idea of getting a pro¬ motion by being in the right place at the right time. Many a career has been built on it, yet it is mostly a matter of luck, not merit. Today, instead of being caught short and picking the first person who comes by the door, companies are building a backlog of promotable personnel — tested, ap¬ praised, ready to move up the ladder. Employee evaluation has supplanted the stab in the dark. Or, consider the notion of fitting square pegs into square holes. Just a few years ago that was about all there was to personnel science. Today, that approach is looked upon as kid stuff. The real trick is to find out what kind of wood the peg is made of, what quality, how durable, and — most important of all — how' it can be shaped in the fu¬ ture to fit into a hole it doesn't begin to fit into right now. Employee development has taken the place of the peg game. The old virtues die hardest of all. They must be born again in a new' context, E for effort isn’t enough any more. A man can put forth a lot of effort going around in circles. Even sheer, rolbup- your-sleevcs hard work isn't what it used to be. One personnel consultant says, “U a man works his head off, his company may think he can't get his work done in a normal day.” The new ideal is productive work — the efficient use of energy, not the sheer output of it. As with machinery, a smooth, well-paced worker is considered better than one eternally on the verge of blowing a gasket. Most people are pleased that the scientific ap¬ proach is supplanting lavoritism, petty prejudice, dumb luck, random selection and eager-beaverism. Most people want to be promoted. But 1 think it can safely be assumed they want to be promoted for being w hat they really are. Dr. Walter D. Woodward, psychiatrist at the American Cyanamid Company, says: “We are looking beyond the old idea of promo¬ tion, We arc thinking in terms of development, looking toward a man’s long-term progress with the company. We want to develop men who can fit into future vacancies, take jobs which don't even exist yet. Our idea is to help people develop on the job, grow into something better." Growth on the job. 1 found in visits to numerous companies and numerous consultants, seems to have taken the place of square-peg-square-hole thinking. Says the modern employer, “I’m not con¬ tent to keep you as 1 found you. I want to watch your growth and development (and help you in it) so that you can hold bigger, better jobs as time goes by." In many firms, 1 found “salesman development programs,” “supervisor development programs," “executive development programs" and other vari¬ eties of the growth-on-the-job approach. Each recognized a fundamental principle < pv. i people are not static, they are const mth cV. _• I he changes are determined by the deep, u- derlying piles of personality stiucturo Hence the new dynamic approach to promotion is based not so much on how well a man or woman can do .. particular job. but how matuie and wcll-integialed his or her personality may be. I he mainspi ings of personality supply, after all, the incentive, integ rity, vigor and enthusiasm a person needs to de not only today's job but any future |ob. In the files of the American Management As sociation, a study covering SO. 000 clerical and office workers in 76 companies analyzes the rea¬ sons why people are n ot promoted. 1 ask of ^ki 1 on the job accounts for only 23.5 per cent of the trouble. Personality failings account for “Vo per cent. Some of the personality failings and the ex¬ tent to which they halt promotion are. lack of initiative 10.6 per cent, lack of ambition 6 ” per cent, carelessness 7.9 per cent, non-co-operation 6.7 per cent and laziness 6.4 per cent. These personality failings can be observed in surface behavior. But today’s personnel experts listen also lor deeper rumblings, especially when important promotions are involved. Their listen¬ ing apparatus consists of batteries of psychological tests plus “evaluation interviews.” Let's say the personnel director or a plant psy¬ chologist is considering Mr. A for promotion to foreman. He wants to find out just what kind of a director of other men Mr. A will be. He can’t come right out in an interview and ask, “Do you have an authority complex?” oi “Are vou a mar¬ tinet?” or “Do you want this job just to lord it over THESE TRAITS HELP 1. Ability to think analytically 2. Evenness of moods 3. Ability to inspire confidence 4. Willingness to work hard and to require others to do so 5. Toleration of hostile action 6* Ability to think critically 7. Good social sensitivity (tact, finesse) 8. Courage of convictions 9. Resistance to fear THESE Til A ITS IILRT 1. Inability to lake criticism 2. Lack of originality 3. Gloominess and pessimism 4. Inability to follow through 3. Hostility (suspicion and back-stabbing) 6. Dissipation of effort 7. Dread of responsibility 8. Fluctuating loyalties 9. Lack of sympathy 13

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If \nu arc lively at liiulit lml tired in the morning, emotional fatigue max In* the reason \onr te»low workers?"— and expect an answer worth listening to So he uses a “revealing situation" question. "1 et us suppose.' he sa\s. "that one of \our men Ik s been late twice in the past ten davs. Each time v ou spoke to I im about it. I he last time, two davs ago. his lateness disrupted vour work schedule and sou spoke to him stionglv and received his assurance that he would be on time in the future. I his morning, he is late again, and because of his ateness an important job has been held up and vour department will tail to have an order ready tor delivers. What would you do about this man?" Right \uwo*r Reveal* Mature Quality You might sa\ there couldn't be “right” or ‘wrong answers to such a nebulous question. But there are. I or example: ‘Td lire him” is a wrong answer. "I d give him another chance ' is a wrong answer. ’Td Itnd out win the man was kite" is the right answer. It is the right answer because it shows Mr. A's igiiitv ol mind in the lace ol a loaded question. It Tows good qualities ot judgment and an even, unlicial temperament. (After all. the man may have been late because his mother was taken to the hospital that morning.) hurther. the answer shins s a warm, matuie leeling toward a tellow man It is not the mawkish “give him another ^ bailee or the cold-fish "lire him ” The approach in open and human and the man can still be tired or turgiven alter the tacts are known In written tests ot personality the "sleeper'* question provides quick glimpses into character If sou *peak up when someone shoves ahead of you in a line, you score for aggressiveness Take this test: You are a foreman . An employee is late structure — and the person being tested usually hasn't the faintest idea what he has revealed about himselt. Here is a typical “sleeper" sequence: Answer yes or no: 1 . Do >ou object to the odor of fertilizer? 2. W'ould you feel sickish at seeing blood on a wound? 3. Do you object to the odor of garbage? 4. W'ould you feel sickened by attending a bull¬ fight? 5. W'ould you object to drinking milk if it were beginning to sour? On the surface this would appear to be a test of squeamishness. Actually it is a veiled probing for sadistic tendencies. It is not foolproof, of course, and is meielv a pointer at best, yet you can see the possible implication if one answered “yes" to questions I, 3 and 5 and “no" to questions 2 and 4. Personality tests are valueless (and sometimes dangerous) when used by amateurs. When used by experts thev can serve a good purpose, mainly because experts know just how lar to trust them. Instead ot jumping to conclusions, the skilled tester used test questions as “predictors" — hints about where to probe deeper in the personal in¬ ters iow. Here's an example: “Have you ever figured out a way vou’d choose to use if you committed sui¬ cide?” asks a test question. A simple yes or no answer doesn’t mean a thing. Nor is there anything ominous it someone answers, “by shooting,” “by hanging" or any similarly frank response. Blit there might he a predictor— something to dig into later— if the answer showed either a strong avoidance of the subject, such as. “Would never dale to think ot such a thing!" or a preoccupation reflected in a long, enthusiastic description of one's favorite suicide method. There arc dozens of questions (and they ap¬ pear in dozens ol vaiieties on various tests) which are “clue-loaded.” 1 hey have no right or wrong answers, but anv answer at all adds another brush stroke to the portrait of a person. They are ques¬ tions such as the following, and arc aimed at the aspects ol character shown in parentheses: On meeting someone, do you say hello first or do \ou wait lor the other tellow to say hello? (hostility) Are you hurt if someone fails to return your call? (e go weakness, inferiorits feelings) Do vou feel peppy at night and tired in the morning? ( emotional fatigue) Do little problems prey on your mind? (gener¬ alized an xiet\ ) If vou had a free day, would you prefer to spend it alone or with other people? (sell -sufficiency) Would you rather make a decision yourself or have someone help vou make it? (sense of ade¬ quacy. confidence ) Do you prefer conventional living or are you a nonconformist? (spontaneity , assurance . rebel¬ liousness) Does criticism bother you if you do not con¬ sider it constructive? (egou to say no to a salesman? (sug¬ gestibility) Some of these questions have interesting cor¬ relations. established through repeated experience and cross checking with control groups. Take the last question. II a man says it is not hard for him to sa> no to a salesman he may not make a very good salesman himself. Cross checking has shown that 90 per cent of the successful salesmen them¬ selves find it hard to say no to a salesman. Some tests have impressive records of predicta¬ bility 1 he 1 ite Otlico Management Association, representing over 250 insurance companies, de¬ veloped a senes of mental-alertness tests for cleri¬ cal workers. Dr. Marion A. Bills, of the Aetna Lite Insurance Company, reports on the basis of U> Studies show that 90 per cent of successful salesmen are soft touches for other salesmen follow-up studies that a person scoring over 120 on cither of two of these tests stands between four and five times more chance of being promoted to a decision-making job within five years than one having a lower score. From company to company, personnel depart¬ ments use their own individual test batteries, com¬ binations of selected standard tests plus any special tests they may have worked out for themselves. A typical combination might include (1) an adapta¬ tion of the old Army “Alpha” test for verbal, numerical and general mental ability, (2) an occu¬ pational selection test such as the Kudcr Prefer¬ ence Record. (3) a general interest test such as the Allport-Vcrnon Scale of Values, (4) a voca¬ tional interest test such as the Strong Voca¬ tional Interest Inventory and (5) one or two personality soundings such as the Guilford-Zim- merman Temperament Survey or the Bernrcuter Personality Inventory. Portrait Includes Future Trends Each of these tests, in skilled hands, sharpens the portrait of the man being considered for pro¬ motion — not only the portrait of the man today blit the portrait of the man he may develop into. The Ruder Preference Record, for example, is designed to reveal inclinations in one or more of nine directions: scientific, commercial, musical, artistic, literary, social service, persuasive, me¬ chanical and clerical. The Allport-Vernon Scale ot Values aims to measure six basic fields of inter¬ est: the theoretical, economic, aesthetic, social, political and religious. The personality tests help nail down the intangible quantity known as char¬ acter. But the final rounding out — and the heart of the new. scientific approach to promotion — is the evaluation interview. Yes, this is talk, just talk. But it is extremely skilled talk, just as psycho¬ therapy is mainly talk, but skilled talk. In Cleveland, at Western Reserve University’s Personnel Research Institute, I sat in as observer at an evaluation interview conducted for a Cleve¬ land firm, the Solar Steel Corporation. The in¬ terviewers were two psychologists. Dr. Erwin K. Taylor, director of the institute, and Theodore Kunin. The subject was a Solar Steel employee { I Collier's for February 14, 1953

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15 ayain. Would you fin :» him? W roiif/ solution. Give him uuotltvr chuuco? W rontj uyuin whom we shall call Mr. X (with facts of the inter¬ view clinically disguised to avoid identification ) . Mr. X had been at the institute all morning go¬ ing through a test battery. Alter a leisurely lunch for rest and recuperation he now was ready to face the evaluators. He came into the room with a friendly air, greeted the interviewers and sat down at a table opposite Kunin, with Or. Taylor at a desk at the head of the table. I was not introduced to the man. 1 simply sat in a corner of the room with a noteboard and pen¬ cil. But the lack of introduction was no surprise. 1 had asked Or. Taylor about it in advance and he had said, “No, 1 intentionally will not introduce you. This is to be a ‘stress interview' and your un¬ explained presence will serve a good purpose. It will add to the stress.” Content with this role as a stress factor, 1 sat with as enigmatic an expression as 1 could muster and took notes during the interview. Questions at a ‘'"Stress Interview*’ Mr. X hadn't answered more than a half-dozen routine questions when the stress was turned on. Kunin: What would you do if a customer com¬ plained that the steel you shipped to him was in¬ ferior and you tested it and found that it was of top quality? Mr. X: I’d demonstrate. I'd show him how good tt was. Kunin: And the customer comes back at you, “Young man, I’ve been in the steel business thirty years— and I say it’s no good!’’ Mr. X: Well, I’d show him the test. I’d — Kunin: That only makes him angrier, Mr, X: I suppose I’d have to take it back. Dr. Taylor: When it's perfectly good? Mr. X: But he says it isn’t. Kunin: But you know it is. Mr. X: What else could I do but take it back? Kunin: Suppose the company won’t take it back? Mr. X: I’d run some more tests — I’d prove to the customer — Dr. Taylor; The customer isn’t interested. Mr. X: Well, you've got me. 1 guess I’d just have to talk to the sales manager about that. Kunin: But what if you were the sales manager? Mr. X at this point squirmed and lighted a ciga¬ rette. He was nonplused and silent, and the psy¬ chologists allowed the uncomfortable seconds to tick by in silence — intentionally. One way to find out what a man is like is to get him drunk. The investigator drinks tea One personnel man deliberately keeps a job Dr. Taylor came back after a bit with, “Sup¬ pose you were made sales manager and two of your colleagues resented the fact and were intent on get¬ ting you out as soon as possible?” Mr. X: Well, I’d try to gain their confidence. Kunin: How? Mr. X: I’d show them that I was in their corner. Dr. Taylor: How? Mr. X: I d, uh — well. I’d show' them that I’m a good guy. Dr. Taylor: How? To everything Mr. X said, the comeback was “How?” and no matter how adequately or in¬ adequately he followed through, the dogged “How?” still awaited him. At one point Dr. Taylor engaged in “role play¬ ing” with Mr. X. The psychologist played the role of a customer, who for some reason had stopped doing business with Mr. X’s firm and Mr. X had the job of mollifying him and winning him back. Mr. X: I haven’t had an order from you for some time. Is anything wrong? Dr. Taylor: No, I wouldn't say anything's wrong. Mr. X: Well- I mean, we took care of you when steel was short, didn't we? Dr. Taylor: Do you think I'm under obligation to you? Mr. X: 1 wouldn't say that. I just mean we took good care of you. Dr. Taylor: You made a profit on every ton, didn't you? Mr. X: All I mean is. I'd like to just be fair about this thing. Dr. Taylor: Oh, then you think I’m being un¬ fair! Mr. X: Oh no, not at all. That's not what 1 meant. 1 just thought — well, steel might be short again sometime. Dr. laylor: Are you threatening me! Poor Mr. X had considerable color in his cheeks by now; and just when I thought he'd blow his top, Kunin came to the rescue by taking the interview up another path. These snatches are but a minuscule part of an interview which lasted two hours and covered ev¬ erything from life history and job history to hob¬ bies and ambitions. But the excerpts illustrate the stress theme. There are no answers to many of the questions Mr. X was asked; in fact (hoy were candidate waiting — and listens to him explode framed expressly, as Dr. Ta> lor put tt. “to get Mr. X in deep — and then get him in deeper.” The Personnel Research Institute has a bag of tricks to create stress a rtificiall > : f Intentionally make a man late for his interview by having him delayed in one ol the other offices, then look at your watch quite obviously when he comes in. f When he gives a perfectly good answer to a question, just sit there and stare at him. f Treat a big shot as though he were nobody, in¬ terrupt everything he starts to say with. "We don't care about that.” f State ominously. “Every word of this is being taken down.” Then ask pleasantly, “You don't mind being recorded?” Many Kind.* of Resistance Arc Tested But what does stress accomplish? Why create it? Its purpose is to test the man's resourceful¬ ness, to see i: he recognizes stress and what he does about it. to see how much it takes to throw him olT balance, to sec what his quitting pouu is. to test his adroitness at handling people even in impossible situations. One technical measurement of a man's response to stress is his recoverv quo¬ tient— the speed with which he bounces hack, the amount of frustration he carries along into the next situation. Some personnel men lean to novel and unor¬ thodox techniques. One, known unollieiallv as “The Broadway Bar Test.” consists simply of getting the candidate for promotion as drunk as you can under am pre¬ text whatever — and observing his behavior with a skilled eye. It is considered cricket to arrange with your favorite bartender to put tea in vour shot glass while the man vou are interviewing gets straight whisky. It the candidate is the maudlin, talking type you may get more in 30 minutes than in a week ol caretul interview ing. I ests for bel¬ ligerence and frustrabilitv mav he administered h\ intentionally mispronouncing the man's name or repeatedly asking him what department he's in and how long he’s worked for the company. “ I he Turkish Bath lest” is another. Vou in¬ vite the candidate for promotion to come to your club or gym and you interview him in the steam room. One company executive who used this DRAWINGS BY ERIC GURNEY

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16 Interview in a steam room: kihtrip a man of liis clothes ami yon strip him of all sham' method v/ith. in his opinion, outstanding success, remarked, "It is practically impossible for any man to maintain a superficial pose while he is naked. Strip a man of his clothes and you strip him of all sham." A third technique is "The Nobody Home Test." Here, the candidate for promotion is given an ap¬ pointment tor an interview, and when he arrives at the personnel director's office the receptionist intentionally ignores him. It Re points out that he has an appointment she tells him to sit down and wait — and again ignores him. If he insists he has an appointment, she then denies it. 11, with proper gentlcmanliness but firmness too, he demands his right to see the man he made an appointment with, the secretary replies, "I’m sorry, the personnel di¬ rector has left orders that he is not to be disturbed." What tlio Smart Candidate W ould Do During all of this the personnel director watches every move ol the candidate through a one-way light screen and listens to every word through a set of headphones hooked to a microphone dis¬ guised as a thermometer. Only if the candidate walks — politely but determinedly straight by the secretary and into the personnel director's office does he get an interview at all. None of these maverick techniques is recom¬ mended, tor, it thev work at all. they work only because ot the peculiar talent ot the personnel director who uses them. They have no scientific validity . In any event, when the results of the batteries of tests and the evaluation interview have been col¬ lated. a fin a 1 report or "audit'* of the individual who is up lor promotion is made. In the report, the personnel director or psychologist summarizes yvhat his tools and techniques have helped him find out. He appraises the subject's abilities and future potential, ventures generalized predictions concerning his behavior, and delineates the ele¬ ments ol character that are pertinent to the man's job-file. Then he either recommends promotion — or discourages it. Sure to be mentioned in a man’s final audit are his ’‘trails.’* 1 hesc are. to be sure, the same death¬ less traits ot character which employers in grand¬ pa's duv were interested in — but they are viewed through a scientist's glass. I ake the trait ol thoughtfulness versus interest in overt activity, sometimes stated as "introver- sion yersus extroversion." Psychologists find that the man who is a bit on the introvert side makes a better candidate lor promotion to a supervisory position than the extrovert. The reason, psycholo¬ gists J. P. Guilford and Wayne S Zimmerman, authors ot the Guilloi d-/immcrnuin Temperament Survey, comment, is that the extrovert "is so busy interacting with his social environment that he is a poor observer ot other people and of himself. He is probably not subtle and may be lacking in tact. He dislikes reflection and planning." The trait of aggressiveness has been evident in the behavior of some employees during the stress interviews mentioned earlier. A psychologist told me he and his associate once ended an interview trying to defend themselves against a man who threw answers faster than they could throw ques¬ tions. It has long figured in getting a man to the top of the ladder. A company chairman tells the board, "We wont men who are active, alert — who will tackle the job aggressively." Yet, on the other hand, we condemn aggressiveness in such common remarks as, "Don’t push other people around" and "Don't try to get ahead by stepping on other people's toes." An aggressive person often finds himself disliked. The personnel psychologist comes up with the answer to this apparent clash. Sheer “aggressive¬ ness" he regards as a negative character trait. For most jobs it is undesirable. But — "unobtrusive ag¬ gressiveness": there’s a term to make a personnel man tingle. For most jobs he loves it. It is power, drive and alertness without offense or disregard for others. It marks the socially mature go-getter. The good psychologist is the first to admit that traits must not be interpreted rigidly or out of con¬ text. The entire individual and his complete quota of character traits must be taken into account. Ola C. Cool, veteran management counselor and director of the Labor Relations Institute, re¬ marked, "The men and women who know best how to get along with people — these are the ones who get the promotions." Job knowledge, or know-how, has not lost in importance, of course, hut human relations has gained in importance; that is what tips the scale. Cool told of a brilliant engineer, an MIT gradu¬ ate, who was absolute tops technically hut missed out on promotion to a $25,000-a-year job. Cool explained. "This man was so good technically that he lost respect for the others around him, and he showed it. Result- he couldn’t get good work out of his men." Leadership is a word you hear repeatedly in the personnel offices. The measure of leadership is no longer how well a man can drive workers ahead of him like a team of horses, but how well he can get them to follow him like a team of men. "Often the opinion a man's co-workcrs have of him is more important than management’s," Cool remarked. "If he gets the promotion, they arc the ones who will have to work with him.” One industrial firm, before promoting a ma¬ chine operator to supervisor, always gives him this down-to-earth human relations test: it makes him a machine-fixer for three months. Why? "You see, a machine-fixer gets around. He has to deal with fellows all over the plant," the personnel manager explained. "He doesn’t know it, but in three months we have a full-length portrait of his social adaptability." The importance of human relations goes up the scale with the importance of the job. In most jobs the initial promotions, say during the first two to five years, preponderantly arc based on skill, know¬ how, job knowledge. But when a man gets up to the supervisory levels — when he stops handling tools and starts handling people — an almost total reversal of qualifications begins. Ratio of Know-How to Human Relations If full qualification for a job represents 100 per cent, then Cool depicts the swing of the teeter- totter something like this: for a rank-and-file worker, know-how is 90 per eent, human relations, 10 per eent; for promotion to lead man (or first step up the ladder), know-how is 75 per eent and human relations 25 per cent; for promotion to fore¬ man or supervisor, know-how is 50 per cent and human relations 50 per cent; for promotion to executive, know-how is 20 per cent and human re¬ lations 80 per cent. At the 1951 General Management Conference of the American Management Association one company president gave the following breakdown of how he spends his time: day-to-day operations 5 per eent, long-range planning 25 per cent, human relations work with employees, stockholders and everyone else with whom the company comes in contact — 70 per eent. In industry, as in politics, everyone has the right to want to be president. So, many com¬ panies start way down on the seale helping their people develop the art — or heart — for getting on with people. The General Electric Company does it with a counseling program, urging each super¬ visor to have a counseling session with each of his workers at least once a year — plus as often as an employee may wish to initiate counseling on his own steam. "Joe, it you could have any job you wanted, what job would you want?" is a question com¬ monly heard in counseling. It stems from interest in Joe as a person — neither an isolated wage earner nor an impersonal producer of profit, but a mem¬ ber of a team. In one eompany, the personnel manager named, a man for promotion to a job for which he had no previous training. When asked why, he remarked, "We can teach that man all the know-how he needs in six weeks — but it has taken him thirty-tw'o years to become the person he is." AAA Sometimes the badgered employee turns on his tormentors and makes them defend themselves Collier's for February 14, 1953

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OW fast can you become a Broadvva> star? nFivc years ago, Helen Gallagher was a cho¬ rus girl. Two years ago, she had yet to sing her first solo on stage. Just one year ago, her acting ability got its first test. Today, at twenty-six, the pert, bouncy brunette is the top-billed, indispensa¬ ble member of Hazel Flagg, Manhattan’s newest musical comedy — an unknown who’s responsible for the success of a $200,000 investment. Possibly because her rise was so swift, Helen still considers herself a learner. When she isn't re¬ hearsing, performing or sleeping, she’s usually attending a class — singing class, dancing class, dic¬ tion class or acting class. While making costume changes between scenes, she practices breathing exercises. While applying make-up, she mutters, “Are you copper-bottoming ’em, my man? No, I’m aluminuming ’em, mum,” and other tongue- twisters assigned by her diction coach. When rehearsals for Hazel Flagg started, Helen found her days too busy for music lessons. So she talked her teacher, Susan Seton, into giving her the lessons at midnight. After her dramatic coach sug¬ gested exercises for facial mobility, Helen intrigued lunch-hour restaurant patrons for days on end by pausing between mouthfuls and trying to touch the point of her chin and then the tip of her nose with her tongue. Versatility is her goal, and most people think she has attained it. In the title role of Hazel Flagg, the five-foot two-inch, 107-pound actress has to sing eight songs, ranging from blues to coloratura to rhythm numbers. She does five strenuous dances — two ballets, a tango, a jitterbug and a modern dance — and remains on stage singing, acting or dancing for 10 of the show’s 13 scenes. Quite lit¬ erally, as Helen goes, so goes the show. The lledgling star is all too well aware that she has suddenly become the mainstay of a huge, ex pensive extravaganza. “If people would just shut up about this being such a big show,” she laments, “with a cast of 55, whopping sets, elaborate cos¬ tumes and all of that. I know' what's been gambled on me, but I don't want to think about it. 1 just want to think about one dance step, or one line of a song at a time.” If Helen is worried, the show’s producer, Julc vStync, and his colleagues seem very confident. They’ve billed her above such established and ex¬ pert performers as Thomas Mitchell and Bcnay Venuta, but they don’t regard their gamble on their new star as a long shot. They think her expert tim¬ ing and pixielike handling of comedy numbers * compares to the work of Bea Lillie. Her vocal qual- s ity, they say, is similar to Judy Garland's, with the £

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Broadway's newest star still thinks she has much to learn. Here, Harry Asnius gives dancing lesson Helen (center, second row) spends four hours each week in diction class, worries about Bronx accent Unable to fit vocal lessons into schedule. Helen talked teacher Susan Seton into midnight sessions 18 added volume and brashness of Ethel Merman. “We’ve bet $200,000 on Helen,” Styne says, “be¬ cause we think she’s the greatest package of singing, dancing and comedy since Marilyn Miller.” Helen says, “Are they out of their minds? They’re talking about four other people, not me.” Styne and his associates could, understandably, be biased. In the last analysis, it will be the pub¬ lic, and the line it forms at the box office of the Mark Hellinger Theater, that will render the final verdict on Styne’s judgment in giving Helen the top billing. “It was a simple decision to make,” he says, “because she’s the only musical-comedy actress I know of who can do everything. I’m not kidding. Name me one established star who doesn’t have to have dancing support in a show. Helen's not only a singer and comedienne, she’s a ballerina, too. She’s the only triple threat we’ve got, the only one in the business who can be a show’s star singer, star comedienne and star dancer. “I don’t know where we’ll ever find another girl to play the part if we have to cast a road company.” It won’t disturb Helen if they can’t find anyone. Once she has created a part she takes a fiercely ma¬ ternal attitude toward it and gets upset if it is placed in the hands of a foster mother. A couple of years ago, she withdrew from a show to take a bet¬ ter part. One night she went back to watch the ac¬ tress who had replaced her — and left the theater sobbing, “Oh, my beautiful, beautiful part!” She finds Hazel Flagg an even more beautiful role because it offers her, for the first time, full scope for her unique combination of talents. The musical — Ben Hecht’s adaptation of his famous movie, Nothing Sacred, which starred the late Carole Lombard — tells the story of a dial painter in a small-town watch factory, a charming little liar with a wild imagination who pretends she is suffering from radium poisoning and has only three weeks to live. A floundering magazine, impressed by the promotional possibilities of her ostensible tragedy, brings her to New York and dedicates it¬ self to seeing that her every dying wish is gratified — and publicized. Hazel, no piker at wishing, is as ingenious at exploiting the magazine’s credulity as the magazine is in exploiting her. Love Triumphs at the Final Curtain New York is quickly brought to her feet. Her courage in the face of death becomes the main theme of the nation’s radio and press. The city plans the biggest funeral in its history. She’s to have a monument in Central Park. Then love en¬ ters the plot, bringing with it a threat of exposure, and she is brought back to sober reality with a thump. The curtain, of course, descends on love triumphant, with Hazel having outlived the lie she has perpetrated. As this fable runs its course, Helen’s triple-threat qualities are constantly in evidence. In scene after scene of situation comedy, sometimes broad, some¬ times subtle, she makes expert use of the zany, antic expressiveness of her hands, face and eyes — an ex¬ pressiveness which comes out so unself-consciously that, when she saw her first screen test, she ex¬ claimed, “Good heavens, how I must frighten peo¬ ple who talk to me for the first time.” Her dances range from the lyrical ballet inspired by her first Paris gown to the hilarious tango that highlights a scene in which she imagines herself to be Laura de Maupassant, a Parisian plaything for men. Her songs are equally varied. They run from a romantic ballad like How Do You Speak to an Angel?, to the jazz-happy You’re Gonna Dance with Me. Willie, and the syncopated chant of Laura de Maupassant: “Outside my chateau on the wealthy Riviera , Aristocratic noblemen will rave and rant ; Oh, how they’ll beg to be the next one to be ruined By that Laura de Maupassant In a song entitled My Wild Imagination, she unwittingly gives a clue to the character of Helen Gallagher, as well as the character of Hazel Flagg, when she sings: “I love the world of make-believe . . . / love the game of let’s pretend And wish the game would never end . . Helen is unquestionably happier and more se¬ cure in the make-believe world of the theater than she is in the workaday world. On stage, she is as¬ sured and confident and projects a vivid person¬ ality. (In her last show, Pal Joey, she won the Donaldson and Antoinette Perry awards as best supporting actress of 1952.) In everyday life, her shyness and timidity are easily seen beneath the protective cloak of brusqueness she has adopted. The theater has a deep psychic significance for her, and she knows it. “Whenever I’m not working,” she says, “I get asthma. It’s got to be psycho¬ somatic.” Mary Anthony, a dancer and teacher who once shared an apartment with Helen, says, “I took her at her stage value — you know, fast-talking, flip — before I lived with her. Then I discovered that she was actually an easily hurt kid who was so vulnera¬ ble you felt like leaving her bedroom light on at night so she wouldn’t wake up and be frightened.” Slie Avoids the Spotlight Off Stage Her timidity when she’s not on stage explains much in Helen that puzzles those who know her casually, or only as a performer. It explains why, during the eight years she has been in the theater, she has avoided the spotlight off stage. It throws light on her disregard of appearance for appear¬ ance’s sake. And it explains, at least partly, the way she has immersed herself in her work. If practice makes perfect, Helen should one day be the perfect star, on stage. But she is a long way from possessing even the surface attributes of a star, off stage. Her friends and colleagues constantly urge her, “Please, you’ve got to look and act like a star. The public expects it of you.” Helen, with her lack of ostentation, refuses to believe the public gives a hoot where she goes, or ‘whom she goes with, or what she wears when she goes there, so long as she gives it its money’s worth in the theater. “It certainly seems to me,” she says, “more important not to goof off on stage than for some columnist to break the world-shattering news that I was seen at El Morocco last night wearing a new mink.” When she met the press for the first time after her elevation to stardom she was, in fact, wearing mink. But she was carrying an old gray squirrel coat over her arm and she hastened to an¬ nounce, “The squirrel’s mine. I borrowed this mink from my music teacher to have some pic¬ tures taken.” It's unlikely that Helen’s way of life will ever provide a columnist with any world-shattering items. She lives — with her mother (her father died last March) and an elderly police dog — amidst clutter and confusion in a large, modern three- room apartment, in the West Fifties. She says she knows she lives “surrounded by rubble,” but adds that she just hasn’t the time or, to be honest, the inclination, to do anything about it. Her social life could hardly be called spectacu¬ lar. She’s been to the exclusive restaurant, “21,” once. Her only appearance at the Stork Club was on its television program. She’s never been inside the Colony Restaurant. She is, in fact, practically unknown in New York’s smart after-dark circles. At last year’s Antoinette Perry awards dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, a committeewoman who arrived at the actress’ table to escort her to the plat¬ form had to ask, “Who’s Helen Gallagher?” But Helen can frequently be found relaxing, after the theater, in a late movie on West Forty- second Street, or in Chinatown Charlie’s Sixth Ave¬ nue restaurant. When she does appear in public, her press agent probably prays that no prowling columnist will encounter her; clotheswise, she has been called “the female Marlon Brando.” She has a stunning figure, fine features and com¬ plexion, animated blue eyes and rich brown hair, "Copyright 1953 by Jule Styne and Bob Hilliard, Chappelt &. Co., Inc., owner of world-wide publication and allied rights Collier’s for February 14, 1953

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but she’s so disinterested in her appearance that she spends an absolute minimum of thought, effort and care on its embellishment. Her mother, a talented seamstress who makes most of her clothes, keeps Helen’s closet filled with attractive garments — when she can get her daughter to stand still long enough to be fitted. But Helen prefers to pull out an old sweater or blouse and a skirt when she dresses for the street. If she feels like going to dinner in slacks, she wears them. And she uses no form of street make-up except lipstick— when she remembers to put it on. After he'd signed her for the role of Hazel Flagg, Jule Styne hesitantly suggested, ’‘Isn’t it time you began to try to look like a star? If it's a question of money, I'll gladly loan you whatever you need." Styne says she told him she was quite happy the way she was and, besides, it was a nuisance to get herself all done up. Her almost ostentatious lack of pretension ex¬ tends into other areas and sometimes gets out of hand, according to her agent, Howard Hoyt. Ar¬ thur Freed, producer of the Academy Award winner An American in Paris and other M-G-M musical extravaganzas, recently discussed a movie contract with Helen, on a visit to New York. She listened politely until he'd finished talking of her movie potentialities, then took some snapshots from her wallet, handed them to him and said, quite seriously, “There's the girl you should be buying. She’s as talented as she is beautiful and she's out in Hollywood at your finger tips. You ought to go after her, not me.” Hoyt says, “She w as making a pitch for Virginia Gibson, a Warners’ stock player she used to room with when they were in the chorus together. Helen's always underselling herself. Why, I’ve seen her standing in the wings so mad at herself for w hat she thought was a bad performance she had to fight to get a smile on her face so she could go out and take a bow before an audience that was beating its hands to pulp applauding her.” Whatever she thinks, on the record Helen has done all right in her brief career. She was born in Flatbush in 1926, and moved to the Bronx when she was four. At sixteen, she began to study at the School of American Ballet, and at eighteen she landed her first job, in the chorus of a show- called Seven Lively Arts. She then appeared, in turn, in a flop called Mr. Strauss Goes to Boston, in Billion-Dollar Baby and in Brigadoon. In the winter of 1947, she left a $60-a-week chorus job in Brigadoon to go into High Button Shoes— the turning point of her career. Maid's Role Shrank in Rehearsal She was given a maid's role and a song to sing, and there was talk that she might do a comedy tango number. But as rehearsals progressed, her song was cut, the dance was ignored, and her maid's role shrank to five brief lines Then, when the show opened in Philadelphia, it was found that at one point the leading lady, Nanette Fabray, didn’t have enough time to make a complicated costume change. The tango number was hastily exhumed to bridge the interval. Helen and her partner, Paul Godkin, were given some im¬ provised lines, which no one thought particularly funny. They had only one hour before the second performance in which to rehearse their dance rou¬ tine. Then they went on and stopped the show. Helen, it turned out, possessed that rare talent which enabled her to take a simple line like, “But PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY JOE COVELLO it’s so Spanish!", and give it a comedy reading that rocked the house. When the New York re¬ views appeared she was officially 'discovered. " She next appeared in the New York and I ondon productions of the revue 1 ouch and Go. in which she sang her first solo number. Jule Stvnc called her back from 1 nglaiid to appear in Make a W i sh . a short-lived show in which Helen scored a per¬ sonal triumph. Styne next east her as Gladvs Bumps, the blackmailing night-club entertainer, in Pal Joey. Her flip comedy, pert and bouncy danc¬ ing, and her handling o! her Red Hot Mama num¬ ber and songs like You Mustn't Kick It Around, and Plant You Now. Dig You Later earned her such acclaim that. Styne says. “1 knew it I didn’t star her soon, someone else would. Hence. Hazel Flagg." Now that stardom has come to Helen there is some speculation about vvliat it will do to her as a person. The general consensus is summed up in the comment of actor-director Terry Becker: “If she changes and goes prima donna, there's no hope lor anvone." Helen is not planning to change. In January, just before Hazel Haggs out-of-town opening in Philadelphia, Harry Maver. Warner Brothers New York easting director, met Helen and told her he'd soon be seeing her in Hollywood, now that she was a star. Helen answered. I'll go to Holly wood when they want me. So tar. .ill vou movie people have wanted to take me out there and change the way 1 act. change my hair, mv clothes, change every¬ thing. I can be had. hut not tor a remodeling job. I’ll stay the way 1 am.” Which, if Styne and cc any have figured the angles correctly, is just the way the public wants her, -dk-dk-dk 19

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20 This picture was made from a duplicate negative found in near-perfect condition by King V. Hostick. Compare with print from the cracked original plate, at lower left Two mwlv tl ^covered negatives of * V the Emancipator's 1 860 campaign photographs make possible these exciting prints — showing him as he looked to his contemporaries IN I HL Smithsonian Institution at Washington, D.C., there are two old glass photographic negatives, about seven by nine inches in size and about as thick as an ordinary window-pane. Both have been broken as though trampled under¬ foot. Yet they are jealously protected in a perma¬ nently sealed case, as one of the nation’s treasures. The two shattered plates are the original nega¬ tives of Abraham Lincoln’s 1860 campaign pic¬ tures, made on June 3d, tw-o w-eeks after his nomination. They show- Lincoln without the beard he w-ore nine months later, w-hen he took the oath to preserve an already divided Union. Although the negatives are priceless, by today’s standards, no really good prints were ever made from them. The thousands of reproductions sold during the 1860 campaign w-ere made by a rela¬ tively crude process; by the time modern meth¬ ods and paper were developed, the plates w-ere cracked, and all the latest prints have had to be re¬ touched, with a resultant loss of detail. No one ever dared hope that a duplicate set of negatives existed. But there w-as such a set. The tw-o pictures on these pages w-ere made from duplicates discovered last fall by King V. Hostick, a young collector of historical docu¬ ments. “Almost alone among Lincoln pictures,” says Lincoln scholar Paul Angle, director of the Chicago Historical Society, “they show- the man as his contemporaries saw- him.” The plates — originals and duplicates alike — have had a remarkable history. The originals were made by a commercial pho¬ tographer named Alexander Hesler, w-ho probably would never have had the chance if he hadn’t botched an earlier job of photographing Lincoln. The story starts on February 28, 1857, when Lin¬ coln made a visit to Chicago with some lawyer fi lends. He was, even then, a big man in Repub¬ lican politics. He was head of the new- party in Illinois, and the year before had received some support tor the Vice-Presidential nomination on the national ticket. It was considered certain he would run for the United States Senate the next year against Stephen A. Douglas. While he was in Chicago, Lincoln went to the Hesler Gallery at 1 13 Lake Street, between Clark and Dearborn, to undergo the ordeal of having a picture made, a process which required the subject to sit absolutely motionless for long seconds while the impression was taken on a wet plate. Hesler directed Lincoln to pose with his pro¬ file to the camera. The photographer arranged his equipment and pre¬ pared his plates. Lincoln smoothed his coarse black hair. Some historians say Hesler didn’t like it that way and ran his fingers through it. But whatever the reason, the photograph shows a rumpled Lincoln, looking as though he had just rolled out of bed. It was undoubtedly the most untlattering picture of Lin¬ coln ever made. When Lincoln was nominated for President in Chicago on May 18, I860, there w-as an instant public demand for a photograph of him. The art of publishing photographs was not yet know-n, and the only mass-circulated pictures w-erc engravings. Hesler put copies of the tousle-haired Lincoln in his window and began to sell them, along with a splendid photograph of Democratic Senator Doug¬ las. who was running against Lincoln for the Presi¬ dency. The contrast between the seedy-looking Lincoln and the well-groomed Douglas nettled Lin¬ coln’s friends. They asked Hesler to suppress the Lincoln photograph. Hesler was willing, but he wanted Lincoln to sit for another. Lincoln did so, in Springfield. Hesler faced a difficult assignment, the task of making a portrait photograph with¬ out the trappings and the skylight of his studio. It is believed he posed his subject in the state Capitol, near one of the large windows, to illumi¬ nate Lincoln’s features. June 3, 1860, was a Sunday, so the offices of the Capitol w-ere closed. There, in the hollow quiet of the stone building, undisturbed by curious onlook¬ ers, Hesler dipped his glass plates, inserted them in his camera and made the pictures. Nobody is sure how many negatives Hesler made that day. Some sources say four, and they may be correct. If so, Hesler probably chose the Collier’s for February 14, 1953

Page 457

21 Haw Him Before Hiking the I meoln neg. lives with him F \c 'au- s after he lett C hieago, the g ].cr\ was Gurnee u: When former Presidential ecrutar-es J G Nieola) and John Hay published l.i« He of Lin¬ coln in Century maga/ine in 18x6, Ayres emem- bered his photographic relics and sent them a vOpy Nicolas and Has, who had known 1 ineohi long Ke- fore he wore a beard, chose Avres s photo for the frontispiece of the biography when it w as pub ished in ten volumes in 1890. A revival of public interest in I incoln followed the appearance of the Nicolas and Hay biography Ayres published his Lincoln photographs, with marked success. When Ayres died, the negatives were left to his two daughters, Mrs Ldith I. Buncc and Anne Smith Ayres. In 1932. Wiliam H. Woodward, a Philadelphia attorney, accepted them in lieu of a fee and a debt of $500 in settle¬ ment of the estate of Anne Smith Ayres. In March, 1933, Woodward agreed to sell the negatives to William H. Danforth, chairman of the board of the Ralston Purina Company. St. Louis. Woodward was to be paid by draft upon deliv¬ ery of the negatives to a St. Louis bank. Woodward decided to send the negatives by- registered mail. When he presented the package for mailing on March 28th, it was rejected by the post-office superintendent. After rewrapping it in cardboard and corrugated cork board. Woodward again submitted it, and it was accepted by a clerk in the superintendent’s absence. Two days later, the bank wired Woodward that the negatives were found to have been broken when the package was opened in St. Louis. Wood¬ ward immediately filed his claim. After investiga¬ tion by postal authorities, the claim was paid. In 1936, the Post Office Department turned the broken negatives over to the Smithsonian. There the history of the Lincoln campaign pic¬ tures rested until last year. In July, King Hostick paid a visit to Philadelphia, where Ayres had lived up to the time of his death, and was offered an as¬ sortment of efTects from Ayres’s estate — including two old glass photographic plates of Lincoln in large envelopes. He bought them, not certain of their value, and brought them back to Springfield. It was Herbert Georg, owner of a Springfield pho¬ tographic studio and something of an expert on Lincolniana, who identified them as duplicates of the Hosier negatives. Georg believes the origin of the duplicates is easily explained: “There’s a fairly simple method of duplicating glass negatives, and the Hesler duplicates were probably made by Ayres as insurance against peel¬ ing or breakage of his precious plates. Peeling is loss of emulsion from the glass. It damages the negatives. Hostick’s copies show the original plates had begun to peel,” Lincoln authorities are inclined to agree with that theory. Ayres, growing old in Philadelphia, prized the negatives above all his other possessions. He once wrote a History of the Negatives, in which he spoke of them almost in awe. saying he had obtained them “provi¬ dentially” for the Ameri¬ can people. In the same pamphlet, Ayres told of the gallery fire that could have de- destroyed the two plates, and added, “The sequel shows that I ‘builded bet¬ ter than I knew.’ ” But Ayres didn’t know that there was to be an¬ other and still more thrill¬ ing sequel. Above print is finer than any made from original negative (like the one at corner of page) because originals were broken before they could be subjected to modern methods two best — or perhaps Lincoln made the choice. In any case, Lincoln is commonly quoted as having said when proofs were shown to him: “Well, that expresses me better than any I have seen. If it pleases the people, I am satisfied.” The sale of one hundred thousand copies repaid Hesler for his trip to Springfield, Hosier’s gallery passed into the hands of George B. Ayres in 1866, about a year after Lincoln was assassinated, it was customary in those days for photographers to reclaim the glass in old nega¬ tives by placing them in an add bath that cleaned of! the collodion film with which they had been coated in the wet-plate process. “It was while Collier’s for February 14, 1933 once engaged in culling out these obsolete negatives that 1 came upon the priceless ones of Abraham Lincoln,” Ayres later explained. “They had been shelved for many years, and somehow had for¬ tunately escaped consignment to the acid pot.” In 1866, the full impact of Lincoln's greatness had not yet fully daw-ned on the people. To Ayres, standing there with the negatives in his hand and wondering whether he should save them, Lincoln was, in the photographer’s own words, only “a famous Illinois lawyer who had become President.” Still, Ayres put the negatives aside. He said later he did it because they were mementos. Ayres sold the gallery in 1867, and moved East,

Page 458

Page 459

Bl» 4 The Little BRIDE By AW CIUDKSTKK My sister Maxine left her husband and eame hack home. >he perfectly miserable, but the only sympathy she «xot w a> from mou. ‘ Old l ady Joanna,” they used to call me because 1 was solemn and thes were silly . Often at night sshen I peered out my bedroom window, they seemed to be walking together in a dream in the summer moonlight. “1 refuse to listen to ans complaints about Jack.” Mother said a hundred times or more, though 1 could not believe Maxine intended any dislosalty to Jack. In Mother’s eyes, he was the perteet hus¬ band, the father of John J., a grandson to end all gi andsons. IT WAS odd to sec Maxine with John J.. getting off the train, loaded down with hags and bottle warmers and the babs slung o\er one arm like a sack of meal, his chubbs legs swelling out ot his stained white shoes. If Maxine noser did another thing in her life, she could always look at John J. and say here was enough. I hat John J.! He looked a lot like a rabbit. Other times, when he passed through the lis ing room. sers erect and sober, and my father looked up and muttered. “Who was that portly gentleman?” — then John J. looked most Is like a bishop. He had big teeth and peculiar hair that was white and like pelt. We used to meet Maxine’s train when she came home from school. In those dass she would bound from the platform, her fur jacket swinging open, and we all laughed and tried to hold her at once. The hoys were home. then, be! ore thes were mar¬ ried, hut this time there sserc onls three of us. and everyone wanted to grab John J.. who just blinked and made a bubble and wanted to get down to eat bugs or dirt or something. Maxine wore the suit she had worn on her hones moon trip, and it was aw fulls tight. She svas dead tired, but she had brought her tennis racket and golt clubs. The sum¬ mer svould he svonderful. then; sse could go around together and do all the old things. She had misled me, too, and all ot a sudden l understood how the ranch might he lonely. (Continued on page 68j ILLUSTRATED BY PAUL C. BURNS 23

Page 460

Were SELLING OUT Our DISABLED VETERANS! making a n rn*k of the \ A medical program and endangering >iek men “ i r o “ Pnlilii-. ajKilIn ami ineptitude are ri^HF nation's mcdical-carc program for dis- . h l d veterans, praised as one ot the medical * miiaJes ot the postwar period, seems to be t a 'ling .part Since 1945. $5 000,000.000 has been spei t * n the program b> the American people. Hundreds ot conscientious doctors, nurses and medical woikeis have sacrificed, sweated and t ought loi it Set, at a time when injured and sick men are coming out ot Korea by the thousands, wh it's h ippemng to the \ eterans Administration’s hosp t.d svstem is a shocking storv. 1 or die last five vears. the politicians and bu- reauc ats have been seizing more and more con¬ trol squeezing out the medical men who made VA medicine “second to none.’’ One out ot every tour phssicians and two out of tour in rses have quit. I housands ot other profes¬ sional and technical workers have gone, loo, and have never been adequately replaced. I he politicians have compelled the \ A to build new hospitals, and at the same time have cut the funds needed to maintain them. About 25.000 of the \ As I 2 X . 2 X 2 hospital beds are now empty, al¬ though 22 000 sick and diseased veterans are knocking vainly at the hospital doors. Thirteen new \ \ hospitals with X.000 beds are due to be completed this vear, but the agency has neither the mone> nor the personnel to operate them. By SAM STAYISKY Patient treatment in many VA mental hospitals consists merely of minimal care — or less. In some hospitals, nursing has been spread out so thin that one nurse is forced to handle two wards. Services ot laboratories. X-ray rooms, operating rooms and clinics have been drastically reduced, or canceled altogether. Throughout the VA hospital system, patient treatment and recovery are being retarded danger¬ ously. In short, we re selling out the disabled veterans, and some last work may be required ot President Hisenhowcr and the eighty-third Congress if we are to save the situation. Another Kind of Army for Bradley Just before the end of World War 11, a govern¬ ment shamed by revelations of the scandalous medical attention given our disabled war veterans called on a G I -beloved war hero. General Omar N. Bradley, to pitch into the problem (hospital stand¬ ards had fallen so low at the time that many doc¬ tors considered good enough for the VA were not welcomed by medical societies). Bradley, as Administrator of Veterans Affairs, rallied around him an army of dedicated men and women who, within a year, converted VA medicine from a na¬ tional disgrace to a national pride. Publicly, the VA still boasts that its medical program is "second to none.” Officially, the agency cautiously admits that the quality of its medical care is threatened. But privately, any number of VA medical leaders will tell you — as they told me — that the quality of VA medicine has been grow¬ ing steadily worse and that the program is in dan¬ ger of collapse. "The plain fact is that morale in the veterans hospitals has fallen — and fallen — and fallen,” 1 was told by one of the nation’s foremost physi¬ cians. still affiliated with the VA medical system. "So has the medical prestige of Veterans Admin¬ istration, which is so important to doctors. It is becoming just about impossible to get any self- respecting doctor to join us in the VA programs.” The agency's present troubles began early in 1948, when General Bradley departed to become Army Chief of Staff. Almost immediately, the pol- itics-fi rsters and power-thirsters began hamstring¬ ing the VA army of dedication. Top medical men who had joined the VA to provide disabled vet¬ erans with first-class medicine had to spend their Patient sweeps out empty ward in VAS Crile Hospital, Cleveland. Ward is one of many throughout the nation closed for lack of funds «LENN 2ANN

Page 461

Four Hands on lass CmckwelL Number 78 in the series “ Home Life in America I n this friendly, freedom-loving land of ours -Beer belongs . . . enjoy it! BEER ANI) ALE — AMERICA'S BEVERAGES OF MODERATION Sponsored by the United States Brewers Foundation . . . Chartered 1862

Page 462

^ 4 «EO»66 OLSON v V hospital at Minot, N.D., was ordered built by Congress over vigorous objections of \ A doctors, *ho said none was needed there. It has 150 beds, but no more than 10 have ever been filled at once \rononiy dri\e forced closing of the huge Birmingham Hospital in California. Scores of armless and eg less e\-Gls had to sell special homes nearby or go 40 miles to another hospitul for treatment INTERNATIONAL New, unnecessary hospitals »r« energies lighting the bureaucrats lor operational coiiliol ot the medical program, and battling the demands ot politicians tor pork-barrel hospitals. 1 stabhshment ot a new veterans hospital as a po¬ litical lav or is ail old American custom. Bradley tried valiant l> to stamp out the practice, and place new \ \ hospitals where the\ would best serve the needs ot the disabled Cils. rather than the desires ot the plum-demanding politicians. Even he was not completels successful. V \ medical men privately point to the hospital at \ 1 mot . North Dakota, which was opened about two vears ago, as Horrible Fxample No. I. “Wo needed Minot, with its 150 beds, like a hole in the head.’’ one \ \ doctoi told me “We never have been able to stall' the place or till the beds.” Back in DM5. the Republicans accused President Roose¬ velt. with considerable circumstantial evidence on their side, ot placing a 100-bed hospital at Miles C it v . Montana, to help Leo C. Cirayhill, the unsuc¬ cess! nl Democratic candidate in the 1944 Congres¬ sional race. I he \ A hospital at Dublin, Georgia — 40 miles Irom the nearest railroad station — was rammed down the throats ot the medical men bv Repre¬ sentative Carl Vinson of Georgia, then head of the House Naval Adairs Committee. This isolated 900-bed building, originally a Navy hospital, never has been able to get more than 350 VA patients. Other recent VA hospitals with a political taint — built despite VA protestations that they were too far from medical schools or from areas where needy vets were concentrated — are those at Salis¬ bury, North Carolina, within the bailiwick of Representative Robert L. Doughton, former House Ways and Means Committee chairman; at Bon¬ ham, Texas, home town of former Speaker of the House Sam Ravburn, and at Marlin, I exas, home grounds of ex-Senator Torn Connally, who was chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. In addition to the pork-barreling, the VA doc¬ tors discovered that they — and their patients — were all too olten made, in the name of economy, the pawns of a grim political hoax. For public consumption. President Truman re- peatedlv declared that the disabled veterans must have only the best in medical care. But his Budget Bureau cut the VAN medical operating funds again and again — an average of $92,600,000 a year for the last six years — forcing down the level of VA medical care. For example, the fiscal experts of the Budget Bureau chopped $9,000,000 off the 1953 allow¬ ance recommended by the medical experts of the Veterans Administration for feeding hospitalized ex-Gls. The VA doctors estimated it would cost $1.28 a day to put a tubercular patient on a med¬ ically sound, balanced diet; the bureaucrats per¬ mitted only $1 .2 1 . The VA people know' the facts of life; Congress w'as clamoring for economy, and there was tre¬ mendous pressure on the President and his advisers to cut expenses. As it turned out, they apparently didn’t cut them enough to suit the lawmakers. But the unforgivable act, to the VA medical men, was Mr. Truman’s insistence that the veterans were getting top care, when he knew it couldn't be so. Like the President, Congress pledged, year after year, that the disabled veterans would get only the best medical care. Then the VAN money for medical operations W'ould be pruned, as in the 1949, 1951 and 1953 budgets — and at the same time the VA would be ordered to build dozens of new' hospitals! In fiscal 1950, Congress gave the VA $40,000 less than in 1949, yet provided funds for new hospitals with 16,000 more beds. For three years after the exit of General Brad¬ ley, the VA crusaders fought back under the lead¬ ership of Dr. Paul B. Magnuson, the VAN chief medical officer and architect of its high-quality medical system. A Chicago orthopedic surgeon of world renowm, Dr. Magnuson had built up the VAN medical research and training program, and had linked its hospitals with the major medical schools of the country. The Voice That Aroused the Nation Magnuson has a persuasively soft speaking voice and a frighteningly loud hollering voice. He used both effectively. His roars of anguish in the sum¬ mer of 1950 aroused a nation-wide storm of pro¬ test, forcing restoration of a funds cut which had threatened 4,000 medical workers with dismissal. At that, VA had to drop 1,400 medical personnel. Magnuson was zealously counterattacking an¬ other funds-and-personnel inroad early in 1951, when Major General Carl Gray, who had suc¬ ceeded General Bradley as Administrator of Vet¬ erans Affairs, suddenly announced the medical director’s resignation. “Resigned, hell!" roared Magnuson. “1 was fired!" General Gray is an amiable, rotund wartime transportation officer and peacetime railroad vice- president. Although sincerely devoted to doing good, the general has continually bumbled into trouble as head of the VA. Repeatedly, against the wishes of the VAN med¬ ical director, and sometimes without his knowl¬ edge, the general would take it upon himself to order changes in the medical program — such as canceling an aseptic-technique project at the VA hospital in Butler, Pennsylvania, and eliminating a research project at Batavia, New' York. A Senate committee which investigated Mag- nuson’s firing heard testimony from Major Gen¬ eral Paul R. Hawley, MagnusonN predecessor as medical director under Bradley, and now director of the American College of Surgeons. Hawley said: “No competent judge of medical care has ever thought that Dr. Magnuson was not doing a fine job; yet the administrator (Gray) elected person¬ ally to operate the medical service, and in this he succeeded to an intolerable, and dangerous, degree," Magnuson himself gave the Senators an exam¬ ple. “At Waco, Texas," he testified, “a building from which we had evacuated all patients to per¬ mit construction changes to make it suitable for neuropsychiatric patients — also suffering from tu¬ berculosis — w'as arbitrarily ordered by him (Gray) to be put back in use, even though the lack of facilities in this building had previously been de¬ termined dangerous to the health not only of the patients but of the nursing staff." After the hearings had closed, the Senators re¬ ported that they had found ‘‘evidence of remarka- CollierN for February 14, 1953 26

Page 463

re built while vital ones cry for operatiny funds II. Mold I riH'hucr. hedrnhh 11 in Mcmplii- Im-pilal, ran’ u-e hand-. iirciN roiotant rare — Imt doe-n't base i hly inept administration” which threatened the VA medical program with “complete disintegra¬ tion.” The turor aroused hy Magnuson’s dismissal had its ellect. Gray, under a but rage of criticism (and no doubt glad to be relieved ot his irritating subor¬ dinate), agreed to restore to his new medical chief, Vice-Admiral Joel 1 Boone, former W hite House physician, much of the power he had steadily clipped from Magnuson. But it was not until November, 1952, with the release of a $600,000 VA efficiency survey made by the engineering firm of Booz, Allen & Ham¬ ilton, that Gray finally gave to the medical director real control over VA hospital activities— the con¬ trol Magnuson had sought vainly for three years. With Magnuson gone, the politicians and bu¬ reaucrats found the VA a soft touch. The Budget Bureau’s fiscal experts rode roughshod over VA medical experts. When Admiral Boone protested, he was told bluntly: “You just don’t have to give the VA hospital patients such good food, such ex¬ pensive drugs, so much attention and care.” In the spring of 1952, its eyes peeled on the forthcoming election campaign, the House of Rep¬ resentatives whacked into the VA medical pro¬ gram with new* vigor. In the private confines of the Independent Of¬ fices Appropriations Subcommittee, chairman Al¬ bert Thomas, Texas Democrat, and ranking Republican John Phillips of California (who will head the subcommittee this year) served notice that they intended to wipe out the “frills” in the vet¬ erans medical-care program — frills like research in radioisotopes and atomic medicine, and the special training projects for VA doctors and tech¬ nicians. On the assurance of the two legislators that elimination of such projects would not im¬ pair the VA medical program — and despite the contrary testimony of every witness before the subcommittee — Congress lopped $68,000,000 off the VA’s medical operating funds. At the same time, the two apostles of economy approved — and got the House to accept — the ex¬ penditure of $143,000,000 for new’ hospitals. Scores of spokesmen from VA, the medical col¬ leges and the veterans organizations rushed to the Senate Appropriations Committee to declaim the mutilation of the veterans medical-care program. Tributes to VAN Research Program Dr. R. Hugh Wood, speaking for the Association of American Medical Colleges, declared that VA research, far from being a frill, w'as, with educa¬ tion and medical care, one of the three keystones of first-class medicine. Cancel the research, said Wood, and the rest of the program would go to pot. Other experts testified that the. VA research program had paid its way 100 times over by its work on tuberculosis, cancer, arthritis, paralysis, mental disease and other maladies w'hich afflict not only veterans but all Americans. Furthermore, VA officials warned, the House budgetary amputation w’ould force the VA to close 21 hospitals and would prevent the opening of any new facilities. Senator Burnet R, Maybank, chairman of the Senate Appropriations Subcommittee, tried to save the situation, “it’s ridiculous,” said the South Carolina Democrat, “for a legislative body to order new hospitals built while failing to appropriate adequate money tor staffing and maintaining hos¬ pitals already up.” At Maybank’s urging, the Sen¬ ate restored the VA’s medical operating funds, and deferred all hospital const ruction not under wray. But when differences between the House and Senate bills were being ironed out in conference, Thomas and Phillips fought back. The resultant compromise foreed the VA to accept some new’ hospitals, and a cut of $31,000,000 in its medical operating funds. The cut meant that the money available for medical expenses was $8,000,000 Collier’s for February 14, 1953 less than the amount allotted for the previous year although the \ A had been forced to open 20 new hospitals in the meantime 1 he bill which delivcied tins crippling blow also contained a warning not to let the standards ot the VA medical program sag. lo hack up that mcon xisteni admonition, C ongress specitic.il> prohib¬ ited the VA Irom dismissing any doctors, dentists, nurses or dietitians in effectuating the budget cut. Worker* in a Well-Staffed Hospital Medical men know that doctors and nurses alone are not the measure of a good hospital. Dr. Daniel Blam, medical director of the American Psychiatric Association, summed it up tor me: It takes a lull complement ot psychologists, social workers, recreational and occupational workers, psychiatric aids, maintenance men, good cooks and many others to make a hospital tick as a first-rate treatment center , . The Veterans Administration never would have fired any of its professional staff, anyhow; there are not enough doctors and nurses to go around as it is. I he big worry was keeping the physicians Irom quitting. “Cut the ground from under a doctor, and you don’t have to lire him; he starts looking tor another joh on his own volition,” commented Dr. Hawley, the first V A medical director under Bradley. The cuthack ol VA medical money, however, compelled Gray to take three harsh steps: he troze all facilities at on-duty strength, doing away with 1,900 posts; he halted further recruitment, in effect aholishing johs vacated by death and resignation; and then, in November, he dismissed 2.250 medi¬ cal w’orkers. It’s a lair estimate that the three ac¬ tions resulted in the loss of some 6,000 VA hospital beds, and prohahly more. Nobody denies that Gray took the only action possihle under the circumstances. But furious members ol the VA medical staff claimed that the funds would never have been cut in the first place if Gray had fought effectively enough for them. One establishment hurt hy the personnel cut¬ back was the medical center at Wood, Wisconsin. George M. Reichle, who had quit the faculty of Notre Dame to become an assistant in physical medicine rehabilitation at Wood, resigned with a bitter hlast at Gray. “I no longer believe you are sincere in trying to maintain those same high med¬ ical standards set hy your predecessor,” he wrote the administrator. “Since it is your responsibility to keep Congress and the Bureau of the Budget and President 1 runurn informed on fm.uKi.. c ments lor such a program. 1. as a memho k * ir, working force at the hospital lex cl. am satisfied ff t this shameful cut in medical personnel is u ir re sponsibihtv Besides slashing the number of \ \ meJu workers, the cconorm drive severed) curt iled home-town medical and dental ware, the aetivitv o' hospital consultants and attending phvsicuns the number ot contract beds in non-\ A hospitals and the travel expenses availahlc tor medical personnel Cutbacks Brine; llard-hip In Patient- Here's how the cutbacks affected the Bronx. New York, hospital, one ot the finest in the \ A svstem Bronx had to lire 1 12 tull-time emplovees. shut down 1 20 beds, close up three of eight surgical op¬ erating rooms and two ot eight X-iav diagnosis rooms, reduce bv hall its bed capacitv lor the e.ire of new. acutelv disturbed mental patients and cut its facilities tor legless and armless casuaffies trom Korea. The hospital s million-volt X-rav machine for cancer treatment, newlv installed in a speei.tllv constructed $350,000 annex, was lorced to remain idle; the special tuberculosis service, completed at a cost of $100,000. could not he opened Follow-up cheeks and treatment of discharged veterans with cancer, I . B.. heart disease and othei major ailments had to be terminated, sometimes in the midst ot outpatient treatment. The' 400-odd ex-GI paraplegics in the New York area, who are dependent on the Bronx hospital t or orthopedic appliances and surgical treatment ot recurrent trou¬ ble, were all "seriouslv and dangerouslv ” affected, according to the hospital's Senior Medical Con¬ sultants Group. The senior consultants compris¬ ing the top medical brains in New \ ork C itv Personnel outbacks have dealt VA niedieine sharp blow. I hi- occupational thcraps clinic in Wichita was closed for lack of one therapist. The same hospital had to shut dow u entire p-\chotie ward

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28 The I t s doctors blame the Truman administration , Congress and their own boss umwii^'iiCN and p 1 1\ t c practice conclu led that the sla It ir» li nds and opciatnans at Bronx pro- landed thv hoNp 'a, ads ..f, i >pcr at in j room and an X-ra\ room, i 1 ii i pi ssd _ i Mease m deaths lioni singers and | IlK IflL t It'll L I I IS I H hi'vjiit Is .d o\ er the country , the elleets were ills. - i" e. \t Wichita Kansas. the occupational therapy ■-lime h d to he sh it down lor the lack ol one thera- I i • i t and ps\s.hotic \\aid had to he eliminated. i .c In s[ it H at leinple. I e\as, reported that a Lick oi nuis n j he'p itiide its neui opsvchiatric service ha/ u dons l< i both pcisonnel and patients.” At i B To\i. M s jssippi. the nurses had to take over the d iUls ot ti » c n mtors Here ic tunes when we can't even alTord to -.id medical man along on the \A hospital m dc i i/ non siiisevs. and so lor the lack ol a ■ e a bundled dollars jeopardize a program which | w i cost i i II ions, s id Dr. Harvey J. Tompkins, duel ot \eleians Administration's psychiatry and l neuroloj\ dwision. One ot the \ \ s proudest boasts has been its tr.'ining program, which has been turning out hun- dicds ol wuinf* specialists. With cmcIi new jolt lioni t he pi litiM ms or bureaucrats, lewer trainees decided tv) sta\ on 1 , test figures disclose that only 22 per cent ot the VA s resident physicians are * wiping to remain alter completing their training. Progre** Menaced b\ Insecurity * | A "sense ot insecurity hoterxoter the VA medi¬ cal program, said Dr. I eoiitird Ci. Rowntrec, chief * cv iNii i ant , nd chairman ol the Dean's C omimttee at the \ \ Hospital in C oral Gables. Honda, Mid cK irri an ot the American 1 egioti s Medical Ad- siMiry Bi rd Rowntrec said he could not advise j his own son to oin the Veterans Administration’s | Dep, rtment ot Medicine. • I he ind edible cost ot damaged morale” among the medical pcisonnel. observed Dr. karl Men- I niiutei. head ot the lamed Menningcr Clinic, who is cl ict consultant and chairman ol the Dean’s C on nuttec at the \ \ hosprt. 1 in Topeka. K,ans. s, le uls tv “uncountable cc)st ot ino cased human sui¬ te, in .• Made iiiseciiie and ar \-ous. the medical I pc.sonnel are apt to take their resentment and ’■' sttuion oi t on the patient -‘unintentionally and i nci nscioijs v but very cTeei «v elv warned the noted psv cilia 1st. I he impact ol the latest lunds cut has been so (ar ic*. clung that to date ///or* [linn otn half of the *r <. r /■• / \ ot C o/us'/i w have written to the Veterans Administration to piotest or to demand an explana¬ tion 1 he letters ol these complaining Senators and Representatives leveal that thev had no realization » • the havoc their own economy would create. One result of the VA reduction in medical op¬ erations was the shutdown ol hospitals run by the United States Public Health Service in Kirkwood, Missouri; Mobile. Alabama; Portland, Maine; and San Juan, Puerto Rico — areas where no VA hospi¬ tal is available. The VA was, in elfect, renting beds lor veterans in those hospitals; when the VA can¬ celed its contracts, the lour USPHS hospitals had to shut down lor lack ol funds. I he closing ot the hospital at Kirkwood prompted a loud complaint Irom Representative Thomas B. Curtis ol Missouri. Curtis charged that the Veterans Administration wouldn't be in financial difficulty if it didn’t lill its hospital beds with veterans whose disability was not directly attributable to their military service — so-called nonserv ice-connected patients. When Ailment Is Not Due to Service The problem of nonservice-connected disability has long bedeviled the Veterans Administration. It has been the tradition of our country that veterans sulfering from wounds and disease incurred in the military service — service-connected disability — have earned an absolute ri^ht to free hospitaliza¬ tion and medical care. For the past 18 years. Congress has also declared that veterans with non- serv ice-connected disability have the (nullified priv¬ ilege of free hospitalization, provided that a VA bed is available, and the veteran swears he cannot all old to pay tor treatment elsewhere. The quali¬ fied privilege does not include outpatient treatment or home-town medical and dental care, which are available lor service-connected disability. I oday, only one third of the VA’s hospital beds are occupied by service-connected patients; the rest are tilled with veterans whose ailments have not been traced to their military service. Obvi¬ ously, the elimination of nonserv ice-connected cases would straighten out the VA’s financial and stalling difficulties. I he only trouble is, it might create a worse situation. Approximately 65 per cent of the VA’s patients sulfer from neuropsychiatric or tubercular diseases, both service- and nonservice-connected. Many of the others have chronic diseases like paralysis and heart trouble, requiring long, expensive treatment. C an the VA throw out the two out of three whose maladies originated outside of military service? “Somebody has got to take care ol them,” the VA’s medical Chief, Admiral Boone, told a Senate committee last summer. “ 1 heir hospital costs will be a taxpayers’ responsibility’, whether through state or Icdcral agencies.” Besides, Dr. Boone pointed out, “there is no civilian hospital program in the nation that could hear this load.” A s it is. the \ A s increasingly long waiting line has driven some communities to lock up psychotic veterans, lor fear they will hurt themselves or other citizens. I housands ol veterans suffering from ac¬ tive tuberculosis are a health menace to their fellow citizens, also tor the lack ol a hospital bed. Besides the chronically sick, a large number of ex-Gls enter VA hospitals for nonservice-con- neeted acute ailments requiring less than 90 days of hospitalization. Many of these patients require im¬ mediate treatment while their claim for service- connection is in the long process of adjudication; many are VA pensioners and 100 per cent disabled; the rest have sworn they can’t afford treatment. No doubt there’s been some abuse of the inabil¬ ity-to-pay oath, but how much no one really knows. The American Legion, which is anxious to prevent such abuses, is convinced, after checking, that cheating is rare, and could be prevented by tighter screening. In any case, the immediate issue facing the Veterans Administration — -and the new political administration — is not the confusion-befogged problem of the nonservice-connected disabled v et¬ eran; it’s getting enough stopgap funds to keep the VA’s hospital and medical-care system from crum¬ bling. Such a disaster is a real possibility; the agency is running low on money and needs a new appropriation from Congress to keep going. The prospect has the VA medical men and their friends on the outside deeply concerned. “Should the VA first-class medical system collapse,” says Dr. Magnuson, who spent last year as head of the President's Commission on the Health Needs of the Nation, “it will never again be rebuilt in our generation.” Before going to Congress whth their request, VA officials had to get past the Budget Bureau. Despite their strong feeling of impending catastrophe, the medical men couldn't convince the Presidential fis¬ cal experts, and the Budget Bureau turned down the initial request for $25,000,000 in stopgap funds. The VA doctors slashed the figure to $16,000,000; that, too, was rejected. The desperate medical men then begged the Budget Bureau to approve a re¬ quest for $6,000,000. Budget officials finally okayed $5,000,000. Now it’s up to Congress. But sentiment may have changed in Congress since the last time the lawmakers raked over a VA appropriation. This is not an election year, so the economy pressures may have eased somewhat. The new President is a long-time friend of the vet¬ eran, too. But. most important, events of the last year indicate that the members of Congress have at last been alerted to the danger. There seems to be a good chance that the new Congress will ignore the recommendation of the Truman Budget Bureau and provide a more nearly adequate appropriation. Long-Term Problems of VAN Future Once the emergency situation at the VA is straightened out. President Eisenhower and the eighty-third Congress must face the long-term problem : Does the government still want to give disabled veterans top medical care, whatever the cost? If so, the President and Congress should see to it that the VA gets adequate funds. And it wall have to take steps to improve the administration of the agency and its medical program. Replacing General Gray is only the first step. T he establishment of a top-level, nonpartisan commission of medical experts which would have the final word on medical standards for VA hos¬ pitals seems to be the only possible long-term solu¬ tion. Among its other functions, this commission could serve as a nonpolitical agency to pick new VA hospital sites. The new President has already indicated that he is aware of the disaster looming over the VA’s medical program. In a letter to a veterans leader, written a week before the victorious end of his election crusade. General E:isenhower pledged: “Every disabled soldier must have the best care and treatment which this country affords. Such fa¬ cilities must have the full financial support of the federal government. There must be no compro¬ mise with the best available professional skill, hos¬ pital care and rehabilitation.” In this pledge lies the hope that the veteran’s high-grade medical-care program can yet be saved. AAA Collier's for February 14, 1953

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Page 466

30 They Call It Jane Russell Hill b% pi;ti;k kalischkh Ifs a hill in Korea, GI-named for sound GI reasons Seoul, Korea r I'M IF United Nations and the Com- I munists have been fighting over Jane Russell for months. Jane Rus¬ sell Hill in Korea, that is. And dur¬ ing that time the hill has made more headlines than the movie actress for whom n was named. Some of the bit¬ terest lighting ol the past year in Ko¬ rea luis spilled over us two crests, and even when the lront has been offi- ciallv “all quiet,” opposing patrols i skirmished on its scarred slopes. Yet a vear and a half or two years ago, Jane Russell Hill might have been just a number, to be heard and lorgotten In the earh days of the Korean war, hills were designated merelv by their height; thus a hill 510 meters high became simply Hill 510 But numbers were too imper¬ sonal lor the GL lor whom war is a very personal thing. I hev also were too routine tor war correspondents, who sought more dramatic and easily remembered designations for con¬ tested heights. Naming the hills has proved an al¬ most endless task Korea is a coun¬ try of hills and mountains. In two and a half years ol war. United Nations troops have had to fight for more of these heights than they care to recall. (jIs and newsmen got their inspiration tor the names trom the shape of the hills, local legends, bitter experiences, and even memories ot home. I here can be no ques¬ tion why grim Heart¬ break Ridge, Bloody Ridge and Sniper Ridge weie so christened; hundreds, per¬ haps thousands, ot L N soldiers died on their slopes. Bunker Hill got its name trom its honeycomb of Com¬ munist tonifications. Ols believe Si¬ beria Hill, where C hinese Reds and United States Marines dug in and tossed grenades at one another from 40 paces, is as bleak as its namesake the Soviet part ot l ast Asia. Jane Russell Hill was immortalized b\ an anotnmous United States 7th Division Cil alter a look at its two crests. 1 he Associated Press held out agai ist using that name — as too undignified, presumably until one morning a l niled Nations communi¬ que made it official. L ater someone reported artillerv lire had reduced Jane Russell Hill to Katie Hepburn l edge, but the name wasn't changed officially. The hill is in the Triangle sector, a rugged three-sided mountain complex on the central front. Bloody Baldy, west of Chorwon, where a United States 1st Cavalry Division regiment nearly met disas¬ ter in 1951, had its top cropped clean of vegetation by mortar and machine- gun fire. We renamed the hill Old Baldy after we recaptured it. Luke the Gook’s Castle is a Com¬ munist-fortified peak on the east- central front. In GI terminology, a gook used to mean any Oriental. Now UN troops usually apply it only to the Iron Curtain brand. And Luke was the collective name which GIs gave the stubborn North Koreans who defended the peak. Our South Korean allies usually stick to local place names, like White Horse, Iron Horse and Tacilok-san (Mount Big Virtue). But after an epic stand, the South Korean Capitol Division renamed a mountain Capi¬ tol Hill. And a Republic of Korea general, to inspire his troops, chris¬ tened another hill No Yogi I corn — Stay and I ight. UN pilots, taking their cue from the shapes that peaks and ridges as¬ sume from the air, named T-Bone, Pork Chop, Arrowhead and Alligator Hills. A nostalgic New Yorker thought up Jackson Heights, and other boys far from home named hills in their sectors Seattle, Frisco and Pikes Peak. A circu¬ lar valley on the eastern front was tagged the Punch Bowl, and a ridge line running off it became the Ladle. Hill christening has reached such a pitch that the US. Army news¬ paper Stars and Stripes recently ran a cartoon showing two GIs under fire on a slope with one soldier com¬ plaining; ‘‘We’ve been fighting 48 hours on this damned ridge and no¬ body's called it anything yet.” The cartoon brings to mind an epic Marine stand along the Naktong River earlier in the Korean war. The Reds had breached the United States 24th Division's lines after a night crossing and were dangerously close to cutting the Lighth Army's jugular — the Pusan-Iaegu supply road. Men of the First Marine Brigade plugged the hole, then pushed the North Koreans back, paddy by paddy, hill by hill, until the leather¬ necks stood atop the last height dom¬ inating the Naktong River bank. “What'll we call this battle?” asked a war correspondent. “What’s the name of this ridge?” “Hasn't got one,” replied an ex¬ hausted Marine. So one of the crucial engagements of the Korean war went down in mil¬ itary annals as “The Battle of No- Name Ridge.” Kaliseher Cheese the i Every !®j®)| Was Won CHUCK STEVENSON — Scored more points than any other race driver in 1952, thereby winning the National Championship. Won the Milwaukee, Wisconsin, race on August 28 and the Labor Day race at DuQuoin, Ill. TROY RUTTMAN — Set a new track record of 128.922 miles an hour in winning the 500-mile Indian* apolis Sweepstakes on May 30. He was also the winner of the Independence Day race run on July 4 at Raleigh, N. C. GEORGE HAMMOND — On Labor Day he swept to victory in the thrilling and dangerous Pike’s Peak Climb, where a slip or a skid could mean death or serious injury, against a field of fast, ex* perienced drivers. JOHNNIE PARSONS — Won the last race of the year, held at Phoenix, Arizona, on November 11. Came in tenth in the Indian* apolis Race. In 1950, he won the Indianapolis Race. In 1949, he was National Champion. BILL VUKOVICH — Took first place in the August 30 race at Detroit, Michigan, and was first across the finish line in the September 28 race at Denver, Colorado. Drove fastest lap in Indianapolis race, 1 35.1 35 mph. JACK McGRATH — Came in first and set a new 100*mile record for the track at Syracuse, New York, on Septemher 6 Out of a field of 33 starters, he finished in eleventh place in the Indianapolis Sweepstakes. THE ONLY TIRES MADE THAT ARE Collier’s for February 14, 1953 i

Page 467

TIRE of CHAMPIONS National Championship Race in 1952 re$ton* Tires ON THE HIGHWAY, as well as on the speedway, lives depend on tire safety! Champion race drivers are well aware of that fact. That is why they BUY the safest tires made . . . for their personal cars as well as for their race cars. They know that only Firestone Tires are made with patented and exclusive con¬ struction features which assure extra safe¬ ty and longer mileage. That is an important point to remember the next time you buy tires. Choose the tires that Champions use. Insist on the only tires made that are safety-proved on the speedway for your protection on the highway. Buy Firestone Tires and be safe! Enjoy the Voice of firestone on radio or television every Monday evening over SB( MIKE NAZARUK — Flashed across the finish line first in the Mil¬ waukee, Wisconsin, race on June 8, setting a new 100-mile record for that track. Ran in many na¬ tional championship big car and sprint car races in 1952. BILL SCHINDLER — Drove to vic¬ tory at Springfield, Illinois, on August 16, setting a new 100- mile record for that track. Was one of only 14 drivers who finished the Indianapolis Sweep stakes on May 30. BOBBY BALL — On November 22, he won the race at San Jose, California. During 1952, he drove in many national championship big car and midget car races, in¬ cluding the Indianapolis Sweep- stakes on May 30. Copyright 1953. The F^revtone Tire & Rubber C SAFETY-PROVED ON THE SPEEDWAY FOR YOUR PROTECTION ON THE HIGHWAY

Page 468

Page 469

33 LADIES’ DAY By JOHN I'. W \ BLACK Hr iras the father oj the hrid(\ and on this onr dav hr teas a man alone in a tvorhl of n onicn. It teas raft, hr* deei(h>iL a fair worse than death . for , in their various trays , all of thorn loved him THIS was one of the important days of his life, and it said something for Barclay Henderson that he was able to pace slowly up and down, to pass and repass the pier glass in the lower hall of his New York house without giving his image a glance. He had dressed carefully an hour ago, he had adjusted his tie and arranged the flower in his buttonhole w ith a sure hand. The outward man could remain assured of his correctness, Barclay knew; the inner man viewed this turning of the page, this ending of a chapter, chaotically. A bridesmaid appeared at the turn ol the stairs, her legs twinkling in a froth and Iroufrou of lace. Barclay viewed her descent with warmth, and smiled. But she rushed past him, muttering, '‘Pins, pins!" and disappeared down the hallway. Women, thought Barclay, not in disparagement. It struck him as all wrong that any creature pos¬ sessing such charms should be so preoccupied with pins that she was unaware of his appreciation. The girl came hurrying back. 1 he little golden glints of safety pins showed between her com¬ pressed lips as she brushed past Barela). She started to run up the stairs, then stopped suddenly and turned around. “Do I look all right?” she said out of the corner of her mouth. Her hands went to her skirts. “Why, delightful — Janie,*’ Barclay said. “1 hardly knew you.” “Okay,” Janie said. She turned, ran a few steps, and stopped again. “You looked at me kind of funny when 1 was coming down,” she said. I thought something was dangling, or something.” “Not at all,” Barclay said. He watched the legs twinkle out of sight, and sighed. In Barclay Hen¬ derson’s encounters with women, there was both illusion and delusion; he was saddened only when the two occurred without decent interval. The woman descending, the child ascending, became an accent to his mood. Today he was the father of the bride — his only child — and the conviction lay strongly on him that he was the mere creature of woman. A taxi door slammed outside; then he heard his wife’s brisk heels on the concrete. “Well,” Helen said, coming in. “Everything under control?” “They haven’t sent for smelling salts,” Barclay said. "How did you get out?” “Sneaked. I knew you wouldn't like it.” “Well, don't do it again. My God, 1 have to lean on you today.*’ “Oh, no, you don't.” Helen said. “You stand on your own two feet today. And stand steady.” She pressed up to him. snitling. “You do am nipping?” “Innocent,” Barclay said. “What were you after this time?” Helen put down a package. “Selby said her garter belt was too tight. Suddenly her garter belt was too tight, and she knew she was going to laint.” They grinned at each other. “You're wonder¬ ful,” Barclay said. “You’ve been wonder! ul to her.” Helen was the wife of his second marriage. Selby the daughter of his (list He had been earn¬ estly thankful that the> had got on well together during Selby's hall -> carl) stay with them “Why, darling." Helen said. “I lose her. But Ed love her anyway. even it she were a little bee. because she’s yours.” “Well, you've worked hard. You've worked hard over this wedding.” Helen swung her head, her eves closing. Em beat,” she admitted. “I'm glad her mother flew in to take a hand.” “Ah. 1 ydia.” Helen touched the dainty parcel, with its daintv contents. “I’m glad Lydia’s here, anyway.” she said. '"You've been wondeitul about that, too." Bar¬ ela) said, “inviting her to stay here while she's in town. Wife and ex-wite under the same root. Sharing woman-talk. Sharing my liquor with me. Sensible,” Barela) said, hoping he was giving the matter adequate, and final, coverage. "Civilized.” “Sensible, darling, no doubt. But civilized?” Helen smiled knowingly, an expression Barclay didn’t much like. “I thought you got on very well.” Barclay said. But now Helen wanted to tell him something, and Helen always chose the damnedest times tor such things. IT PSTAIRS a door opened and released a gust of girlish voices, of muted shrieks and laughter. He was aware that the tapping ot many high heels was increasing in urgency. “You'd better take that, ah, thing, upstairs.” he said, "They'll be needing it.” “Don't worry. darling. I know when lhev'll need it. We're well ahead ot schedule.” With Helen directing things, they would be. ”1 just keep wondering.” Helen said, "what you'd be like now it you'd stayed married to her.” “Listen,” Barclay said, "I've told you. I've told you all 1 can tell. And anyway it was all washed up long before I met vou.” “1 keep looking at her.” Helen said. “I keep looking at her and thinking she had vou when you were both young, when you had the whole world ahead of y ou Barclay Henderson was not an assertive man with women. But he had cultivated a reserve ot directness, a kind of hindsight weapon. "Stop it,” he said now. "This is no time tor that. No time is the time tor that.” "She's a lady,” Helen said. “She's got that, and I haven't.” “'l.vdia was a 1) d\ . ' he murmured, smiling, and the thing that was building up between them began to deflate, l.vdia had been too much of a lady. Barclay had otten told Helen. “You’re my breed ot cats.” he told his wife now. “I love you.” “But you must still — ' Helen began, and Barclay braced himself. Helen had had her moments of ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR SARNOFF

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34 1 — J.CKELDER ‘ veterinarian - - - , t — — / COLLIER’S “John is so good to me. He treats me like a dog*’ GERALD H. GREEN obsession about his life with 1 ydia. She had been like this before. Usually it was when she was overtired, or when she had been careless about cocktails. And at this moment, he realized, Helen was verv tired. The upstairs door opened to more sounds of agitated femininity. I he geniler sounds ol a short while ago were woiking up to a veritable typhoon. Somebody hurried along the upstairs hall and started down the stairs. 1 he feet that appeared at the curve of the stairway those long narrow feet Barclay would have recognized any¬ where, anv time. 1 here was a good deal about 1 vdia that was long and nar¬ row her feet and hands, her mouth <«nd nose And probably her mind, too, Barclay thought. He had never been able to satisfy himself on this latter point; but certainly now, 1 ydia's fine, long details added up to startling beauty. In this light she seemed hardly to have aged, although her ash-blonde hair was showing a darker gray. “Helen/’ I ydia said. 'Barclay. I'm sorry to interrupt. Did you get the gar¬ ter belt? We're about ready lor it/’ Helen handed the parcel to I. ydia. “1 hope it's big enough.” she said. “Nerves make people burpy/’ 1 ydia, looking a little startled, ran buck up the stairs. Barclay looked at Helen. “All right,” Helen said, “so I’m a realist. You need a realistic woman, darling.” She started up the stairs and then stopped, turning back to him. "Don’t you?” 1 here was wistfulness in her voice “1 wouldn’t be where I am today without your realism.” Barclay said. “1 still wouldn't have a dime.” “Do you love me, darling?” “I love you,” he said. He moved to¬ ward her as she stood two stairs above him, and put his arms around her waist. “1 ccherously.*' he said, ‘intellectually, tenderly.” He looked up at her. mean¬ ing it. She was rounded and quick, and she had the faculty of recouping her energy almost instantaneously. He gave her a spank Now, go on up. I yd’s tlustered.” “Lydia? Flustered? Not that one. I vdia’s cool,” Helen said positively. “Cold.” “Ah,” said Barclay. “You’re wrong about that.” It gave him a pleasant sense of at least partial mastery to he able to refute Helen, and know he was right. “It's just that she’s a lady, dear. She hates to let anything show.” HE WANDERED through the hall and into the kitchen. A maid was polishing the champagne glasses, setting them in lovely gleaming rows. The champagne itself lay snugly cased on the floor, ready to be iced, and on the old kitchen sideboard there was an ar¬ ray of spirits. Barclay hovered over this, tempting temptation. 1 hen he passed into the big studio liv ing room. It was a luxurious room, now further enriched with banked flowers, with silver and linen for the wedding breakfast. He thought, with pleasure, that he had spared nothing; and none of it had put him in debt. 1 he light of his brilliance, once an erratic thing, had shone stead¬ ily and increasingly since his marriage to Helen six years ago; and the world’s goods had accrued to him. A hell of a good fellow. Bark, any¬ body would tell you that. A genial host, a man who could proffer a check or a cash loan at the psychological moment and make you feel complimented. A good drinker. Bark, who never slopped over or pinched dames at parties. If anybody deserved his prosperity, it was Barclay Henderson, He smiled to himself, pacing now across the soundless rug among these silent preparations for festival. Well, he'd always courted a good opinion of himself, from everybody. Even Lydia respected him now! His child, now’ in an upper room robing for her severance from him, adored him. He would miss Selby. Anne Selby’ Henderson. It was Lydia who had in¬ sisted on the Selby, a family name, and it had stuck. Lydia had insisted on a good deal, in those days. But he would miss Selby. He would miss her, he thought rather deliberately; he would miss the college hoys and the young businessmen that she brought home as hopeful beaux; miss her dignified peri¬ ods of reticence, her tears of confession or confusion against his shoulder. And he would miss that other six months too — the time she spent with her mother. Selby had always been a little too much for Lydia. Nearly al¬ ways, while she was with her mother, a crisis would arise. There would be long-distance consultations with Lydia (her cool voice and cool manner the perfect mask for the agitated and pas¬ sionate core of her), and very often Barclay had had to pack a bag and take a train or a plane, and go to them. Sometimes he wondered how Lydia had managed during the war. He had been gone for more than four years, and their divorce had been made final just before he went into the Army. He had not been available for consultation then! And indeed, Lydia had not asked for it. Her letters were cheerful, fac¬ tual. She prayed for his safety, and so did Selby. Selby wrote, too, her child¬ ish scrawl changing from letter to letter, becoming at the end the conscious backhand of a young lady. Well, there’d been other things in his life in those days. Barclay was thirty- four in 1942, when he first put on a uniform — young enough to be an infan¬ tryman, old enough to take the war very differently from the way the twenty- year-olds reacted. When a piece of shell easing tore into his body, in the Battle of the Bulge, he was able to accept that and continue to exercise his eommand while he lay bleeding and freezing in the snow. Helen, in Red Cross uniform, had come into his life while he was in the hospital. It seemed to Barclay then that his foremost concern was his failure with Lydia. There was no going hack — that was one of the irrevoeables — but he could neither die nor face living in the light of that failure. All this had been easy to tell Helen. She was quick and warm and wise enough to see that Barclay was by no means the worn-out husk he thought himself. They were married in New York in 1946, and if the fact that he was sharing the up¬ bringing of his daughter with his ex- wife disturbed her, she rarely showed it. “Eve got what you need,” Helen had told him, when he w'as convalescing from his wound, when he was begin¬ ning to make love to her. She did have what he needed, too; and he had pulled himself together. THE upstairs door opened again, and a gaggle of bridesmaids clattered down the stairs. Delightful, he thought, charming, in spite of the awful clump¬ ing of their heels and the high pitch of their voices. Selby knew how to manage high heels on stairs, how to manage her voiee. Lydia had taught her that. The girls swept through the hall, the sweet young scent of them billowing in to him. They were holding make-up kits, heading for the downstairs bath¬ room. and Barclay realized that time was running out. Youth was about to leave his house; a curtain was going down. He swallowed, feeling heavy, longing for a quick drink. His own youth, somehow, was going to be on the far side of that curtain. The bridesmaids swept back up the stairs, a covey now, light-footed, fiow’er- fresh. In the upper hallway somebody screamed, in the universal female ex¬ pression of excitement. Doors were hanging with rapidity now\ and the sound of footsteps was loud and con¬ stant. There was a crash of glass from the upstairs bathroom, and then somebody rushed down the stairs. “Barclay,” Lydia called. “Barclay!” “In here,” he said. “Why? What’s the matter?” “Selby’s cut herself,” Lydia said. “That crash?” he said, startled, a vision agonizing him of Selby lying on the tile of the bathroom fioor in a welter of glass. “No, no, I did that. I upset every¬ thing in the medicine eabinet. Hurry,” Lydia said, “do something! She’s bleed¬ ing all over the place.” Barclay felt stunned. “What — ” he said. “How — ?” “She was shaving,” Lydia said. "Shaving?'* Barclay shouted. “Her legs,” Lydia said. “Oh.” He breathed deeply, recog¬ nizing this as the kind of thing that would eraek Lydia’s fa£ade. “That should have been done last night,” he said, “or this morning.” “I know,” Lydia confessed. Their Collier’s for February 14, 1953 4T don’t know w hether to become a movie star, a famous author. collier s or take up typing and shorthand'’ kate osann

Page 471

35 eyes met and they began laughing. If ever Lydia had had to do an\ thing as coarse as shaving her legs, she had taken good care never to let him know. “If she gets blood on that dress — ” Lydia said. She laughed again, and a kind of hysteria touched them hoth. “Wait,” Barclay told her. “1*11 fetch a styptte pencil.” “It’s like the time when she had her appendix out,” Lydia said when he re¬ turned. “Remember when she took that fall from a horse at camp?” Barclay said. Lydia had become still, her errand forgotten. A smile curved tenderly about her mouth, and her eyes dwelt on him. It struck Barclay as miraculous, and terrible, that in the reaches of his mind and Lydia’s the life they had abandoned still had entity. They had created something more than the tan¬ gible Selhy, in that time, and something less mortal. Perhaps less mortal than “And I’m taking the plane out to¬ night." * 1 vdia'” Helen called from the head of the stairs. “Did vou get something'* Did you II nd Barclay**” “Here," Barclav said He thrust the styptic pencil at l ydia. relieved and vet wanting to call her hack as she lelt him The front doorbell rang. He an¬ swered. finding it was the chauffeurs w ith the two hired limousines, lie won¬ dered if he should ask them in for a drink, hut decided against it. There was pandemonium upstairs now, and he went through the hall with the sensation of a man fleeing from something. When he heard footsteps on the stairs once again, he went quickly through the kitchen and out into the garden. “Barclay,” Lydia called. ‘‘Barclay!” Helen called with her. The two of them appeared in the garden door. “Selhy’s gone wacky,” Helen said. “They’re a little big, but they work fine colliers if you put your fists in the thumbs*’ STANLEY & JANICE BERENSTA1N he or Lydia, he thought, bemused now, touched to stillness by Lydia's stillness. Barclay was still holding out the styptic pencil, and Lydia had not yet reached for it. Lydia. Barclay thought, had always chosen the damnedest times for getting at him. But memory lay strongly over them — memory of the many times when they had stood together for Selby’s sake, even though their marriage was ended. Memory, and memory that be¬ gat memory. “It was the only time I could get close to you,” Barclay said now. “When you got upset about Selby. You let me in, then.” IYDIA'S face moved, as though she jhad turned it from the light. “It was the only time I could.” “1 tried,” Barclay said. “God knows I tried.” “And God knows I tried, too,” Lydia said. “But did you really? Do you now?” “Now wait,” Barclay said. “Didn’t we say all this ten years ago?” “Oh, darling,” Lydia said. She touched her eyes with a handkerchief, shaking. "Is anything ever final?” Barclay stared at her, and some of the meaning of this day began to come through to him. “This is,” he said. “Selhy's getting married today. She's going to have a husband to take care of her from now on.” Collier’s for February 14, 1953 “She says she's changed her mind. She doesn’t want to get married.” Lydia stared at him numbly. “Oh, Lord,” Barclay muttered. He ran through the house and lip the stairs. Bridesmaids, looking frightened, scat¬ tered he fore him. “Daddy!” Selhy cried. She had been lying on her face across the bed in her slip. Now she turned over. “Daddy!” she cried, and clung to him. Barclay stroked her lace. “You've got to pull yourself together — ” he be¬ gan, hut the young body in his arms jerked convulsively. “I don't want to leave you,” Selby moaned. “1 don't want anything changed.” A woman Barclay had never seen be¬ fore came in with the wedding dress. "It's nearly time,” she said. Barclay motioned her away, fiercely, “Listen,” he said, feeling weakness. “Do you mean this?” Selhy’s arms just tightened ahout him. There w as a rapt look on her face. “I love you. Daddy,” she whispered, Why, Barclay, he said to himself, everyhody loves you today. You old woman-lover, Barclay, you charming so-and-so, he thought; then, paternally: This is your daughter. He whacked her, the contact of her young flesh faintly stinging to his hand. He felt her stiffen. “I love you, too,” he said. For a moment Barclay Henderson locked eves with his d uehter viw thi temper mo tnt and iCccde m i hem Shared I. tighter bubbled up between them. ‘ Daddv. Selbv said, vou re won¬ derful. I d better get dressed now Downstairs he found 1 villa pale and upset, Helen impatient "1 ast lound, he said looking at his watch lor the liist time that day 1 et s get this show on the load.” Helen glanced at I vdia ‘Til t ke care of Selbv,” she said. She ran up the stairs. BARCI AY walked into the kitchen, motioning Lvdia to follow \t the sideboard he poured two short drinks "Can't do an\ damage now." he said "No time for more than one." He held up his glass. "1 ydia" he said, feeling pain, "hail and farewell, or something." “We'll never have to see each other again,” 1 ydia said. They drank. Hail, l vdia. And now, farewell, Bar¬ clay thought, with awkward compas¬ sion. What will you do now with your Selby-half of the year, Lydia? What, indeed, with all your years? He looked at her over the rim of his glass, at her beauty that had always stirred him, at her passiveness that had always baflled him. She could have married again, he knew, knowing well the admiration she commanded in men. Yet by her overfineness. perhaps, or hv inertia, or because she was Lydia, she had remained forged to the past. Or by some selfishness in myself, he thought, shrinking from acknowledgment. Try to meet that responsibility, Bar¬ clay, old hoy, he thought, the pain hard and definite in his hreast. It would take a Helen, now. to tell you where to put vour futile pity. There were footsteps on the stairs, that avenue of the day, onec again. Slow footsteps this time, many of them, and solemn. The bride and her attendants were coming down. The front door was opened, and there was the sound of automohile motors starting up. "Let's go,” Barclay said. They walked quietly through the fes¬ tive room and into the now empty hall¬ way. Their hands touched and then parted, and they stepped into the street. “Hurry!” Helen was calling. "Don't dawdle now, you two!” “Barclay,” Lydia said, “I just thought of something. There's almost hound to be grandchildren, you know." “Grandchildren! I'm too young to have grandchildren,” he said. It was the one thing he had not thought of. “It will make me helievc my hair, too,” Lydia said. “But grandchildren do have to he visited by their grand¬ parents, don't they?” “That's true," Barclay said. He be¬ gan to laugh, to really laugh with a rich¬ ness of enjoyment, lor the first time that day. “By God,” he said, and he wanted to kiss Lydia, “l never thought of that. Never thought of it.” “Barclay," Helen called. His wife was leaning out of the open door of a limousine. “Come on!” He ran across the sidewalk and climbed in beside her. “What are you laughing at?” Helen said. “Never mind,” Barclay said. “This is ladies' day. I want all the ladies to be happy today.” .“Well, I’m happy now,” Helen said. She pressed comfortably against him. “Darling,” she whispered; "1 love you.” “Darling,” Barclay said, thinking he’d hetter stop this laughter now, hot¬ ter get himself ready for the church. “I love you, too.” Jk.Jk.Jk.

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36 Racial Prejudice— How 1 <<!\ lia^ male learl-Harming progress toward equal opportunity for \t the famous Top of the Mark, Dr. and Mr**, \ehon W. Johnson (left) have cocktails with Mr. and Mr». John Kan. Lounge is in the Mark Hopkins Hotel, which has no racial barriers Fung-po Yu, right, head of Macv’s stock room, with employee Joan Otten. Macy’s is one of several San Francisco stores which found it was good business to drop racial restrictions By JOHN GERR1TY J NOT long ago, a group of San Franciscans called at the office of Associate Superintend¬ ent of Schools Watt A. Long. They were, they explained, members of a Negro church con¬ gregation and they were planning a tea for Negro public schoolteaehers. Would Dr. Long be kind enough to give them the names of Negro faculty members? “I hope you will forgive me,*’ Dr. Long replied, “but I'm afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know who and where they are. However, if you would like, I will give you the addresses of the schools and pos¬ sibly you can find your guests by making a nose count.’’ A few days earlier, in another part of the city, a young graduate student of the University of Cali¬ fornia walked into the office of Helen Graham, per¬ sonnel director of The Emporium, one of San Francisco’s largest department stores. The young lady was doing research for a term paper on discriminatory practices of employers. “I would like to know,” she asked Mrs. Graham, “how many nonwhite employees you have, and in what departments they work.” “I don’t know,” Mrs. Graham answered, “but if it’s important, I’ll help you find out.” “How?” “I’ll assign you a guide and you can go through the store and see for yourself,” the personnel di¬ rector said. These two incidents are not unusual in San Fran¬ cisco, which has made astonishing progress in a scant six years toward removing the conditions that prevent equal treatment for minority groups in most other American cities. All over San Fran¬ cisco, there has been a de-emphasis of the differ¬ ences between races, coupled with a growing eonvietion that discrimination exacts as heavy a tax on the prejudiced majority as it does on the victimized minorities. That’s not to say that the brotherhood of man is universally accepted in San Francisco, or that in¬ stances of discrimination do not arise. But they are much rarer than in many other parts of the country — and not beeause the Golden Gate city has never known the race problem. Many people (including some who know better) sometimes sug¬ gest that San Franeisco “has always been tolerant,” or even that the Western cities have never been cursed with the bitter racial animosities that exist elsewhere. Neither of those statements is true. Scene in Chinatown of the 1860s Chinese slave labor was a marketable commodity in San Franeiseo as recently as 1868, five years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed. Few modern ghettos or slums could match those in which San Francisco quartered its Oriental minor¬ ities 75 years ago. Here’s how B. E. Lloyd de¬ scribed them in his book, Lights and Shades in San Francisco: “A family of five or six persons will occupy a single room, eight by ten feet in dimensions, where¬ in all will live, eook, eat, sleep, and perhaps carry on a small manufacturing business. ... In the lodg¬ ing houses they huddle together and overlay each other, like a herd of swine that seeks shelter in a strawpile on a cold winter night. . . .” Of course, Lloyd's report is of an unenlightened city of the nineteenth century. But conditions were not appreciably better six years ago. To be sure, Collier’s for February 14, 1953

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37 San Francisco Squelched It ils No«to ann t o\er. I »i 1 1 higolrx i- hrinn I i < * K < *« I ships like the quixotically named Daughters of Joy no longer delivered cargoes of slave girls at the Golden Gate in 1946. But it was a brave Chinese who ventured out of Chinatown to find a home. Many Negroes were herded together in packing- case houses at Hunter’s Point. Others moved into slum dwellings in the Fillmore District vacated when the Japanese were evacuated to war camps in 1942. Polite but ineffectual lip service was paid to legislation outlawing employee discrimination in public schools. Only one Negro doctor was practic¬ ing in any public or private hospital; a Negro phy¬ sician had to turn his patients over to a white doctor at the hospital doors. Because of war-made man¬ power shortages, officials of the city-owned transit system had hired a few nonwhites — grudgingly, and with considerable trepidation, they admit today. But less than a mile from where the foun¬ ders of United Nations had met, union hiring halls prominently displayed signs saying, “Negroes Need Not Apply.” No More Prejudice in Public Schools San Francisco knew intolerance, no doubt about it. But today the picture has changed amazingly. In the public schools, whites are teaching Negroes, Negroes are teaching whites, and # Orientals are teaching both. Children of all races and faiths may attend any school in the city, so long as its physical facilities can accommodate them. In big stores, like Macy’s, The Emporium or Joseph Magnin’s, Chinese clerks arc employed as shopping counselors to Nob Hill aristocrats; Ne¬ groes and Orientals manage full departments, su¬ pervising as many as 25 white clerks; Japanese head up sales-rcscarch sections; Filipinos arc floor¬ walkers. There isn’t a hospital in the city, public or pri¬ vate, where a Negro doctor can’t enjoy every facil¬ ity his white colleague does. Ward segregation — five years ago a common practice which often forced nonwhites into expensive private rooms — has been abolished. Only a few weeks ago, Paul Fanning, who han¬ dles personnel for the city-owned Municipal Rail¬ way, went to the Urban League, an organization devoted to the welfare of members of minority groups, to plead for more recruits for the civil serv¬ ice exams — “preferably men and women who can be trained as supervisors.” Skilled Negro membership in the AFL building trades unions has grown from none in 1946 to about 4,000 today and there isn't a construction job in the city where a qualified Japanese, Negro, Chinese or Filipino can't get a job. Indicative of the swing away from segregated housing, a survey of residential areas by the San Francisco Council for Civic Unity shows that one third of the city’s blocks have at least one nonwhite family residing there — with (according to another survey sponsored by the University of California) no adverse effect on the value of homes. Major hotels, like the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont, are wide open to any reputable guest who can pay his bill. Not long ago, three dinner dances, a convention and an author’s lunch were held on the same day in the community rooms of the two hotels, all under the sponsorship of mixed Negro and white groups. How did it all happen? How is it that San Fran¬ cisco has made such great strides toward racial equality at a time when life for men of different races is often so difficult in cities like New York, Chicago, Detroit and New Orleans (or the nation’s Dr. Daniel Collins (1.), Negro dentist who teaches at U. of California, examines patient Carmyn Gorman with student Ted Seliuster. Collins is rated among eity*s top dental surgeons Discrimination-free pools, playgrounds and sehools teach youngsters toleranee at an early age. One third of the eity’s residential areas have mixed white and nonwliite populations PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY MASON WEYMOUTH

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VWOIMIIVG Another Pinin Farina Iriuinph !

Page 475

Here it is — the newest car by the greatest of all custom car designers — Pinin Farina of Italy. Here it is— the magnificent new 1953 Nash “Country Club.” Here it is— the one and only car with low, sloping continental hood, with new “Road- Guide” fenders, with the world’s widest one- piece windshield plus greatest eye-level visibility. Here it is with luxury new to America— the greatest seating space ever built into an auto¬ mobile . . . salon-styled interior beauty ... a Weather Eye Conditioned Air System . . . Air¬ liner Reclining Seats. Sensational New Performance! In the Statesman, a new “Powerflyte” engine, for finer performance and top economy. In the Ambassador, the famous Super Jetfire engine; plus for the first time, a custom-power option — the new “Le Mans” Dual Jetfiie engine that twice topped all American competition in the “Grand Prix d’Endurance” at Le Mans, France. Xew Nasli Power Sit-cring! Driving and especially parking made effortless! Here’s the world’s finest shock-proof ride plus the life-saving safety of Airfiyte Construction and three transmission choices, including Automatic Overdrive and Dual-Range Hydra-Matic. This is the day to see the new Nash Airflytcs. One ride and you'll agree — there’s none as new as Nash for 1953. Let your Nash dealer show you Pinin Farina’s latest triumph. The )9$3 Nash Ambassador “ Country Club," styled by Pinin Farina . Hood ornament designed by Petty. White sidewalls, optional. TI1E AMI1ASSAIIOH • T1IE STATESMAN Great Car m Sinee 1002 Noih Mofort, Divition Noth-Ke/vinofor Corporofion, Detroit 32, Mich.

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It pays to be tolerant . That’s ichy so many of Sttn Francisco’s businessmen havew 40 capital, where a public swimming pool had to be closed because of threatened riots between white and Negro swim¬ mers)? The answer, at least in part, is that San Francisco might not have done so well with its racial problem if the prob¬ lem hadn't been so bad to begin with. Influx of Minority Peoples At the end of World War II, San Francisco lound itself w'ith the largest Chinese and Japanese settlements of any city outside the Orient, and the third largest Mexican and Filipino pop¬ ulations on the West Coast. The city also had experienced a greater short¬ term rise in Negro population than any other city in the United States — a ten¬ fold increase, from less than 5,000 to more than 50,000 in six years. Alto¬ gether, almost 125,000 members of racial minority groups had chosen to live in this city of 750,000. In a city with a past history of discrimination such as San Francisco’s, it was a po¬ tentially explosive situation. Nor could the problem be easily resolved by pious appeals to brotherhood, or by endlessly repeating, as some did. that “everything will work out all right in time.” Civic leaders, industrialists, mer¬ chants, utility heads, public officials and schoolteachers rolled up their sleeves and went to work, spearheaded by social service organizations whose primary interest is elimination of discrimina¬ tory' practices. Their formula was simple: “Discrimination is bad business and equality is profitable.” Thus, when Seaton Man¬ ning and Donald Glover of the Urban League first braced the managements of the city’s top department stores, they argued: “We don’t want you to hire Negroes or Chinese or Japa¬ nese because they arc down¬ trodden victims of prejudice. We want you to do yourself a favor. These Negroes, Japa¬ nese and Chinese are your customers. We think they’ll become better customers if you recognize their ability to sell as well as to buy.” Manning and Glover met all the standard replies: that patrons might object, that old employees would quit, that the expense ol setting up sep¬ arate rest rooms, restaurants and infirmaries would be pro¬ hibitive. Manning had a com¬ mon-sense comeback: “Is the busing power of one man any less than that of another, merely because of color? And how do vou know you will need separate res¬ taurants and rest rooms until you actually experiment?” Alter much discussion, sev¬ eral stores decided to take the plunge. The Emporium, one of the first stores to be ap¬ proached, hired its first Negro clerk without any fanfare. No customer complained. No em¬ ployee quit. Next, a Filipino was placed in the store’s hab¬ erdashery. Nothing happened. Two non white women were hirea for the hosiery department, but none of the other women clerks was surprised, outraged or excited. Hosiery sales kept abreast of sales in other departments. Three months later. The Empo¬ rium revamped its employment ap¬ plication forms. All questions relating to race, creed and color were deleted. Employment interviewers were told to make themselves color-blind, or find jobs elsewhere. The Emporium really became a full- fledged foe of discrimination following an incident which didn’t actually in¬ volve the race issue at all. The store in¬ troduced late Monday-night shopping, and a number of long-time employees threatened to walk off their jobs. It happened that they were white, A young management trainee talked them out of it — and it happened that he was Japanese. Macy’s also started hiring nonwhites after hearing the Manning-Glover argu¬ ments. Neither employees nor custom¬ ers showed any signs of being oflended; last Christmas, Macy’s sales were 20 per cent higher than ever before, and one harried store official remarked: “Thank Heaven for the Japanese, Chi¬ nese and Negro students who were will¬ ing to work as part-time clerks. Without them, there would have been a lot ol un¬ happy customers.” Today, although a few holdouts re- V ext Weeh DO THE REAL HEROES GET THE MEDAL OF HONOR? ik mm,. ui:x. s. l. a. maksii \ll Allhough many men earn their decorations the hard nay, some of our greatest heroes are shamefully ignored under the present awards syMem, says this expert, writing with Collier's Hill Dasidson. On the oilier hand, fools and cowards may sometimes get the nation's top medals. General Marshall tells how we can prevent such injustices main stubbornly biased, scores of stores, like the City of Paris, Joseph Magnin and H. Liebes, have members of minor¬ ity groups working for them. Similarly, insurance companies, auto¬ mobile agencies, the privately owned gas and electric company and the tele¬ phone company overhauled their poli¬ cies and put hiring and promotions on a “merit and ability basis only.” You can get some idea of how zeal¬ ously these industrial crusaders have been battling Jim Crow from a seem¬ ingly trivial incident in the Pacific Tele¬ phone & Telegraph Company. A young Negro telephone operator had been transferred, at her own re¬ quest, from one exchange to another. Word reached Mark R. Sullivan, presi¬ dent of the company, that her new co- workers wore snubbing her and making life almost unbearable with their petty cruelties. Sullivan asked the girl not to quit or to transfer out of the troublesome exchange. Instead, he escorted the young lady to work one day and gave her and her sister operators a brief lec¬ ture on telephone company economics. “One out ot every six calls handled in this exchange,” Sullivan said, “is made by a Negro, a Filipino or a Chi¬ nese. If we lose that sixth call here, or anywhere else in the city, we stand to lose our jobs. At the very least, we will get (and deserve) a one-sixth pay cut. I’ll leave it up to you ladies how you want to run your company.” With that, Sullivan walked out. There hasn’t been a com¬ plaint from that exchange in nine months — and the once- snubbed young lady is now a supervising operator. In the early days of San Francisco’s campaign against prejudice, many small hotels were slow to drop their ob¬ jections to guests because of race. Ben Swig, co-manager of the Fairmont Hotel, tried to solve the problem all by himself. “Whenever Ben heard a visitor to San Francisco had been denied a room because of color or race,” recalls Lee Watson, a friend of Swig, “he'd move heaven and earth to find the rejected guest. “ ‘Come up to my place,’ Ben would say. The Fair¬ mont needs guests like you.’ ” Two Outstanding Negroes Like any other city, San Francisco has its share of outstanding minority mem¬ bers — people like Cecil Poole, crackajack Negro trial attor¬ ney in the district attorney’s office who, justices of the su¬ perior court predict, will join them on the bench within another couple of years; or Dr. Daniel Collins, sometimes called the city’s leading dental surgeon, who was the first Negro to join the faculty of the University of California Dental School. But the Urban League’s Donald Glover prefers not to make too much of such men as Poole and Dr. Collins, who probably would have achieved great personal success whatever the local conditions. More significant, Glover says, has been the opening up of skilled and nonskilled laboring jobs in the city. “When I first came to San Francisco in 1946,” Glover recalls, “the double trolley tracks on Market Street were be¬ ing torn up. One day I walked from Eleventh Street to the Embarcadcro, a distance of about two miles, and didn’t see a single Negro in the work gangs. “When I checked with the company’s main offices,” Glover went on to ex¬ plain, “I found that an employment clerk had merely assumed that no Ne¬ groes were to be hired. No one had ob¬ jected to Negroes. The clerk just felt that his bosses didn’t w'ant them. “Once the ‘assumption’ was brought to their attention,” Glover added, “the company executives acted quickly. A few days later, there were plenty of Ne¬ groes on the job.” In Building Trades Unions It was a long time before nonwhites were able to get skilled employment on construction jobs where union labor was employed. But it was done. Lead¬ ers of the AFL building trades union first admitted a few* pilot craftsmen. No riots developed and contractors didn’t seem to mind. Today there are nearly 4,000 skilled nonwhite journeymen working shoulder to shoulder with whites, and a comparable increase has occurred among nonskilled workers. In 1947, San Francisco’s school board hired a new superintendent, Her¬ bert C. Clish, of New Rochelle, New York. Clish accepted the appointment after making clear his belief that a good school system was conditional on his having a free hand in hiring teachers, with professional competence the only requirement. The board agreed. A number of people winked indul¬ gently. “Just the thing for an incoming school superintendent to say,” they commented knowingly. “Good public relations, too.” But Clish had meant every word of it. A few weeks after he took over, a vacancy in a principalship arose. Clish immediately named Dr. William Cobb, a Negro, as the man best qualified for the job. And he didn’t stop there. Reforms were invoked, aimed at wiping out all references to race or nationality in the schools. Seminars and summer-school classes for teachers were set up to drive the lesson home. Stereo¬ types like, “Negroes make good clowns,” were branded as highly unde¬ sirable. Even harmless sayings, like “Italians like music,” or “Japanese never show their feelings,” were ruleu out of order. An end was put to all- Negro choruses and to having children promenade at school functions in Ori¬ ental or Spanish costumes. Any and all exhibitions were stopped, however in¬ nocent in appearance, if they tended to set children apart racially or religiously. Finally, questions on race disappeared from teachers’ employment applica¬ tions. During the six-year life of Clish’s reforms, there has been not a single disturbance traceable directly to racial differences. And the education in tolerance of young San Franciscans doesn’t stop in the classroom. Every public swimming Collier's for February 14, 1953 1 \ ( v t 5 a F b ii a if Vi di i ‘ r l

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ecomc bitter enemies of diserimination 41 pool and playground in the city is non- segregated. Of 75 playground super¬ visors, 29 are nonwhites, including two of the city’s six district supervisors. It would be difficult to single out any one man or organization to praise for the gradual ending of segregated private housing. City supervisors, like George Christopher and Marvin E. Lewis, were front runners in making San Francisco the first city in the nation specifically to rule out segregation in urban redevel¬ opment programs. Edward Howdcn of the city’s Coun¬ cil for Civic Unity keeps watch, always ready to howl when he spots a housing abuse. But Howdcn's howl wouldn’t be much more than a whimper if it weren’t for the free radio time the Co¬ lumbia Broadcasting System gives him each week. Howden’s powerful effect was dem¬ onstrated by the Sing Shcng incident, which he was instrumental in making nationally famous. Early last spring, Shcng, who had been an Army Intelli¬ gence captain in World War II, bought a house in all-white Southwood, a San Francisco suburb. A few white neigh¬ bors objected. Soon they had tub- thumped Sheng's proposed purchase into a major issue. Shcng agreed to abandon his project if the majority of the neighbors voted against him. By voting time, the core of objectors had done a superb, if malicious, campaign job. Sheng lost. Howden, who had heard of the case too late to affect the balloting, brought all of his guns to bear after Sheng’s de¬ feat, and exposed the incident as a civic disgrace. The story was picked up nationally. Both the San Francisco Examiner and the Chronicle hammered away locally. Though Sheng bought elsewhere, his failure in Southwood had a good effect: no suburban develop¬ ment wants to risk the scorn and wrath heaped upon the voters of Southwood for raising the race issue. Survey Shatters Realty Myth The University of California is enti¬ tled to a share of the credit for taking race discrimination out of housing. It has eloquently shattered the myth that real-estate values tumble as soon as a nonwhite family moves into a neighbor¬ hood that was previously all white. In a city-wide survey, the university se¬ lected typical control areas. In one, called Silver Terrace, the average price of homes in 1950, when it was all- white, was $9,750, Since 1950, there have been 27 sales in Silver Terrace, 21 to whites, six to Negroes. Today the average price of homes in Silver Ter¬ race is $10,750. Another district which was previ¬ ously all white is the Visitacion Valley section, where homes cost $9,500 in 1949. Since then, there have been 167 sales, 121 to whites, 32 to Negroes and 12 to Chinese, Japanese and Filipinos. Today, Visitacion Valley homes are selling for an average price of $1 1,000. Strangely out of step with the trend of affairs, until very recently, has been the San Francisco Housing Authority. It has steadfastly maintained that all public housing contracted for after 1949, but not yet built, must follow the so-called neighborhood pattern. If an area was predominantly Negro before 1949, any public housing contracted for there would have to be for Negroes. Collier’s for February 14, 1933 The same would be true for white or Chinese neighborhoods. Endless arguments failed to budge the local Housing Authority. But just a few weeks ago, its stand was ruled un¬ constitutional in superior court. Al¬ though the authority is planning to appeal, the attitude of most San Fran¬ ciscans was summed up a few weeks ago by a special grand jury report which said, “ I his attempt to enforce a policy of racial discrimination has been a dis¬ service to San Francisco.” Champion* of White Supremacy Equally anachronistic have been four labor unions which exclude nonwhites in whole or in part: Harry Lundcberg's Sailors Union of the Pacific, the AFL Teamsters, the independent Automo¬ tive Workers and the ALL Bartenders. Their reasons for practicing discrimi¬ nation arc cither evasive or not forth¬ coming at all. But these die-hards and a constantly dwindling number of em¬ ployers who still champion white su¬ premacy are fighting a losing battle. Whenever they step out of line, the city's more strident voices demand a compulsory fair employment practices law, like the one Cleveland enacted in 1950. Quickly, cooler heads of all col¬ ors whip the offenders into line. San Francisco’s accomplishments are not the outgrowth of some occult civic practice, nor do its people possess a magic formula which brings about a fantastic transformation of character. Businessmen, teachers and public offi¬ cials have no less self-interest in San Francisco than anywhere else; it’s just that they have directed their self-inter¬ est into healthy channels, not destruc¬ tive ones. It is not by mere coincidence that Negro lawyers are respected members of the city's Lawyers’ Club. Nor was it oversight when the first Negro doctor logged his patient into St. Francis Me¬ morial Hospital, or when a white young man bought his Chinese lady friend a cocktail in the Fop of the Mark lounge. It was prudent, good, hardheaded busi¬ ness sense at work. It has even become fashionable in San Francisco to practice tolerance. So¬ cial maturity is not only easy to wear, it's handy to show off. In discussing their personnel problems, many indus¬ trial and labor executives forget they wrere ever anything but open-minded. One executive, proudly telling me of his company’s wide-open employment policy, said, “Why, we've never known anything like discrimination out here. 1 was raised with Chinese; our cook was a Chinese. My brothers and I played with their kids. We knew them. We loved them.” That man’s firm steadfastly denied employment to Chinese, except in the most menial jobs, until just a few years ago. Fortunately, he can blank out the intolerant years. His attitude today is an uninterrupted projection of what he learned as a boy on his father’s ranch. In one major respect, his attitude has undergone a subtle change, however: nowadays, he is downright irked when¬ ever he hears of intolerance, and there is just the slightest trace of smugness when he contrasts the ways of the evil¬ doer with his own enlightened methods. “That fellow,” he remarked about one die-hard, ‘‘is simply digging his own ...relax in Canada You’ll find rt jn .shiny fun \Awim and go sailing. See your travel or transportal ion agent soon; send the coupon now. O 1 1 ■ O S ■ 5\3 - O 1 CANADIAN GOVERNMENT TRAVEL BUREAU Department of Resource-- and Development, Ottawa, Canada Please send your 48-page, full-colour book on vacation attractions in all parts of Canada. Y a me - ( I'LKASh I’RIMT) A d drfit t . T own - >' tate.

Page 478

He was never afraid. No one in t He world was as strong, or as wise, as his father THE CUB Bv LOIS JD\ REMAN KLE1 IIALER ONE of his first memories was of his father bending down from his great height to sweep him up into the air. Up he went, gasping and laughing with delight. He could look down on his mother's upturned face as she watched, laughing with them, and at the thick shock of his father’s brown hair and at his white teeth. Then he would come down, shrieking happily, but he was never afraid, not with his father's hands holding him No one in the world was as strong, or as wise, as his father. He remembered a time when his father moved the piano across the room for his mother. He watched while she guided it into its new position, and he saw the difference in their hands as they rested, side b\ side, upon the gleaming walnut. His mother's hand was white and slim and delicate, his father's large and square and strong. As he grew, he learned to pla\ bear. When it was time tor his father to come home at night, he would lurk behind the kitchen door. When he heard the closing of the garage doors, he would hold his breath and squeeze himself into the crack behind the door. Then he would be quiet. It was alwa\s the same. His father would open the door and stand there, the backs of his long legs beguilingls close. “Where’s the bo>?” He would glance at the conspiratorial smile on his mother’s face, and then he would leap and grab his father about the knees, and his father would look down and shout, “He>, what's this? A bear — a young cub’" Then, no matter how tightly he tried to cling, he was lifted up and perched upon his father's shoulder, and they would march past his mother, and together thes would duck their heads beneath the doors. And then he went to school. And on the play¬ ground he learned how to wrestle and shout, how¬ to hold back tears, how to get a half nelson on the boy w’ho tried to take his football away from him. He came home at night and practiced his new wis¬ dom on his father. Straining and puffing, he tried to pull his father off the lounge chair while his father kept on reading the paper, only glancing up now and then to ask in mild wonderment, “What are you trying to do, boy?” He would stand and look at his father. “Gee whiz, Dad!” And then he would realize that his father was teasing him, and he would crawl upon his father's lap and pummel him in affectionate frustration. And still he grew — taller, slimmer, stronger. He was like a young buck with tiny, new horns. He wanted to lock them with any other young buck’s, to test them in combat. He measured his biceps with his mother’s tape measure. Exultantly, he thrust his arm in front of his father. “Feel that! How's that for muscle?” His father put his great thumb into the flexed muscle and pressed, and the boy pulled hack, pro¬ testing, laughing, “Ouch, Dad, not so hard!*’ Sometimes they wrestled on the floor together, and his mother moved the chairs back. “Be care¬ ful, Charles — don’t hurt him.” After a while his father would push him aside and sit in his chair, his long legs thrust out before him, and the hoy would scramble to his feet, half resentful, half mirthful ovcf the ease with which his father mastered him. “Doggone it, Dad, someday — ” he would say. HE WENT out for football and track in high school. He surprised even himself now, there was so much more of him. And he could look down on his mother. “Little one,” he called her, or “Small fry.” Sometimes he took her wrists and backed her into a chair, while he laughed and she scolded. “I'll — Ell take \ou across my knee.” “Who will?*’ he demanded. “Well — your father still can,” she said. His father — well, that was different. They still wrestled occasionally, hut it distressed his mother. She hovered about them, worrying, unable to comprehend the need for their struggling. It always ended the same way, with the boy upon his back, prostrate, and his father grinning down at him. “Give?” “Give.” And he got up, shaking his head. “I wish you wouldn’t,” his mother would say, fretting. “There’s no point in it. You’ll hurt your¬ selves; don't do it any more.” So for nearly a year they had not wrestled, but he thought about it one night at dinner. He looked at his father closely. It was queer, but his father didn’t look nearly as tall or broad-shouldered as he used to. He could even look his father straight in the eyes now. “How much do you weigh. Dad?” he asked. His father threw him a mild glance. “About the same, about a hundred and ninety. Why?” The boy grinned. “Just wondering.” But after a while he went over to his father where he sat reading the paper and took it out of his hands. His father glanced up, his eyes at first questioning and then narrowing to meet the chal¬ lenge in his son’s. “So,” he said softiy. “Come on, Dad.” His father took off his coat and began to unbut¬ ton his shirt. “You asked for it,” he said. HIS mother came in from the kitchen, alarmed. “Oh, Charles! Bill! Don’t — you’ll hurt your¬ selves!” But they paid no attention to her. They were standing now-, their shirts off. They watched each other, intent and purposeful. The boy’s teeth gleamed again. They circled for a moment, and then their hands closed upon each other’s arms. They strained against each other, and then the boy went down, taking his father with him. They moved and writhed and turned, in silence seeking an advantage, in silence pressing it to its conclu¬ sion. There was the sound of the thumps of their bodies upon the rug and of the quick, hard intake of breath. The hoy showed his teeth occasionally in a grimace of pain. His mother stood at one side, both hands pressed against her ears. Occasionally her lips moved, hut she did not make a sound. After a while the boy pinned his father on his back, “Give!” he demanded. His father said, “Hell, no!” And with a great effort he pushed the boy off, and the struggle began again. But at the end his father lay prostrate, and a look of bew ilderment came into his eyes. He strug¬ gled desperately against his son's merciless, re¬ straining hands. Finally he lay quiet, only his chest heaving, his breath coming loudly. The boy said, “Give!” The man frowned, shaking his head. Still the boy knelt on him, pinning him down. “Give!” he said, and tightened his grip. “Give!” All at once his father began to laugh, silently, his shoulders shaking. The hoy felt his mother’s fin¬ gers tugging fiercely at his shoulder. “Let him up,” she said. “Let him up!” The boy looked down at his father “Give up?” His father stopped laughing, but his eyes were still wet. “Okay,” he said, “I give.” The boy stood up and reached a hand to his father to help him up, but his mother was before him, putting an arm about his father’s shoulders, helping him to rise. They stood together and looked at him, his father grinning gamely, his mother with baffled pain in her eyes. The boy started to laugh. “I guess I — ” He stopped. “Gosh. Dad, 1 didn’t hurt you, did I?” “Heck no, I'm all right. Next time . . .” “Yeah, maybe next time . . And his mother did not contradict what they said, for she knew as well as they that there w'ould never he a next time. For a moment the three of them stood looking at one another, and then, suddenly, blindly, the boy turned. He ran through the door under which he had ducked so many times when he had ridden on his father’s shoulders. He went out the kitchen door, behind which he had hidden, waiting to leap out and pounce upon his father’s legs. It was dark outside. He stood on the steps, feel¬ ing the air cool against his sweaty body. He stood w'ith lifted head, looking at the stars, and then he could not see them because of the tears that burned his eves and ran down his cheeks. {Jollier's short snoiiT

Page 479

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Page 480

Sale* man for Srluwider company. ( ). K. Donham, displays a snappy pearl-trimmed luiniher during spring showing hold bv the St. Louis firm “ Lovely , Schneider, Lovely /” No one ever accused a Schneider of having a good hat face. But do they worry? DOV1 laugh. When the Schneider brothers put on women's hats, it's no gag. They’re making money. Brothers Ben, Paul and Sam are partners in a St. Louis wholesale millinery firm which does a million dollars' worth of busi¬ ness annuallv. In an average day. the Schneider brothers and their salesmen model more than 50 chapeaux apiece. An\ one of them can tuck his cars into a cloche, coax a flower into place or tie a veil under his chin with perfect aplomb. Such an extravagant waste of authentic comedy is routine in places like Schneider Brothers. Along 44 Wholesale Row in millinery centers throughout the country, salesmen try on women’s hats all the time. They model for the buyers of retail stores, who want to see just how the product sits on the head; how far forward it’s worn; how sharply it tilts; even, in some cases, which end faces front. For such demonstrations the salon treatment is superfluous. An) head will do. And since a sales¬ man's head is usually the most readily available, it is pressed into service. The entire afTair is as dead-pan as a stock- exchange transaction. And no one is even mildly amused at finding a bald spot where the hat crown has been cut out to accommodate a pony tail. In its three decades, the Schneider company has never used a female model. Admittedly, the Schneider brothers don’t do a thing for their hats. But the arrangement has at least one advantage: the buyers aren’t misled by a pretty face. When a customer says, “Lovely, Schneider, lovely!”, she can’t possibly mean anything but that the hat stands on its own merit. As one of the brothers recently said: “That’s the test. If a hat looks good on a Schneider, believe me — it will look good on anybody.” m. ^ ^ Collier's for February 14, 1953

Page 481

PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY JACK GOULD

Page 482

II I DROVE THE 1953 BUICK II k by Earl Wilson “TJO'V would you like to be a test-driver ... jTL and try out our new cars?*' the Buick man said over the pi lone. . . . over some of the roughest terrain a test car ever humped a driver’s head on . . . so help me. Hannah. I was a test driver. Why not? It might he fun. It wouldn’t he darcde\ ilisli. for after all, what can you do with a new model? They’re all pretty much alike. A new face-lift job here ... a splash more of chrome there ... a few more horse¬ power under the hood . . . what else? They didn’t give me a helmet . . . nor any padding. They just moved me in behind the wheel and said, “Let ’er roll!” I said . . . enthusiastic for the simple reason that 1 wan ted to see the famous General Motors Proving Ground near Flint, Mich. Maybe Tin a frustrated test driver, as who isn’t? Y’r Uncle Oil (New York pronunciation) wanted to test that newr V8 Fireball Engine . . . and the new Tw in -Turbine Dynaflowr Drive everybody’s so excited about . . . and the celebrated Million Dollar Ride the Buick ads mention so gently. pros”— the professional test drivers — were 1 . 1 torn going past us along the top of the saucer. Ever seen that? Well, I admit it gave me a little tingle, just being there. “Go ahead . . . try it for getaway.” That’s wrhat my guide, Gus Weldy, said to me. I pressed the accelerator . . . and off wre wrent . . . but quick. Up shot the pointer on the speedometer. It reached thirty so smoothly and silently that when I stopped the car I asked Gus, “Is this a souped-up job?” ( How wa< I to know that the Buick folks had put the whip to their 1 953 cars. ) So I zipped out and drove the new Buicks. “You know about the getaway pow er of these new' Buicks?” asked the man who was there to answer all my questions. No— just an engineering test car . . . exactly ) like the production model. HC," I drove them on the endurance track ... on the straightaway ... on those pretzel turns “Meet . ” And lie introduced me to the engineers . . . young men, with ages of learn¬ ing in their faces, who had gone all out. pi ke Yep. they’d pooled their brains, for this was Buick’s Golden Anniversary. They’d brought forth a spanking new Dynaflowr Drive wTith two turbines where one grew before. "/ was impressed— os / guess every visitor must be— by Mi They’d revved up the power and the compres¬ sion ratio in every ’53 Buick. They all had their chests out. justifiably proud, I’d say, of \53. test cars thot have something resembling a bicycle whee feet attached. This 'Fifth wheel ' is o device for measuring speec ond distance with unusual occuracy. On one trip oround /iftot a '53 Roadmaster, we found we'd mode 17.2 miles on om gallon of gas." i " I jatted down a few notes while looking at this exploded view of Buick's new Twin-Turbine Dynoflow Drive. But who needs notes offer driving with this terrific transmission? It gives the new Buick sensational getaway, capital 'S'!" “I’ll try the getaw ay first,” I announced. ]y •avi We poised there in a ground-hugging ’53 Buick on the saucer-like track. The real J ust to show me how they had zipped up tin getaway in these newr ’53 Buicks, Gus Weld; \ set up another test. We went out to th esl

Page 483

raightaway. lie got into a 1932 Roadmaster, ic big-power Buiek. got into a new ’53 Special, the baby of the uiek line. Wc lined up alongside each other. t the drop of a (lag, we tromped down on ur gas pedals. donee . . . and a lot of respect for that V8 Fireball Engine and that amazing Twin- Turbine Dynaflow. 4Tlow about trying a '32 Roadmaster against a ’33 Roadmaster?” ... on a baby hill, a 7.2 percent grade. Fine! shorter turning radiu*. 1 hat make*- it easier to handle on the road and in tight ^ ] j c j t - . On top of that, they made Power steering stand¬ ard equipment on thi- 33 Roadma-ter . . . and that's effortless steering, the way I translate it. ' a five heartbeats I was a full car-length head of that '52 Roadmaster ... in the ’53 pecial. (1 driven a '52 Buiek Roadmaster before, so was skeptical. Let me try that job against this ’53 Special,'’ said to Weldy. We went through the same ist. This time I also-ran. die 1953 Buiek Special “whupped” that igh-powered ’52 Roadmaster on getaway. 'hey said it was because the new Special had lie new Twin-Turbine Dynaflow. It had new orsepower, higher compression. The new S3 Super goes a big step beyond that. And Mie ’53 Roadmaster . . . well, that’s in a class y itself. Ve left those two cars and both of us got into a ew ’53 Roadmaster for the next experiment. Ve also added a couple of passengers. laybe you’ve seen that Proving Ground? teautiful roads . . . some straightaway . . . ome curving ... a little lake . . . and wow! l hill that reminds you of San Francisco. iere's ' Test Driver ' Wilson making the grade— just a bo by ode. But up ahead is the real grade , almost straight up. nd that Buiek I'm driving climbed the 300 feet to the top om a standing start , gaining steadily all the way." hat 27% grade ... it goes up ke a sheer cliff . . . was the one e wanted. I thought we were >ing to turn front-end over ?ar . . . the hill was that eep. ut the Buiek accelerated 1 the way, steadily gaining mil we got to the top — 300 r'^ct from where we started. i he car never groaned, never -otested, never left any doubt in nonefy mind about making it. That Buiek imbed to the summit of the grade without avering . . . even for a split second. The greatest On the way back to Broadway, I had to admit I had enjoyed driving those new* Buieks. The Buiek people call them “the greatest Buieks in fifty great years.” I’ll never argue with that. Earl Wilson Tetev sion free/ — /he BUICK CIRCUS HOUR-every fourth Tuesday P.S. FROM BUICK : Sorry we can't invite all of you to drive the 1953 Buiek at the General Motors Proving Ground. But your Buiek dealer cordially invites you to see and try this Golden Anniversary Buiek locally. See him soon. BUICK Division of GENERAL MOTORS Dynaflow Drive and Power Steering are standard on Roadmaster , optional at extra cost on other Series. Buiek Air Conditioning is offered at addi¬ tional cost on all Roadmaster and Super sedan and Riviera models. BUICK The difference between the ’52 and ’53 Roadmaster is considerable. From a standing start, the ’52 reached the top of the baby grade in 18 seconds. Whereas the '53 made it in 43 Vi seconds. t I "The Buiek engineer is showing me the innards of the new V8 Fireball Engine— but whot impressed me most obout it was the wo y it mokes those new '53 Buiek Supers and Roadmosters perform. It reolly puts the whip to them." As they explained it to me, the horsepower has been stepped up in every Series Buiek this year ... to 130 in the Special, 170 in the Super and 188 in the Roadmaster. Compres¬ sion ratios are way up, too. In fact, that V8 Fireball in the Roadmaster and Super has an 8.5 to 1 compression . . . highest in any Amer¬ ican passenger car today. It’s also a shorter engine than its predecessor ... 13/4 inches shorter, and ... if you care for statistics . . . 180 pounds lighter. That made it possible to produce a shorter car, yet one with a lower, more massive look. At the same time, the car has every inch of interior room it had before— but now with a " Here's the most grueling slnp of rood at the Proving Ground Not just rough cobbles, but o lot of jolting dips o nd hollows, too. And even on this rugged stretch , thot Buiek rides like the proverbial million." Oil, yes ! Those air-eonditioned model- in the Roadmaster and Super Series. Quel luxury! Somebody induced me to get into another ear — not a Buiek — and take a spin over a strip of Belgian paving blocks. They seem to be like cobblestones . . . only rougher. I’d driven the Buiek over them and hadn't found them too bad to ride over. But in this other ear that I’d been hornswoggled into driving over those Belgian blocks . . . I decided that must have been where some fellow invented the expression. "Shiver my timbers!” Because mine did. It was after my jolting in this other car that I realized why the Buiek people call theirs “the Million Dollar Ride.” /hat else can I do?” asked your amateur driver . . . now beginning to gain confi- in 50 great years WHEN BETTER AUTOMOBILES ARE BUILT BUICK WILL BUILD THEM

Page 484

Miss Candy was beautiful and rich, hut somehow she seemed doomed to he unhappy. A lady like that, Lonnie thought, didn't belong to he sad By MARY-CARTEIl ROBERTS THE fire began to show late in the morning. Lonnie Burd, lounging in the door of his li¬ quor store, saw the smoke at eleven thirty. It was in just about the middle of the big field belonging to Kirchner that faced Lonnie’s place from across the county road. The smoke was ris¬ ing in a single column, slow and light, and melting into the general heat haze almost as soon as it was up. The field was a ten-acre rectangle. On its far side it was bounded by the Little ’Gator Cypress Swamp. Its right end was marked by a bare, steep, twenty-foot railroad embankment, its left end by a broad sand track that followed the dividing line between kirchner’s land and Miss Aggie Ta¬ tum’s orange grove. The land was a waste, choked with scrub palmetto, chest-high and interlacing. No fire in any such worthlessness was important, Lonnie knew. A fire there wouldn't do any harm. It wouldn't even rid poor Kirchner of the palmetto; within a month the old scrub would be growing back. More¬ over, at this time of year — mid-spring when the country was dry from the winter and the rains were still six weeks off, scrub fires were common. Just the same. Lonnie watched the smoke. It was there, and it was some¬ thing to watch. He had been running a package business on that little back road for over a year, ever since he got out ot the Army, and he did not find the business lively. He had come to the point where he watched a lot of trifling sights. He stood in his doonvay until noon. Except for the usual buzzards high in the sky, and the smoke, he saw no movement. He did not move much himsell. He had lighted a cigar; it went out, and he dropped the stub into the pocket of his khaki work shirt. From time to time, he slowly slid a hand over his jaw, enjoying the rasp ot his two-day beard. He was a stocky young man of medium height, and his large, square face had a mild and gentle expression. He had been in the fighting in the Philip¬ pines. on New Guinea and Okinawa. He had also served with the occupa¬ tion forces in Japan. At twelve o’clock, as was his habit, he locked up and hung on the Miss Agcie gave a scream. uHere it iM Get your rake and conic on.” She ran toward the lire. Deadly pule. Miss Candy followed her doorknob a card marked with the penciled sentences: This Establish¬ ment Will Reopen Promptly At One. Kindly Wait. Thank You. Then he got into his jeep and drove home to lunch. The fire in the scrub had not spread appreciably. He lived a couple of miles down the road, alone, in a tarpaper shack that he had put up on the site of his boyhood house, which had been de¬ stroyed in a hurricane a year before. The old place had been a painted bungalow' with a screened porch, and sometimes, remembering his dead mother and her lifelong passion to “get everything nice,” Lonnie would have a guilty sensation, because he had not yet built in a comparable style. He meant to. But the shack was comfortable, and he was used to it. He wanned collards, black-eyed peas and ham on his electric hot plate, and ate from the cooking uten¬ sils. For dessert he had a saucerful of broken bread and canned sirup. Then he fed his hound. Daisy, who was nursing a family under the door¬ step, played with the pups a minute, fixed a couple of sandw iches to carry back, and washed up. It was one- twenty-five when he started back. ■ >OUNDING the bend in the road below the store. Lonnie saw that the smoke had changed. It was no longer slow and light; it was black, and it was pouring up fast, forming a long cloud that, because there was no wind, stayed low. The change was normal. He knew the reason tor it. 1 he fire was feeding on dead ground litter; but it was also searing and shriveling the palmetto above it, and the palmetto was sappily green and tough. It always burned that dirty way. l onnie parked, got down, and unlocked the store. The heat that had accumulated in the small, tin-roofed booth while it was shut up hit him as he entered, and he shook his head in his cus¬ tomary disapproval. Sometime, he thought, he might install a lan. As soon as he had opened the windows and switched on his radio, getting a program of recorded gospel singing, he went back to the door, leaned a shoulder on the jamb, chewed a tooth¬ pick, and looked around more care¬ fully. He saw that the fire was burning in a line several hundred yards long. The line was parallel to the road and moving away from it. It was length¬ ening steadily at each end. The flames themselves were not visible above the thick palmetto. Collier’s for February 14, 1953

Page 485

49 DISCRIMINATING PEOPLE PREFER MOT A little after two, a customer stopped at the store, and halt an hour later there was another one. I he first was Johnny Jacohs. a rancher; the sec¬ ond was Charlie Howard. a truck farmer. Both were dri\ me home after a morning in the market town. Each bought a pint of whisky. Johnny said, as he was making payment, counting out the coins from a handful, ‘Tire.” Not to deprive him of the role of in¬ formant, Lonnie cast an inquiring look in the direction of the field. 1 hen he answered warmly, “ ’Deed so.” Charlie tilted his head toward the left end of the smoke line and re¬ marked, “That might could reach Miss Aggie’s grove.” “It might could,” Lonnie agreed. “Come a wind,” Charlie added. “That's right,” said Lonnie, nodding, “come a wind.” ALONE again, staring at the black cloud, he visualized the actual burning, the like of which he had seen scores of times — the low, delicate- looking flames eating at the dead mat on the ground, the still palmetto branches contracting, writhing, and finally dropping down. It would make a big excitement, he supposed, for the bugs, rattlesnakes and birds that were the field’s only inhabitants, but when you saw it with human eyes, you realized that it was purely open- and-shut. That fire wouldn't do any¬ thing unexpected. When it reached the railroad at the right, it would go out there. When it reached the swamp in the center, it would go out there. And up at the left, the sand track would end it. In a few hours, it would all be over. That, Lonnie perceived, perfectly covered the ease as it now was. As for Charlie Howard’s remark about Miss Aggie’s grove and wind, why, that depended on a wind, and there w?as none. Let a wind come — from the proper direction — and the first row of Miss Aggie’s trees could get scorched; for, though the fire itself would never cross the sand track, it might, if fanned, blaze up high enough for its heat to do some dam¬ age. That would he a bad thing to happen to a nice little lady like Miss Aggie, Lonnie thought. But it was not happening now. He stopped considering the fire and began to think about Daisy's pups — which ones he would keep, which ones give away. The gospel singing had ended and been followed by cow¬ boy ballads, which had been followed by hillbilly music, which had been fol¬ lowed by more gospel singing. Then the sequence was broken by a politi¬ cal speech delivered in a tone so sharp as to enforce listening. Lonnie went back into the store and turned the radio oil. He sat down and tilted his chair against the wall, took the stub of his morning cigar out of his shirt pocket, and began to smoke. He would not go home until mid¬ night. His trade became good only at about five, when country people with work in town started driving by on the wav home It got better around seven thirty . when the tiaflic reversed and folks began going to town lor lhe evening, and it reached its peak alter the shows closed and parties set forth to roam the roads. A long day. He would be glad when Daisy weaned her bahies. and he could hi mg her with him once again. F:or the present, it was just hot in the booth. It had been cooler in the doorway ; still, he had only one chair, and that chair was inside. So, in evaluating the two locations, he had to take into consideration the matter of sitting down or standing up. Lon¬ nie liked the idea ol the choice. I here was a completeness, a mutual exclu¬ siveness about the alternatives — keep cool but stand up, sit down hut swelter — that seemed to him pleas¬ antly humorous. He liked the idea so well, indeed, that he had once con¬ fided it to another person, a lady. He remembered the time now. The lady was a very special cus¬ tomer ol his, a Miss Candy. She be¬ longed to the winter colony that had lately settled over on the lake — -a lot of people from away who had bought land, put up houses made mostly of glass, built piers, and posted signs saying Restricted all along the shore where, a few years back 1 onnic and other cracker boys had gone swim¬ ming naked. I ike all the number, she was rich; but that was not what made her special to I onnic. She was very beautiful, very kind and, somehow, without knowing it, doomed to he un¬ happy. Anyone could see that noth¬ ing in this world was ever going to bring happiness to that lady. SHE showed her sorrow in every¬ thing. I he time he told her about his ehair-and-doorway choice, she had not even smiled. She had drawn her fine silken brows down in a grave frown, looked at him queerly. as if she were trying to see through some¬ thing, and finally asked in a voice of faraway despair, “Why don’t you move the chair, then?” He had felt that that was shifting the ground, but he had answered as best he could. “1 might do that some¬ day,” he had said, looking surprised and trying to sound convincing. But Miss Candy (she had been sitting in her big convertible in front of the store at the moment ) had not been put oil* her track. She had shaken her head in obvious grid, shut her mouth very firmly , and driven oil. I onnic thought now simply what he had thought at the time: that a mouth so lovely didn't belong to be treated any such hard way. He thought that he might fill out his order for the week, the blanks for which were lying on the counter. 1 hen he noted that there was no hurry — he had plenty ol time — and went on driftinglv reviewing his acquaint¬ ance with the strange lady. The very first time she had stopped MR. HEl'FRMGl • J ROCKlFHt FR. JR . Mr tv ) ork socialite and muter sports Jan. Discriminating m fits choice of cigarettes, Mr. Rockefeller sa\s: ) on can't heat Herbert hares ton's cork tip and mild tobacco jor real smoking pleasure." modern vv Discriminating people prefer Herbert Tareyfon. They appreciate the kind of smoking that only fine tobacco and a genuine eork tip eat give, lhe eork lip doesn't slick to the lips . . . it's clean and firm. Aik discriminating people' prefer Herbert Tareyton because their modem *i/t not only means a longer, cooler smoke, but that extra measure of line tobacco makes Herbert Tareyton today's most unusual eigarelte value THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THEM YOU'LL LIKE Coi ,i I’ompan ILLUSTRATED BY MARIO COOPER

Page 486

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Y. | at the store, she had reproached him with a despairing intensity because he kept only cheap wines in stock, ‘'it’s just as easy to get the good ones,” she had exclaimed, her great dark-blue eyes Hashing w ith a fascinating fire. “So why do you small dealers insist on selling this dreadful stulT?” He had apologized. She had paid small attention. “You could educate the public taste,” she had continued, still intense. “Teach people to know good things. Places like your store here — they're where it should be done.” “ Deed they are, ma’am,” he had an¬ swered — and had seen that he had failed to please. But ever since. Miss Candy had bought her wine from him and never again had she called it dread¬ ful. Instead she referred to his whole stock simply as “the wine of the coun¬ try” — which of course it wasn't, being ! strictly from California — and would i specify her choices by color only. “Red,” she would say, and he would give her his dollar-and-a-quarter port. Or “white,” and he would fetch his ninety-nine-cent sauterne. He knew the reason for her strange ways. They came from her being a stranger. There were plenty of strangers in the world; he readily admitted it, having seen that it was so. In his travels dur¬ ing the war he had come to realize that the people who are strange far out¬ number those who are not. The thing about Miss Candy was, a lady so pretty didn't belong to be strange. A lady so pretty had a right to be real. 1 But she was strange. She was capable of becoming perfectly desperate over colored people, lor instance — and also over cats, he remembered feelingly. She had been parked in front of the store one day, waiting for her wine, when a jalopy had rolled down the road with about a dozen colored boys pushing it. Lonnie knew them, had known them all his life. The whole winter they had been trying to go places in that chariot of calamity, and always it broke down. That day, when they got right in front of the store, one of them stubbed his toe and fell. The others, clinging to the jalopy, rushed and scullled on, and the fallen one was left behind on all fours in the middle of the blacktop. Amused at the sight, Lonnie had called out, “Put a harness on, boy, and get in front, and you might really help. You ought to be nearly as good as half a mule.” The boy, still down, had grabbed at his cap and burst out laughing, and the rest of them had laughed too and hol¬ lered back, “Yes, sir, Mr. Lonnie,” “That's right, Mr. Lonnie,” “You sure right, sir.” But because all of them reached for their hats at once, the old jalopy was left free and ran down into the ditch. MISS CANDY had turned pale as death. She had said, “It has to be seen to be believed.” What? Lonnie still could not guess, but to one thing he'd take his bounden oath: she had no cause to complain. Those boys, who were all good boys, had behaved. They had not given her a second look. The cats that distressed her were the ones — blind kittens mostly — that peo¬ ple put out on the road. She always picked those little things up. Her car had been crawling with them one day when she stopped at his place, and she had been close to tears. What she talked about, however, was cruelty, not kit¬ tens. She had said, “Every one of these animals represents somebody’s cruel impulse. And cruelty is the worst thing in the world.” He had agreed. “It’s surely not no nice way to act,” he had said. Then he had expressed admiration for her good¬ ness in giving those poor things a home. It surprised him to learn she wfas not going to do that, after all. She wras just going to carry the lot of them to the vet and have them put away.. He had picked one up while they talked; it was nosing his linger, hunting some¬ thing to nurse, and he found that he did not like the idea of handing it over to be purely killed. So he took all she had and, as she put it, “found homes for NOW-MAKE EXTRA INCOME and build a more Secure Future ! Collier’s offers both men and women an opportunity to make extra income for current expenses and to build a more secure, inde¬ pendent future. Use the telephone, mail or per¬ sonal calls to take care of new and renewal subscriptions for COL¬ LIER’S, THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE, WOMAN’S HOME COMPANION and all popular magazines. Make calls on friends, neighbors, relatives, fellow workers. We send everything you need to start mak¬ ing money at once. No experience or capital required. Your Earnings Start on Your First Order! Men and women from teen-agers to folks in their seventies make money in spare time. You can use spare hours, or even minutes, to make extra money for "extras” you especially want. There is an opening in your com¬ munity — right in your own circle of friends. It’s easy to get started because you can use your spare time without interfering with your regular duties. Your earnings start on your first order. Accept this cordial invitation from the publishers of Collier’s to try this attractive money-making plan. For money-making supplies, with¬ out cost or obligation, mail a postal card or send the coupon now! EXTRA INCOME Independent Agency Division. Desk C*65 THE CROW" ELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING CO. 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. W ithouc obligation, send me your subscription- selling EXTRA INCOME PLAN. NAME . . (P/«oie Print) STREET . CITY . Zone No. STATE Collier’s for February 14, 1953

Page 487

51 MATERNITY WAKi colliers “Ifs a father! Im a girl! Fra a girl!” lafe locke them. ” It had not been hard; all he had done was to drop the batch in the col¬ ored quarters in town — colored people, he knew, never let any animal starve. His act had started something, though; Miss Candy, every now and then, would bring him a fresh collec¬ tion. She would offer him money when she did this, not for himself, she would explain, but for the people who were to provide the homes. “If it’s someone poor,” she would say, “I don’t want them to be burdened. I regard the re¬ sponsibility as mine.” “They ain’t poor, ma’am,” he would answer. Nobody was that poor, he thought, but, as Miss Candy plainly did not know it, he never told her. He would not hurt her feelings. Too many things were doing that already. He had kept his eyes on his order blanks while he made these reflections, and now he saw the sheets slide to the edge of the counter and cascade to the floor. A second later, he felt the wind himself. He did not move. He concentrated on trying to decide whether this was just a puff or steady. He knew soon that it was not a puff. It was steady, and it was blowing diagonally across Kireh¬ ner’s field, from the right front to the rear left. That meant it would beat the fire baek from the railroad and push it faster toward the swamp. It also meant that Miss Aggie’s trees might be hurt. Somebody ought to send Miss Aggie word right away. Lonnie sat up and looked consider¬ ingly at the telephone. You tell Miss Aggie Tatum anything about that prop¬ erty of hers, he thought, particularly you tell her it needs looking after, and you take a downright risk. Miss Aggie was a famous saucebox. She was a eute, little, freckle-nosed, red-headed widow lady who, ever since her husband had died a few years baek, had run her groves herself, plainly with a chip on her shoulder to prove that she was as smart a manager as any man. And she was too, Lonnie thought, smil¬ ing. Miss Aggie was smart as a new dime. She wasn’t a lady to be eaught napping. If, now, she had been watch¬ ing the fire herself and was set to take her measures, she would, when he called her, just about bite his head off. Lonnie’s smile broadened, and he got Collier’s for February 14, 1933 up and started toward the telephone. At that moment he heard a ear pass the store and, from habit, looked out the window. He saw Kirehner’s truek going up toward Miss Aggie’s, fast. Well, that must mean Kirehner himself was taking over. Considering that it was, after all, Kirehner’s fire, Lonnie discarded the idea of telephoning and went to the door to get a better view. He was surprised when he saw the change that had taken place in the field. The flames were visible now. They were rearing up higher than the pal¬ metto, making an unbroken line, whip¬ ping and jagged. They looked like palmetto themselves, Lonnie thought, palmetto that was thinly red and meanly limber. Then he reminded him¬ self that, after all, the winter had been exceptionally dry. SQUINTING through the smoke, he took in the situation up Miss Aggie’s way. The fire line had branched out there into several prongs, all moving toward her grove. But they would not be hard to handle. It would just be a matter of Kirehner's waiting with a shovel in the sand track until each prong got close, and then smothering the flames with dirt. Lonnie looked after the disappearing truek. He ex¬ pected it to turn onto the track. It did not. It kept straight on past both track and grove until, a dot in the distance, it turned into the driveway that led to Miss Aggie’s house. There the trees shut it from sight. Lonnie smiled again. So Kirehner was going to fetch Miss Aggie in per¬ son. There’s not the least kind of need of that, he thought. Kirehner could perfectly handle that little old fire alone. Well! Kirehner and Miss Aggie were, of course, great friends. Everybody knew that. Kirehner had had lots of trouble. His wife had gone off with an¬ other man; he had a big family of children, and the poor fellow was run nearly ragged trying to be mother, housekeeper and fruit grower too. Miss Aggie, a right-living Christian lady, often helped her neighbor. She took baked things to him, mended his kids’ clothes, and put an occasional Kirehner washing through her machine. Being kindhearted went with being sassy, Lonnie knew. He did not blame Kirch- JUST ONE BRUSHING WITH Originating in the Mouth. Here is the magic power of chlorophyll to destroy bad breath originating in tiie mouth’ Colgate Chlorophyll Toothpaste in most cases acts quu U\ . acts tnor outfhly, and the purifying action lasts (or hours' Actual clinical tests mow published in a dental journal!) with 589 chil¬ dren show that Chlorophyll Tooth¬ paste can reduce gingivitis twice as fast as a white toothpaste! 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Page 488

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He just kept on smil¬ ing faintly as he stood looking up the road. I he truck reappeared within five minutes. This time it was over in the grove. It bounced out from among the trees into the sand track and stopped. Two figures in dungarees jumped from the cab. Even at that distance, the contrast in sizes was clear. Miss Aggie was a tiny little trick; Kirehner was both tall and stout. They did not do anything — there was nothing they could do yet. They just stood, waiting, of course, for the nearest prong of flame to eome into smothering distance, and Lonnie thought: A shovel wasn’t the only way you could raise a little sand. Then Miss Candy came down the road, driving the convertible, going slowly, staring over her shoulder at the fire. She stopped when she got to the store. Lonnie wiped his faee and neck with his handkerchief and went over to her. Hut before he could say good evening, Miss Candy asked him in a wondering voice, “Where are the crews?” collier’ As often happened in Lonnie’s conversation with Miss Candy, he saw that he would have to temporize until he found out what she was talking about. Crews? He cupped a hand to his ear, to imply that it was a fault of his hearing, not a laek of clarity in her question, that kept him from understanding, and said, “Now, I do beg your pardon, ma’am. You were saying — ?” He was, as always, bemused bv her elegance and beauty. She was a silvery blonde; she wore her hair in great, soft, perfect braids around her head, and ever\ thing about her looked frail and precious. She had on a fragile dress made of thin blue stufF. And, of course, she did not care a bit about that. Lon¬ nie had sometimes wondered if she even knew that she was pretty. POOR Miss Candy was devoured with ideas in her mind. “The crews!” she repeated urgently. “The fire fighters! Where are they? I haven’t seen a soul.’’ He felt he could not answer fast enough, so great was her anxiety. He pointed. “Right up there,” he said, “at the edge of that orange grove.” Miss Candy sat bolt upright and stared hard. “Oh, where?” she cried, in her familiar desperation. ‘7 don’t see them. I only see two people. A,nd they aren’t doing anything.” “1 hey might could be taking a short rest,” l onnie said. “Where are the others?” Miss Candy demanded. Shading his eyes, he peered out across the field. “Well, now,” he told Miss Candy, “I don’t just see them, this minute.” She leaped into the breach. “There aren’t any others!” she eried. “I knew it! The whole countryside is in flame, and nobody does a thing! Oh, can’t >ou sec” — as if forcing control on her¬ self, she took a lower tone — “ean’t you see the wind is blowing it toward the woods?” She gestured at Little ’Gator. “That whole forest may be destroyed, “They try to trick you into leaving your money in there by paying you interest1 all those great old trees. They're valua¬ ble," — her voice conveyed a startling scorn as she said the word — “even if no one cares about their beauty. And if the wind should shift, why, there are all those eolored people on the other side of the railroad. They’ll lose their poor, pitiful homes, their lives, if it sweeps through fast. Anyway, it’s a fire!" “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It surely is.” “Everyone — everyone — should be out!” Miss Candy insisted. She took her gaze from the flames and turned it on him with a directness that made him briefly dizzy. “They auto¬ matically deputize where I live,” she said. “Every man that’s able has to go out at the very first word of a fire. The women fix food. It’s all organized. They want to save their natural resources. And all those young trees — ” She shook her head bitterly at the palmetto field. “Don’t these people realize what is being destroyed?” REFLECTING that if Kirehner should ever put the field into cultiva¬ tion, he would have to root the “young trees” out with a bulldozer, Lonnie an¬ swered, “You’re surely right, ma’am. A fire don’t help nobody.” Then he felt ashamed of using sueh sly¬ ness to anyone as pretty as Miss Candy, and he tried earnestly to comfort her. “Don’t you worry none, ma’am,” he said. “Mr. Kirehner and Mrs. Tatum — they’re there. They’re hon day doing all anyone eould.” “Only two people,” she said/ “The listlessness and cruelty of this land will kill me.” At that second, the fire got to the edge of the swamp. That was not the timbered part. In front of the woods was a broad expanse of water ehoked with weed and grass. The water was low\ and the vegetation was a thiek, dead mat above it, powder dry. Strik¬ ing that virtual tinder, the fire behaved as anyone w ould expeet. “Sometimes I think you don’t care whether I nag vou or not’’ A. F. WILES Collier’s for February 14, 1953

Page 489

53 /144CLJr ‘Tin glad yu' like it. Ya' know how to open it. don't va'? Can I help ya' gel collier s it Open? W ant me to show ya’ how?” harry mace It spread with a roar, and it sent a 1 heet of red flame flying up as high as the tallest trees. That went out almost immediately. Then it came again and again, repeating itself as the fire rolled forward, snapping back and forth in front of the cypress like a banner of transparent silk. It would all be out in a few minutes, of course, but for the time being, it looked awful. Lonnie could see that it looked like the very end of the world. “Watch her go!” he* cried enthusiastically, before he thought. Then he looked guiltily at Miss Candy. To his astonishment, all the distress was gone from her face. She was purely calm. She was, somehow, lighted with a flame herself, a quiet, white one. Smil¬ ing almost dreamily, she said, “1 am going over there. 1 will help the two people/’ IONNIE saw she meant it. He also jsaw what it meant for him: he would have to go with her. She could not get the convertible into the sand track; the big car would be up to the hubs inside of twenty feet — if there were no other reason against her going alone. He said, “Well, now, I was just thinking of doing that myself, Miss Candy. Would you be willing to ride in this old thing of mine, ma’am? It’s not got no paint to speak of, and your car’ll sure get dirty over in that road.” “My car/’ Miss Candy said bitterly, but she sprang out and hurried over to the jeep. “Have you any fire-fighting tools?’’ she said. He picked up the rake that he sometimes used to tidy his park¬ ing space and put it behind the seat. It made him sick to see Miss Candy’s pretty dress on his messy cushions, but he did not say so. He said nothing about her shoes either. They w>ere lit¬ tle gold sandals with high spike heels. Giving her a smile, he climbed in be¬ side her. What was Miss Aggie Tatum going to think, when he arrived with this rich lady and announced that he had come to help her and Kirchner save the coun¬ try’s natural resources? Lonnie could not face her question. By the time he parked in the sand track behind Kirch- ner’s truck, he was feeling that question Collier’s for February 14, 1953 inside his throat, as if it were his Adam’s apple, swelling. But he need not have worried, for Miss Aggie, like the col¬ ored boys with the jalopy, behaved. To Miss Candy’s rapid statement. Miss Aggie answered, sounding terribly grateful and surprised, “You, came up here to help me save my trees? Why, bless your dear heart, hon. That’s wonderful of you! Kirchner, you hear? This lady came to help.” And Kirchner, taking off his hat and making a kind of bow, said instantly, “Help iss always welcome and good.” He had lived in that country twenty- five years, but he still kept his Pennsyl¬ vania Dutch accent. Then there was an end of all conver¬ sation, for the most advanced prong of the fire was by that time close. As if she had not seen it before, Miss Aggie gave a scream. “Quick!” she cried. She snatched the shovel out of Kirchner's hands and ran excitedly toward the fire. Deadly pale, Miss Candy followed. Lonnie and Kirchner stood, not looking at each other, while the two women put out the flames. There were four prongs, and they put three of them out. Then, as if some¬ thing, somewhere, could not bear the spectacle any longer, it simply rained. There was a light, brief shower. In two or three minutes the fire was a thing of the past. When that happened, Kirchner flung up his hat and followed that by Hinging up his arms. He had a hig, bald head, a long, big face, big teeth, and a big stomach. He seemed to become a giant in an instant — he seemed to fill the grove. “S-h-o-w-e-r-s of blessings!” he shouted. “Miss Aggie, you are saved!” Miss Aggie instantly sprang in be¬ tween him and Miss Candy. “Saved! Saved!” she cried. She too flung up her arms. She was glittering with raindrops. They were spangled on her tightly kinked-up red curls, on her freckled face, on her overalls. Lonnie was espe¬ cially conscious of them on the gold hairs of her forearms and on her grubby little fingers, which she held stretched wide apart. Facing each other so, she and Kirchner looked for a few seconds as if they were going to dance, to em¬ brace each other. •\nd to l onme. in those seconds it was e leal th.it at last. the\ vw uld m.tkc a go of it I he\ would stop pretending that all thes wanted was lu be friendly neighbors Kirchner would get a di¬ vorce, and Miss Aggie would marrv him. It had happened righi then, and M iss Lands *s presence had brought it about. Where was she > She was standing no more than five leet trom him and he did not dare to look at her. He knew that she would have beeome so faraway that, m eserv thine hut fact, she would be invisible M iss Candv’s fire, like that of the field had been put out. Miss Aggie, radiant, said that thev must all come to her house and have coffee. In a gentle, friendly tone, Miss Candy refused. She said she must not keep Mr. Burd any longer from his store. Then, in an even gentler tone, she added, “I'm afraid I’ve been very stupid. You see, where I come from, everybody fights a fire.” Miss Aggie opened her mouth, but Kirchner somehow prevented her speech. He said, “Ah, yes? A differ¬ ent country.” MISS CANDY and Lonnie climbed into the jeep and drove away. He still could not bear to look at her. When they were about halfway down the sand track, she said with heart¬ breaking simplicity, “I suppose by to¬ morrow the whole county will know I went over there.” “Then they'll know you done a kindly deed,” he said. “I understand,” she said. “You mean well. You're a nice goodhearted boy.” When that insult reached Lonnie's brain, it changed his feelings terrify¬ ingly. He had been wanting to cry, for her sake, until then. Afterward, with his blood running up in his neck, he thought he would just like to take hold of her and teach her something. He not only thought he’d like to, he felt as if he had. He drove on another hundred yards before he got the impossible idea transferred into a possibility. He knew by then what he was going to do. A nice, goodhearted boy. He was crowding thirty. He had been around the world, had jumped into an unseen ocean from an airplane two miles up, had saved some men from death, had killed some others. He had four thou¬ sand dollars in the bank. When he got back to his store, now, he would just in¬ vite Miss Candy to have a drink. Not with himself, of course. He knew his place. He would simply say, “Miss Candy, ma’am, would you pleasure me by taking a small refreshment? A glass of the wine of this here country?” In that way, maybe, he could tell her. He got down from the jeep in his parking space and started around to Miss Candy’s side, to oiler her a hand. She jumped out before he was halfway there. She took a step toward the con¬ vertible and then stopped. “That man that was up there.” She pointed to the grove. “Mr. Kirchner. Isn't he a Euro¬ pean? A displaced person, perhaps?” Lonnie heard himself say, “Yes. ma’am.” and passed the question through his mind: Did it make a bit of difference? She nodded. “Two people,” she said, as if to herself alone. “And one of them a foreigner. This country. Well” — she returned her attention to him — “good-by, Mr. Burd. Thank you for everything.” She gave him a lovely smile and drove away. He watched until her car disap¬ peared. Then, putting his hand to his mouth, he yawned. Relieve the PRESSURE oi Neuralgic Fain! • When the tense, pressing agony of neuralgic pain strikes, you want relief in a hurry. And here’s a way for you to get it — quickly , easily , effectively. Doetors generally wifi telf vou that neuralgic pain may be largely eaused by pressure. Sensitive nerves are irritated. Local areas beeome tender and swollen. That torture you feel is simply Nature's call for help. You ean get blessed relief — fast — by rubbing Absorbine Jr. on the sore, swollen areas. Absorbine Jr. actually helps to counteract the pressure whieh may be causing your misery. At the same time, it warms and soothes those throbbing pain spots. The speed with which it works will amaze you. 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54 I hr uar mis at its /waL\ mu! the Pvcsiih'til mis a busy iiiau irith only n monirnt to spnrr — n ma^ni/iirnt uminrnt (lint mis to ih'trriiiiur the cojirsr of Mnttluoc Hazard s ivholr life B\ PAL L MORGAN M AJOR PRESCOTT, holding his guitar, sat on the floor with his back to the wall. With his head bent he made music on the strings, waiting tor a song to come to him that he would like to sing tor them all. I he others liked to hear him sing When he sang, another sell was freed. It was the vulnerable sell that ordinarily he concealed under his hard, scofling manner — a manner that de¬ ceived none who knew him well, but only himself. His wile Jessica leaned a little toward him and said, ' Hiram, sing Johnnv, Did You Say Good-b>? I haven't heard that lor ages, and I love it.” He smiled, glad ol the suggestion, and began to pick out the melody to recall it, saying, “It’s the fir^t song 1 ever learned when 1 got m the Army in sixty -one. It was a new song, then. An old sergeant taught it to me. I was a private. It goes like this: ‘Johnny, did you say good-by '} Oh \es. I at her. } kissed them one and all good-by, I said now don't you go and cry, for I'll he homing by -and-by, Oh, yes, lather.” His voice was deep and gentle, and the guitar throbbed and hummed in the one-room adobe house where he sang lor his wife and his friends. It was a hot, still, July night in the year 1887. I he stars trembled like shining drops of water above the desert and above the little post of United States Cavalry that showed the only lighted windows lor a hundred miles. 1 his was K>rt Delivery, in the 1 erritory ot Arizona, where 1 loop I ol the Sixth Cavalry kept vigil against Apache outbreaks. “ Johnny , did you march away? Oh, W's, hut her. 7 he drum and bugle they did play, I marched through all the summer's day, I slept In night m new -mow n hay, Oh, \ c / iithc r.' 1 leutenant Matthew Carlton Hazard and his w ife I aura listened to the song with Mrs. Prescott. 1 he room was their home— quarters near the end of Ofliecrs Row. One dav, through promotion in rank, thev would have better quarters. Hut here they had come as bride and groom, and here their son had been horn, and here they had tilled every corner .*nd shadow with living memories. I hev glanced at eaeh other as they listened, and Jessica Pieseott saw that lor a bnel instant they were each conscious only ol the other. I heir eyes shone 1 he mvstery ol then meeting and marriage — out ot all possible combinations ot people in the world amazed them as always. I heir leehngs were as apparent as the comeliness and well-being ot their flesh. 1 hev were blessed in their desire. I he Pi e scot is observed and understood the ex¬ change and smiled an old married couple's smile over it. Hiram Hyde Prescott gave an extra strum to the guitar strings, and his voice increased: “ Johnny , did \ou fight the war? Oh, yes. Father. That is what a soldiers for. lo listen to the cannon's roar And fight till he can fight no more. Oh, yes, l ather .” Jessica put her linger on her lips and said softly, “Hush, my dear, don't wake the baby.” The major ducked his head guiltily and made the music solt again and glanced at the large basket that stood on a table under the open window where it might catch any breeze that came up later in the night, as the desert cooled. In the basket, Prescott Hazard lay asleep. He was four months old. Without disturbing the song, Laura went to lean over him in the loveliest of gestures. His fists were crowded against his face. She gently moved them. He let them fall to the little mattress where they lay framing his damp and delicate head, and he worked his mouth and cheeks in a slumber¬ ing memory and was quiet again. “Johnny, did you come on home? Oh, yes. Father. The government, they brought me home , And laid me underneath the foam, A nd here 1 lie, no more to roam, Oh, yes, Father Softly and slowly the song ended. The listeners were silent. Half conscious of the vast wilderness all about them, in which Fort De¬ livery alone represented a life that was familiar, they clung to the last notes hungrily. Whatever they had of interest and entertainment, they had to provide lor themselves. I he major broke the spell. “When I fit the Civil War as a youngster,” he said in his ironic manner, “I thought that song was about me.” “And so it was,” said Jessica briskly. “And I've heard you sing it for years, and only just now it occurs to me who ‘father' was in the song.” “Oh, it does,” he said. “Now who could that be?” “Father Abraham.” Laura looked at her with astonished delight. “Why, of course." she said, “Abraham Lincoln — not really, ot course, but the feeling ot it.” “His feeling for everyone whom he had to call to war," sjid Jessica. “1 hat's in it.” Matthew rose and went to the supper table where the lamp was beginning to smoke. He turned the wick. “Did you ever see him. Major?” he asked. “No. But he was the best general in the whole ruckus.” “1 did,” said Matthew. “1 saw him." The Prescotts stared at him, and Hiram Hyde said, “thunder, you're too young.” “No. I was seven years old. He put me — he himself put me where I am today.” “Put you where? In Arizona? What thundering rubbish is this?” asked the major, who disliked any figure of speech. Jessica had to remind him of the sleeping child again, and he nodded, frowning, and more quietly said, “What?” to Matt. “President I incoln. personally, himself, put me in the Army ,” Matt said. “Oh, please, fell us,“ Jessica said. A story was another way to endure the wilderness. “Well,” said Matt — and told his story. . . . * * M In the late summer of sixty-four, when school was barely begun, and bees were still above the clover in the meadows, and boys ran barefoot and women went every day to read the Army lists on the post-office door, the town of Fox Creek, Indi¬ ana, heard some rousing news. Though he was not campaigning lor re-election, it appeared that Presi¬ dent Lincoln was obliged to make a trip by the steam cars in the second week of that September and that on a certain morning he would pass through Fox Creek, westbound. Mr. Clarny, the station agent, had the news and for the next few days was the most important man in town. A committee called on him to telegraph asking the President to stop in Fox Creek and say a few words from the rear car of his train. There was anxiety until a message came back over the telegraph that said, i will. a. Lincoln, and then there was great pride and delight. About a thousand people lived in Fox Creek. The town had dusty, shady streets, many of them crossed by the creek that wandered from north to south through sloping meadows and rail-fenced orchards. The tracks of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago line came from the cast between deep- grassed fields, went by the gray wooden station w ith its narrow gables edged with wooden cutouts, and then continued on across the creek and out of sight. The highest point in town was called School Knob. It stood on the outskirts and commanded a view in all directions. On its gentle summit sat what was called Old School. The children in ele¬ mentary grades went there. ON THAT September morning everything in town shone in the golden sunlight. From the school window the extra flags in town looked brand-new. Now and then a newly polished horn in the firehouse band reflected a ray of sunlight, blindingly. Nobody worked; nobody studied or did lessons. Everyone, since early morning, had been holding his breath. The school children knew who was coming — it was Father Abraham. “Voom!” they said, imitat¬ ing the cannons of the war in which their fathers and older brothers and y oung uncles were fighting. Ot all those who had never seen the w'ar, the chil¬ dren were nearer to knowing what it w-as like than their elders. But for all, the war was personified in the President. To the children he was like a grand figure in a storybook. Seven-year-old Matthew' Hazard thought of him often — the commander in chief. He thought of him in a great blue uniform with golden shoulder fringes and buttons, and with a long cavalry saber with a gold knot, and a white horse. He saw whole meadows full of men, all exactly alike, following him with bayonets at the port, knees bent in arrested running, dots of light along the ranks of their black, patent-leather visors. He saw the shining army right there, crossing Fox Creek after their commander in chief, who held out his saber to order “Forward!” It was a heroic creek for Matthew even before he entered the first grade, for one frosty afternoon in early winter he saw a “This officer's cap docs not fit you now/' said the President, “hut it will fit you someday, Matthew. And when it does, inuyhc you will remember kindly who put it there'’ ILLUSTRATED BY EDWIN DAWES

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56 red >\ among rusty weeds at the edge of the water, and tor \ears he behe\ed that the name of the creek, and of his home town came from the vers tox, the individual animat, that he had seen Mi Fox ot 1 ox C reek. Indiana, himself. And now that the commander in chief President Abraham l tneoln him¬ self was coming there, the little creek became one of the great rivers ot the world Matthew Hazard was so excited that what meager breakfast he ate would not stuv down. His mother said she woined until she saw him run up School knob, right afterward, as mus- c • 1 1 . 1 1 1 v wild and inventive as a large kitten He considered his whole life blessed hv foitune. but on that morning he real¬ ized it for the first time. His seat in the schoolroom was bv a window that overlooked the town the tunnels of trees on the stieets that led down to the tracks and the station, and the tracks coming to town and going Before any¬ body else, he saw smoke at the horizon where lhe eastbound tracks were. With¬ out thinking to get permission, he ran out in the hall. 1^ ROM the cupola of Old School a good, stout rope hung down inside me building. He seized it and swung. High above him the school bell went blang and mrong. He danced, and the rope look him up, and he came down with it He would have cracked the bell if he could. He told the town with the bell that the President's train was almost there, t hiklren streamed out of their elass- ooms and out the main door. He left his hell and ran with them; he led them. Thev tumbled and spilled all the way down the hill. Part of the way lay over a boardwalk. The weeds in the cracks blurred green to Matthew with the speed ot his running, and he be¬ lieved that he flew. He was the first boy to reach the station platform. There he saw Mr. C larnv inspecting the last loops ot red, white and hluc bunting that were heing tacked up hv a firemen’s committee. F or the past several days Matthew had seen himself as Mr. C larny and had wanted to be like him. Who hut Mr. CTarnv was in charge of the President's visit ' Mr C larnv was short, pear- shaped and deliberate. He wore an eye- shade and spectacles, and never lifted his evehds all the wav up. He held a moist, de id cigar butt cuddled against his sloping stomach. When he put it be¬ tween his teeth, the elTect was impres¬ sive Matthew could imitate him and often showed other hoys how Mr. CTarnv was. Fie rushed up to him now and asked, "Right on time, isn’t she?” Mr. C larnv did not even glance at him. but he replied with grave civility , I his will he a special train. It'll onlv stay a minute.” I he midmorning breeze lifted the bunting. People hurried down the road to the station. They could all see the smoke in the eastern sky; it seemed to come and go. Now it was dense and again pale and silvery like a wave of heat. W hen no steam engine took form in the distance, someone said that the smoke must be a hay fire about at the old Carruthers place. Murmurs of agreement went around. Someone else asked when was the train due in, then? And Matthew answered, exactly like Mr. Clarny . " Phis w PI be a special train. It’ll only stay a minute.” And then someone asked why every¬ one had broken their necks to get dow n here if the train wasn't even due in and if it could only stay a minute, and Mr. C larny scratched his hrow under his green eyeshade with the thumb of his cigar hand and said, “Somebody rang the bell at Old School,” and with that all the children, the teachers, and finally everyone, turned on Matthew, and all their voices said: "He did it!” It was a hard moment, full of re¬ sponsibility. There was the band from the firehouse to be considered, and the mayor’s committee. There was Mr. CTarnv and his gtave preparations, 1 here was every man, woman and child. Matthew saw his mother in the crowd on the platform. She lifted her head and smiled at him as if to tell him she was proud of what he’d done, regard¬ less. It was enough. He too felt proud, then, and cried out, "He’s coming, all right,” and then threw' himself down on the tracks to put his ear on a rail and listen for the faraway train. He shut his eyes and listened hard. H is heart banged away and slowly some¬ thing cleared in his hearing. It was a thin, faint humming, and it grew stronger. He opened his eyes to look and be sure, and then he shut them again, and he heard. There was a clear, jarring ring of the track now. He jumped up, waving his arms, vindi¬ cated. "It’s coming!” he called out. "F heard it!” On top of his words there came on the wind, like a long cry, the oncoming engine’s whistle out of the cast. The crowd quickened, leaning out over the track to see. Other small hoys fell to the tracks, like Matthew, to listen to the rails, and were hastily pulled hack. Then they saw it. It let out smoke, and it stood far away there on the track. They could tell by the smoke that it was moving, hut it seemed to be both furi¬ ous and slow. Those waiting in the little town in the summer fields felt some¬ thing must crack if they had to wait much longer for the world to come down the tracks to Fox Creek, But of course the engine grew and grew, and soon the wheels with their shining driv¬ ers clanked by, and with a blast of sunny steam and a ringing scream of her iron brakes, the engine ground to a halt, lhe name of the locomotive was Flying Dutchman, for it said so in a yellow-and-grccn sign under the engi¬ neer’s window. The rear car was four cars back, quite a way beyond the end of the sta¬ tion shed. The crowd broke and flowed to the rear, followed by the band. The train conductor, with telegrams in his hand, hurried to the office of Mr. Clarny. Matthew' ran down the gravelly path beside the cars. Up ahead the en¬ gine grunted and sweated and leaked. Back to the rear the crowd fanned out facing the rear platform. Running low, Matthew managed to come in around the crowd, at knee level, and at once began to climb up on the last car. Someone plucked him off and made him stand down properly. He had barely been put down where he should have been — staring upward at the overhang of the car and the long wood-ribbed door and the festoons of guard chains on the rear platform — when the door opened slowly, and, stooping to get out the doorway, came a very tall man in a stovepipe hat and a long, black, rumpled coat. The crowd let go, and the hand blared and drummed in general tumult. There were cries of "Old Abe!” Matthew’s mouth dropped open. There was some mistake. He had not come to see an old brown man w'ith a scarecrow frame. He was looking for the commander in chief. He wanted President Lincoln. He stared about. The grown-up faces were raised and lighted. He looked up again to the rear car. Gazing down at him with a fierce frown that was at the same time a smile, the man took ofl his rubbed, tall hat, pulling it from the back front¬ wards across his face, and then he broke at the knees like a grasshopper and gravely set the hat down on the floor and then came up again. The crowd laughed and clapped, and Matthew did not know why. The man held up one hand for si¬ lence. Fox Creek, the fields, the United States held their breath and waited. 1 here was going to be a speech. In the hated quiet Matthew tugged at the citi¬ zen nearest to him and asked out loud, "Where is President Lincoln?” “Right up there, that’s him; now you hush!” was the answer, which was ac¬ companied by a hard clout. "Is that him?” asked Matthew, and stared up at the platform, w'hile his cherished images fell shattered. THE tall, brown man heard him and looked down and nodded solemnly at Matthew, as if to say that, yes, this was him, such as it was, and nothing could be done about it. Then the Presi¬ dent squared his shoulders and slowly raised his right hand over the crowd and scratched his neck and opened his mouth to speak. And just exactly then the engine up front let go a leak of steam with a screech, and the President closed his lips and clasped his hands over his mid¬ dle and waited. The band blared and pounded. Suddenly the engine quit screeching, and the President made sev¬ eral little nods and then began again, saying, "My — ” Blast went the engine again and cut him off, deafening him and everybody else. He looked down at Matthew and frowned, sharing with him, now that Matthew knew who he was, an opinion about that pesky engine. He looked like a farmer making a joke, trying to he serious and scary, when all the time he felt right peart. Somebody poked Matthew and gestured, to say that the President was making up to him. Matthew put his head down and turned hot in shame that he had not known who Mr. Lincoln was at first. He had to act more indifferent than ever. He scraped his foot and knew that everybody was trying to see the boy whom the President of the United States was making up to in the midst of all the racket. The President pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the en¬ gine that was making the noise that shut him up, and he raised his eye¬ brows and waggled his jaw and put apart his hands to ask what could be done about the whole scrape. He smiled. His face was so tired and so lined that when he smiled it was enough to turn your heart right over. And the next thing anybody knew, the conductor was swinging up on the side of one of the cars up ahead, and the steam cut off, and the engine be¬ gan to hoot out smoke, and the wheels started to turn. They took hold on the rails, and the President’s train was mov¬ ing out. Heavy soot came down over the crowd, and they yelled and waved. The President bent down and took up his hat and w'aved it back. As the train pulled out it gave several blasts with its saluting whistle. The whistle seemed to w'ake Mat¬ thew up. He looked after the last car, where the President still stood looking at everyone, and Matthew thought he looked sadly at him because — Matthew suddenly jumped with a fearful thought — the President was almost gone away, believing that Matthew did not know who he was and didn’t care. “No, there!” cried Matthew, but there was too much noise, and nobody heard him. He gave a leap and began to run up the tracks after the special train under the smoky, jubilee sun. He was determined to catch the train and make things all right wTth the President. He knew he must win a race to do so, for not far to the west of the station the tracks crossed Fox Creek on a wooden Collier’s for February 14, 1953

Page 493

57 trestle with open air between the ties. If he tried to run across them, he would surely put his leg through and break it. He had to catch the train this side of the bridge. He put up his head and tried harder. He thought he was gaining, but the clackety-clack of the wheels ahead of him went faster. Then he saw Mr. Lincoln lean out from under his rear-platform overhang into the sunlight to catch him. The President clapped his hands, and Mat¬ thew flew. The President stomped his big right foot in time with the running, and Matthew puffed and romped. The engine blew, and Matthew was ready to burst. The space widened between him and the last car. He was going to lose. He faltered. “No, no” — the President shook his head and waved — “come on, come onl” THE bridge was just ahead. Mr. Lin¬ coln could hardly have known it was there, as a trap to Matthew, but just as if he did know, he suddenly put up his long arm and took the signal cord un¬ der the roof and yanked it hard many times. The train at once began to slow down; it rolled onto the bridge and stopped with only the rear car on solid ground this side of Fox Creek. When Matthew saw that, he knew it had stopped for him. He came up to $ the rear car. The door opened, and e some men came out to see what was go¬ ing on. One of them was a young offi- t cer in blue uniform. The President turned to them and nodded that things ip were all right, he had taken charge, in They just stood there then. The President gazed down at Mat¬ thew, saying, “Well, now.’’ it- i Matthew went hollow, now that he if. was where he meant to be, and said 12 nothing. The President leaned down, he took Matthew by his hand, then took jw his other hand and hauled him up over iht I the guard chains and set him on the iy. ' platform. jw I “You came to see me?” he asked seriously. jut Matthew nodded, idy Mr. Lincoln scraped up behind him- ;an j self an unfolded chair made of fancy ;ial , green-and-brown carpeting and sat He down. On his knees he placed Matthew. d “What about?” he asked. Matthew knew perfectly well what o, about, but he couldn’t speak. He hung the i his head. Collier’s for February 14, 1953 The President said, “Just had to see the old hound-dog, anyhow, is that it?” One of the men produced a watch and with barely respectful impatience said, “After all, Mr. President, we haven’t got all day.” “Maybe you haven’t, but I have, if somebody is about to break wide open unless somebody else will sit down and pay him a little mind.” “Yes, sir,” said the man furiously. The President winked at Matthew, poking fun at what grown men get all het up over, and asked, “You live back there in Fox Creek?” Matthew nodded. “Say yes, my boy.” “Yes,” said Matthew. “That’s done her. Now we can talk. What’s your name?” Matthew told him. “All right, Matthew Carlton Hazard. What does your pappy do?” “He was a soldier.” “He was, was he?” A long, sweet smile went over the tired old man’s face. “In this war?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “Did you lose him?” “Yes.” “When? Where?” “At Chicka — ” “ — mauga?” the President said, fin¬ ishing the difficult name. “Chicka- niauga. Last year.” He put his hands on Matthew’s shoulders and gripped him hard. “God bless him,” he said. “Is your mother all right?” “Yes, sir.” “And are you?” “Yes, sir.” “And so are we all, my boy, for we are trying to do what is right.” He drew a deep, uneven breath. “Now let me tell you something, Matthew. What¬ ever you want to be and do, if it is a good thing to be and do, you can be it and do it in this land. Do you know that?” “Yes, sir.” “If my father’s child can get to be the President, your father’s child can make his heart’s desire. Do you hear?” “Yes, sir.” Mr. Lincoln put his long finger like a bayonet on Matthew’s breast. “Who is your father’s child, then?” Matthew thought for a moment, and then he knew. “Me.” “That’s who he is all right! Now then. What do you want to be?” “I ike my father ” “You mean, a soldier?” the President asked. “Yes.” The President turned to the young officer beside him and said, “Captain, if you please.” THE captain leaned down to in¬ quire what his commander in chief wanted, and Mr. Lincoln reached up and took of! of his head a little blue cap with the squashed-in front and the brass bugle on top. “I’ll make it up to you. Captain,” he said, and put the cap on Matthew’s head. It was somewhat too large, but it was real, and it was put there without any idea that it was funny or make- believe. “It does not fit you now,” said the President, “but it will fit you some¬ day, Matthew. And when it does, maybe you will remember kindly who put it there. Will you?” “Yes, sir.” “When the time comes, you find your congressman and tell him you have to go to West Point. You tell him we want to get to where we won’t need wars and killing, hut you tell him if the Republic needs soldiers, you're aiming to be one. He’ll pay attention to you, if you stick out your wishbone and dog him enough. “One thing though” — the President put on a joking look — “one thing, don’t tell anybody 1 sent you. It might do you no good ten years from now. Who knows? Who knows?” he added with a sort of sad politeness. “Anyhow,” he said, brightening, “far’s I’m con¬ cerned, you’re a soldier right now! It’s just a case of the Army waiting a while for you!” And with that he lifted Matthew off his knees and got up and lifted him over the chains down to the ground. He turned and nodded to someone, the signal was sent to the engineer and the train began to pull away. President Lincoln looked once more at Matthew, waved good-by to him with an air of having finished up a good piece of business and, stooping, went inside. ♦ * * “That was the last I saw of him,” said Matthew. The others looked at him long. Just then the young trumpeter across the parade ground of Fort Delivery began to sound taps. It was the trumpeter’s great moment of the day, and he met it fully. No matter how long they were with the Army, the purity of the call that closed the day and, finally, the life of a soldier, had the power to move those to whom it was directed. They listened and heard sung for them every¬ thing that they could not say for them¬ selves. After the last note, Jessica looked at Laura and said to her, but for the gentlemen to hear as well, “Love. Trou¬ ble. Duty. These are never worn-out words, are they?” She turned to Mat¬ thew. In the lamplight that made heavy shadows in the room, she looked younger and prettier than he’d have thought. “Your Mr. Lincoln was not ashamed of them, either, was he, Mat¬ thew?” “All I know,” said Matthew, “is that he took a lot of trouble that day with a fatherless child.” “I know,” said Hiram Hyde, finding a way to hide his feelings, “I know. There aren’t any great men any more. We don't breed ’em.” Laura smiled. She knew better. She let her gaze rest on the basket where Prescott Hazard lay sleeping. AAA all use Tampax oj* course “Such a big diffaranca !” What a contrast between Ttimpjx and the outside k nd of sanitary protection you are accustomed to’ Tampax is many times smaller and is worn internally and therefore needs no belts, pins or other supports to keep it in place. It’s perfect! V; 1L “So ingenious" The doctor who inventeJ Tampax cer¬ tainly gave us an ingenious product. Pure surgical cot¬ ton gives reliable absorption and the Tampax comes in V vJW^ slender applicators for con¬ venient insertion. You can t even feel the Tampax when in place. (And disposal is w easy.) "Daintiness plus” There’s no odor with Tampax be¬ cause it's worn internally. And if you're a girl who is careful about her silhouette (about bulges and edge-lines ’’showing through” a close- fitting skirt or dress) you'd better investi¬ gate Tampax right away. "Gives me confidence" Wearing Tampax gives me greater confidence than I’ve ever had, socially and at my job. 1 don’t feel conspicuous on "those days.” I know that "nobodv knows * . . Sold at drug and notion counters in 3 absorben¬ cies— Regular, Super, Junior. Month's supply goes into purse. Look for Tampax Vendor in restrooms throughout the United States. Tampax Incorporated, Palmer, Mass. Accepted for Adrcrf:sing by the Journal of the American Medical Association TAMPAX INCORPORATED Palmer. Mass C-14-2^-A Please send me in plain wrapper a trial package of Tampax. I enclose 10* (stamps or silver) to cover cost of mailing. Size is checked below. ( ) REGULAR ( ) SUPER ( ) JUNIOR Name _ Address _ City _ State _

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Speaking of HOT COFFEE . I)i>g^ are trained to track smugglers by scent. Customs cop leading parade (above) impersonates smuggler vs i 1 1 1 coffee sack, wears padded slee\ e for protection. Graduate canines are called Knffvv&chniiQelhutide. Below* a member of notorious Miitzenieb gang, caught with the goods Aachen, Germany COFFEE is traveling in fast company nowa¬ days. The beverage that most Americans consider a necessity of life has taken on, in one part of the world at least, the glamor of such costly or forbidden items as gold, diamonds and narcotics. And it is responsible for one of the most colorful eops-and-smugglers sagas of the day. In West Germany, coffee is selling legally at the equivalent of three to four dollars per pound, chiefly because of a 265 per cent tax set upon its wholesale value by occupation law. But German coffee lovers, determined to have their brew, are buying 36,000,000 pounds a year on the black market. Almost half the contraband coffee is sneaked into the country across a twisting 78-mile border near the point where Germany, Belgium and Hol¬ land meet. To curtail the smuggling, the govern¬ ment has set up a special patrol of 1 ,000 customs agents, known locally as Kaffeebullen, or coffee bulls, with a fleet of powerful cars and a pack of specially coffee-sensitized dogs called Kaffee- sc/iniiffcl/mnde . Thousands of people are being fined, jailed and shot at. There is a startling resemblance to our own prohibition era — eoffeeleggers have their molls, called Kafjeebrtiute , the coffee cops their spies, who enroll as members of the smuggling gangs. I here are running gun fights on crowded city streets and through the dense woodlands along the border. To get the full story, 1 drove from Paris to the hub of the smuggling racket here in the ancient, war-smashed, triple-border city of Aachen. The once-proud capital of Emperor Charlemagne is now- a depressing town of 130,000. where rubble combines with neon and chrome, and misery peeks at you from every corner. Of all the border spots, the Aachen area has the thickest woods and the most irregular boundaries. It's a smugglers' paradise. 1 saw some of the international boundaries — wooden markers lost in the middle of forest green¬ ery; a tunnel through a wooded hillside marked Gl rm am at one end and Belgium at the other; an iron fence running lengthwise down the middle of an ordinary city street — on the left, where the streetcar runs, it’s Germany and the bars advertise Lowenbrau; on the right, where the autos are, it's Holland and you can buy Heineken's beer. 1 also had a series of talks with the chief coffee eop, Bernhard Fechncr; went out one night with a forest patrol, and visited a saloon in downtown Aachen where the coffee elite swap trade secrets. Black- market coffee can now be bought almost anywhere in West Germany, and almost everyone is involved in the racket in one way or another. Although there is considerable private smuggling, der Scfinmggel, as the coffee raeket is called, is actually a highly organized affair. Most of the coffee comes from Belgium, where it can be bought for less than $1 a pound, and is resold on the Ger¬ man black market at a 150 per cent profit, still a good cut under the legal price. (The Bonn govern¬ ment contends that some contraband coffee filters out of the U.S. Army stocks: that's undoubtedly true, but Army coffee is just a drop in the black- market cup.) Chief Feehner explained the workings of the professional smuggling racket to me. There are two main branches — der Tracer, or infantry, and der Krafifahrzeug , or motorized Schmuggel. It’s the Tr tigers who give the coffee cops their biggest headaches. Collier's for February 14, 1953

Page 495

59 Wlicn collrr costs almost 8 1 a pound. look lor a lirld dav. In wild W cst (irrmanw roller rail hr hot in more wax- than our j * By PAUL E. DEUTSCHMAN Der TragersehmugRef is carried out largely by gangs of up to 150 members, which have a Teu¬ tonic organization that makes the old-time Capone mob seem like a disordered crowd of Sunday- school picnickers. There’s the Rabatzcr gang (Rabatzer is slang for tough guy), the Putz gang (named after its leader), the Jugoslavische gang (mostly Yugoslav refugees) and the famous village gang of Mutzcnich. The gangs are split into two types, light and heavy. In the former, each runner carries a load of exactly 20 pounds; in the latter, runners carry 40 to 80 pounds each, over shorter distances. In the usual gang, there are three, sometimes four types of operator. First come the spies, who go out ahead of the main body of troops to discover where the cops are hiding. Almost anybody wandering through the woods at night may be a coffee spy. Often a gang will send out a pair of apparent lovers, osten¬ sibly searching for the privacy of a hidden nook. If they come upon a cop, what’s to stop their speaking up — loudly — in surprise? Other spies have gone out as flower-pickers or mushroom gatherers or homeward-bound bicyclists. Tricky Technique Used by Decoys After the spies have signaled the cops’ hiding places, three or four decoys go to work. Usually a decoy carries a conspicuous sack on his back; he leads a frenzied chase through the woods, and then lets himself be caught. The sack is found to contain hay or ordinary grass. “Food for my rab¬ bits,” protests the outraged citizen. When smuggler-wise coffee cops began to ignore this ruse, many decoys filled their sacks with honest-to-goodness coffee. Now the cops have to gamble on just whom, if anyone, to chase — the lovers, the mushroom gatherers, or the suspicious- acting characters toting sacks that may or may not contain coffee. After the decoys come the main smuggling troops, the runners who skim through the newly made holes in the boundary like a battalion of speedy halfbacks. As an added precaution, some gangs have introduced rear guards who follow behind the runners to create what the military would call a diversionary action. The actual coffeerunners, who carry the stuff over the border, are in a class by themselves — superbly conditioned men, usually between twenty and thirty-five years old. They wear working clothes that show a decidedly American influence: Army suntan trousers, field jacket, khaki shirt and the little knitted olive drab cap that fits inside a helmet liner. Rounding out the costume is a pair of high-topped sneakers. All of these items are obtainable in German stores selling U.S. Army surplus. The basketball shoes are a source of great bitter¬ ness to the coffee cops. Because of their long waits in the damp woods, the customs police must wear heavy boots which put them to great disadvantage in competitive dashes through the underbrush. The field jackets are even more valuable to the smug¬ glers than the sneakers. The light g ngs carry their coffee beans loose inside the full blouse, supported by the drawstrings at the waist; when there’s dan¬ ger of being caught, they simply zip open the jacket and out spills the evidence. Smugglers must be caught with their coffee on them to be prosecuted. The heavy gangs, which run shorter distances, usually carry their loads in sacks. To catch the runners in the woods, the coffee cops’ most potent weapons are die Kaffeeschnufjeb luinde. I saw these coffee-sniffing hounds in action — most of them big German shepherds which, astonishingly, seem able to sniff out a handful of coffee beans half a mile away. I went out by motorcycle one rainy night to inspect the patrols, along with Chief Fechner and a burly cop named Rudolf Goring. At one lonely spot, we set the motorcycle alongside a wooden fence and began tramping single file over the slip¬ pery. tree-shadowed countryside. About half a mile inside the woods, a voice boomed out in stern, storm-trooper tones, “Halt!”, and a dog growled ominously in the darkness. We halted, and I had my introduction to Raudi, aged six and all fangs, who froze with his muzzle about one inch from my left knee. In his five years of service, Raudi had caught 863 smugglers and brought in more than 100,000 Deutsche Mark worth of coffee. The day after our first meeting. Raudi put on a demonstration for me. Two coffee cops, masquerading as smug¬ glers, disappeared into the thick woods beyond the police barracks. Raudi, with handler Willi Arlt, was standing about 500 yards from the woods. Suddenly he began to sniff and strain against the leash. The smugglers were nowhere in sight, but Raudi had caught the scent of the coffee they were carrying. He bared his fangs eagerly, his tongue dripped in anticipation, and his bark rose plaintively, like a puppy begging for a treat. Then the men appeared briefly at a distant break in the forest. Like a flash of brown lightning, Raudi hightailed it after them. For a few moments both the men and the dog were out of sight. Sud- dely, the men emerged in another clearing — with Raudi right behind them. He flashed round them like 20 unmuzzled furies after a treed cat. The men dropped their sacks and waited, with Raudi standing guard, until Willi came puffing up. Dogs like Raudi are invaluable for combating smugglers afoot, but the motorized smugglers are a different problem. Like the “infantry,” the mechanized coffeerunners arc divided into groups. First, there is the “legal” Schmuggel — an activity in which vehicles fitted with clever hiding places attempt to slip through customs at regular fron¬ tier check-points. The “inside” Schmuggel occurs when a truck or automobile on the German side of the border pulls to a stop at a prearranged spot, permitting gangs of coffeeleggers to dart out of the woods and pick up loads of coffee. Inside smuggling always is tried late at night on some remote cowpath. The “broken frontier” Sclwuiggel is the most dramatic of the lot: vehicles with large loads of coffee actually cross over in the dead of night, either by inching along a seldom-used road, then making a dash to some prearranged depot, or by crashing through a customs gate at terrific speed, hoping to lose the cops in the ensuing pursuit. For such escapades, the smugglers generally use cars like the heavier makes of American automobiles. Three armored cars have also been caught. One was stolen from Belgian occupation forces sta¬ tioned nearby; the other two were homemade, steel-plated jobs. To discourage cross-country driving by motor¬ ized smugglers, the customs people dig cleverly concealed ditches. Sometimes they spread barbed wire across roads at night, to lay speeding vehicles low. They also encase gateposts in thick cement, for smugglers have been known to saw through Coffee cop and coffee hound *tand guard near Aachen, where borders of three nations meet wooden ones and use acetylene torches on steel ones. And there is a flying squad standing by 24 hours a day with motorcycles, souped-up Porsche cars and powerful new Mercedes-Benz station wagons equipped with radio. A special unit has been set up to examine cars for coffee hiding places. This outfit’s name, in simple, everyday German, is Kraftfahrzeugunter- suchungstnippe , which means power-driven ma- tcrials-examining troop. Legally, these K-troopers can halt and examine any car within 15 miles of the frontier. And since, as one of them told me. “smugglers look like anvbody,” many innocent automobilists have had all the air let out of their tires, and have stood for an hour or two while agents went over every square inch of their car's chassis and upholstery with a rubber hammer. Empty Limousine Fools Coffee Cops A lot of time is spent on routine checking, but sometimes there’s real excitement. One night a big limousine, driven by a well-known smuggler, went through customs empty. It was near the Mlihlenstrasse, a favorite smuggling thoroughfare that forms a Y with the Aachen road. A motorized patrol tailed the car as it chugged, lights out, into a nearby village. The smuggler parked in the first of two side streets; the cops parked their car in the second. Soon a heavy convertible came speeding out of the right wing of the Y— the frontier road. The driver honked three times, then headed for Aachen. Immediately, the limousine cut in behind. The cops took off, trying to overtake the limou¬ sine and get at the convertible, which they were sure was loaded with coffee. But the limousine kept swerving back and forth across the road so the patrolmen couldn’t pass. Finallv. the lead car, after an hour's chase, disappeared from sight. When questioned, the driver of the limousine an¬ swered casually, “My steering wheel jammed.” Ten days later, the cops picked up the same trail. But this time, when the convertible appeared, the police quickly slipped in ahead of the limou¬ sine and gave chase through the night at 90 miles an hour. The smugglers dropped crow’s-feet, cruel- looking four-pointed affairs made of soldered nails, over the side. The cops avoided the crow's-feet by zigzagging, and began firing at the smugglers: PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY BILL STAPLETON

Page 496

I after a 40-minute chase, mostly through down¬ town Aachen, the police shot out one ot the con¬ vertible's tires. Two men jumped out and escaped. W hen the car was examined, 2,700 pounds of col- tee was found inside. Smuggling involves far more people than the organized racketeers. Local citizens are constantly tempted to slip over into Belgium to hu\ a pound of coffee tor the equivalent ot 95 cents. They can sell it at the nearest Cjusthuus hack in Germany for $2.85. One observer, not connected with cus¬ toms but in a good position to know, said. “Be¬ tween five and six thousand people, in Aachen alone, live exclusive!} off the proceeds of coffee smuggling.*' In 19S1 there was an average of 1,000 arrests a month in the Aachen zone. I he local jails are usudllv so lull ot coffee culprits that often those who've been arrested are allowed to walk about l reels while awaiting trial. Some have been picked up lor smuggling a second or third time before their first case has been tried, ( offee cops have learned to trust no one. A few months ago, one of them stopped the local gov¬ ernor in his official car, asked him if he had any coflee, then made him show his car papers. Border agents have found coffee in the most improbable places: inside coffins, in milkmaids' t alse-bottomed pails, in babies' diapers and in the padding of motor-driven wheel chairs. In tvpical teuton fashion, the customs people are veiv methodical and impartial about punish¬ ing offendeis, big small or medium. If a smuggler s caught earning more than 41 2 pounds, he’s fined trom 50 to 200 Dei asdic Murk, ( S 1 2 to $47 ) or given a throe-month jail sentence whether he s a peasant or a eoffeelegger connected with a milhon-dollar syndicate. If more than two people are involved, they’re a gang, according to the law, and each member gets three months in 1 a 1 1 . If it's a room font crime, the smuggler may be sentenced to three months more. A seventy -three-} ear- old woman recently was sent up tor 23 days; it was her twentieth coffee offense. Bv far the most fantastic coffee case in Germany is that of the Mut/onich gang, a loosely allihated group which, authorities claim, smuggled in more than 1 “’0.000 pounds of coffee in a single year before it was broken up. I he gang, customs police say. included 90 of the 1.300 people in the border village of M utzenich-uber-Monschau, among them two cops and the mayor's three sons. Although 52 were arrested and sent to jail, all were quickly 60 let out pending trial, ft was harvesttime, the smug¬ glers argued, and the fields had to be worked. The Mi.it/enich case is still waiting to go to court. Meanwhile, there's strong feeling against the coffee cops at the Miitzenich check-point. No one will talk to them, and if they go into a cafe, they can't get served. Mi.it/enichers have even threatened to secede from Germany and join up with Belgium if the case ever comes to court. Because coffee is such an important element in German life, and because the tax is considered so unfair, practically all sentiment in Germany — ex¬ cept perhaps at the f inance Ministry in Bonn and at customs headquarters —is on the side of the smuggler. Angry mobs have chased cops away from sacks ol coffee thrown out of pursued cars; threats of reprisal shootings have been made against customs men's families by people whose children have been hit by wild-flying bullets. Press Protests over 4M)oath Penalty’" The newspaper Aachcuer Nachrichten has a standing headline, W11 o Wist, Aachen, under which it runs stories with titles like, “Man Killed for Light Bounds of Coffee.” The entire West German press keeps driving home the point: “West Germany does not have a death penalty for any crime. W hy. then, should a man be executed for carrying coffee?” (In the first eight months of 1952, three smugglers were killed and l 1 w'ounded by the police in the Aachen area alone.) W ho is responsible for the tax law that's causing all the trouble? The Bonn government would like to say it's the occupation's fault. “We lost the war and have to pay for it,” a voting customs lawyer told me. “ I hat’s why the Allies imposed those high coffee taxes on us.” But spokesmen for the L’.S. High Commissioner of Germany (H1COG) say: “It was the Germans' own idea.” W hen I dug deeper, 1 discov ered both sides must share responsibility. In 1948, the Allies took steps to make West Germany’s currency worth something in world markets. There wasn't any Bonn government then, but HICOG consulted with the German- staffed Bizonal Economic Administration, fore¬ runner of the present Bonn F inance Ministry. BEA suggested, among other methods of raising money, a 30 -Dcut.se/ic A/u/A-per-kilo coffee excise tax. HICOG approved, and almost immediately serious smuggling started. “Now,” moaned one 13. S. official, “they try to say the tax was our idea.” But although the original tax has been cut two thirds, it is still exorbitant, and smuggling continues full blast. There has been a great deal of agitation to change the law. Finance Minister Schaeffer has promised to take the matter up when the new budget is presented to the Bundestag this year. But Bonn is worried about what the proposed cut might do to its revenue. In the meantime, the West German government goes on trying to enforce the law, and the coffee cops at the borders, the MBs along the roads and the customs accountants continue to have their hands full. Just how far smugglers will go in trying the patience of the border patrol is indi¬ cated by what might be called The Case of the Barking Fox. A border cop was walking through the woods one warm evening last summer when he spotted a man standing in a small pond, with only his head above water. The man kept trying to shove some¬ thing under with both hands. The officer made the bather get out. The fellow turned out to be fully dressed — and, sure enough, he had two rubber sacks containing five pounds of coffee each. The cop dragged the protesting man to jail. When the bather appeared before the judge, his excuse ran something like this: he had been stroll¬ ing through the forest, minding his own business, when he heard a fox barking. “I must catch that fox,” he said to himself: “they arc bad for the livestock.” He ran and ran. but couldn't catch the tox. Suddenly, he stumbled over two sacks — and found they contained coffee! “I intended to bring the coffee to the customs station,” he continued, “but it was very hot, and 1 was tired from all that running. So, when I came to this pond, I decided to take a little bath first.” “You took a bath with all your clothes on?” asked the judge. “Oh, yes.” the man said. “I was wet anyway, from all that running. . . .” “In all my 40 years on the bench,” the judge told the coffee smuggler, “I’ve never met a bigger liar than you!” Although not all smugglers go to the same lengths as the man in the pond, they’re a deter¬ mined lot. Chances are they'll stay in business as long as the legal price of coffee remains at its pres¬ ent outlandish level — and as long as the Germans continue to be coffee hounds. A Collier’s for Fchruarv 14, 1953 I: ( \ ) I 0

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61 FAIN’S ON FIRST A fiery player, lie'll charge the plate and dare enemy hatters to rain the hall down hi^ throat HE’S a driving, scrappy, impulsive, win-or- know-the-rcason-why kind of baseball player. He’s as cocky as they come and so uncompromisingly competitive that he will verbally rip apart his best friend after a bobbled ground ball. His explosive temperament has earned him such nicknames as “the Firebrand,” “Fain the Fiery” and “Furious Ferris.” But despite his low boiling point, Ferris Fain of the Philadelphia Athletics is almost universally regarded as the best first base- man in the American League. Some experts go further; they say he is the hest in baseball. Fain, a husky, five-foot eleven-inch left-hander now heading into his seventh season with the A’s, does almost everything to perfection on a base¬ ball diamond — except hit home runs with regular¬ ity. He’s a smooth fielder, has one of the strongest throwing arms in the game, and has been the American League batting champion for the last two years with averages of .344 and .327, respectively. His hitting is a throwback to the pre-Babe Ruth era. Instead of swinging for the fences and crack¬ ing out home runs, the Philadelphia first baseman is content with singles and doubles. Shrewd old Connie Mack was one of the first to appreciate the volatile infielder’s batting skill. Back in 1950 — a year in which Fain batted only .282 — Manager Mack hailed him as the best hitter in baseball. Few others would go quite that far even today. But while Fain has hit a mere 35 homers during his six years in the big leagues, only five other players have won the American League batting champion¬ ship two seasons in a row. By KALI*!! BKRNSTKLN Strangely enough, during the off season, Fain the Fiery is deceptively mild. His home town of Walnut Creek, California, regards him as an affable, gentle-mannered, thirty-year-old pillar of the community. It's when he puts on a uniform — any uniform — that he undergoes a startling per¬ sonality change. As a soldier in World War 11, he took his military calisthenics so seriously that he once literally knocked himself out exercising at an Army camp. Then there was a mcmorahlc game against the Chi¬ cago White Sox in 1951. Fain became so angry at himself for lofting an easy pop fly to the infield that he viciously kicked at first base on his way back to the dugout. He was side-lined for the next 37 games with a broken foot. However, his driving spirit also pays its share of dividends. He beats out hase hits, makes seem¬ ingly impossible fielding plays and wins ball games by just sheer grit and hustle. There’s no better man in baseball, for example, at fielding a bunted ball, and his don't-give-a-darn tactics are especially profitable when the oppos¬ ing team tries to sacrifice a man from second to third base. On the play, Fain charges with the pitch almost to home plate, picks up the bunt on the run and, if there is any possible chance of making the force- out, whips the ball to third in almost the same motion. The play is one of the most difficult in hascball, hut the Philadelphia first baseman makes it look routine. That’s why he. and almost everyone else who follows the A’s regularly. remembers tvs, occasions in quick succession a lew reasons ago when he missed. The first occurred in the late innings of a close game at Boston’s Fenway Park With men on first and second, the Boston batter dropped a bunt along the first-base line. Fain roared in as usual, scooped up the ball, and rifled it toward third base. His direction was good, but the altitude was wrong The ball soared into the grandstand and the Red Sox scored a key run. Later the same week. Fain pulled exact!) the same boner and it cost Philadel¬ phia a close game with the Detroit Tigers. As the disconsolate Philadelphia first baseman trudged toward the hcnch at the end of the inning, the straight-backed figure of Connie Mack, then eighty- seven and still active, blocked his wav. With a studied softness that fooled no one. Mack said: “Young man — don't you ever do that again. Don’t ever throw' any more hunts to third base.” Fuming inside over his two failures, Fain barked back: “What do you want me to do with the ball, Mr. Mack? Sit on it and hatch it?” “It might be safer,” Mack said, and strode back to the dugout. Few hascball men can stay angry long at Fain. Both Mack and Jimmy Dykes, the A’s present manager, are among his greatest admirers. They know that a player who goes all out all the time will occasionally boot a game by trying to do the impossible. But they are willing to take the risk if the player performs as brilliantly as Fain does. Other managers feel the same way. Each spring Fain is the center of a flood of trade rumors. The New York Yankees, Cleveland Indians and Detroit Tigers are only three of the teams which are re¬ ported to have bid as much as $250,000 for him, only to be turned down. Signed Contract Brings Relaxation Fain admits that the annual cycle of rumors, de¬ nials and trade speculation puts him on edge every now and then, adding: “I’m always glad when the contract is signed ( he got about $28,000 last year) and I don’t have to worry who is going to be my boss. Then I can rc*ax and play ball.” He has been relaxing and playing ball for cash ever since he signed with the San Francisco Seals at the age of seventeen. But his sports heritage goes back much further. His late father, Oscar Fain, was a jockey good enough to ride a horse named Duval to second place in the 1 9 1 2 Kentucky Derby. The younger Fain was considered an adequate, if not outstanding, player during his three prewar seasons. But on his return in 1946 from Army Air Force duty, he hatted .301 for the Seals. Seven major-league teams sought to huv him; through luck and the vagaries of baseball law. the Ath¬ letics picked him up in the minor league for only $10,000 — a fraction of his real worth. While Fain no longer goes around kicking bases to let off steam, there is little chance that he will mellow much more with the passing years. His reply to criticism of the way he charges in on bunts is typical: “They tell me that someday a batter is going to drive the hall right down my throat. Sure 1 run risks. So what? All I know is that I want to win, whether I'm play ing baseball or pinochle. I’ll be up there this season trying the same way I’ve been trying for many years. Mayhc I’ll hit .380. Maybe I’ll only hit .260. This is a funny business and you can’t make any predictions. But I’ll be giving out 100 per cent. You can bank on that.” ^ ^ ^ One of the game’s finest short-ball hitters, Ferris Fain has led A. L. batters twice in a row. Only five others have turned that trick

Page 498

The LONG WINTER Bn W ALTER MAN IGHLRST Ralph McKeerer teas a hard man — hard ou his animals , and his men, and himself, in his grim world , you had lo go it alone A THIN, cold r;un was lalling, and the air came down cold from the snow fields on Sheep Mountain. It felt like March, not the middle of May; winter couldn't let go this year. So it looked good to Dan, when he rode into the little park ringed with dripping spruce, to see his tather and Gus already dismounted and blue smoke rising in the gray air. Gus threw down an armload of sticks where big Ralph McKeever was feeding a reluctant lire, fanning it with his Stetson. The hoy broke through the fringe of trees, and his father called: “Drag up one of those dead branches. Dan.” He pulled the horse over to a stunted spruce and grasped a dead limb. The wood splintered as he leaned against it, bracing himself in the stirrups. At the rending noise Diablo shied, and the boy was already off balance. He fell hard, with the broken spruce branch under him. His father, still fanning the fire, didn't look around. “Can't you learn to stay on a horse?" he said. Dan got up slowly, pushing the dead limb aw'ay. Gus dropped his newr load of sticks and splashed across the little stream. He headed off the horse, throwing up his right arm — the one with an iron hook on the wrist — while his good hand caught the reins. In a quick hitch he tied them around a sapling. He looked around. “Hurt, Dan?" he asked. The boy shook his head. At the fire his father straightened up slowly, putting the Stetson on his head. As he approached, Dan limped away, his thin jaw set. His father went back to the fire. While he fanned the blue smoke into a blaze, the boy came up, dragging the spruce limb. The rancher snapped off the wood and tossed it on the fire. “Hungry?" he said. “Yes," Dan answered. “Hurt yourself?" “No." “W hen I was your age . . . going on fifteen . . The boy reached up lor another branch. He was almost as tall as the big man in the blue work jacket, now' stained dark with drizzle, but he did not have his father's big hands nor his wide shoulders. Dan pulled at the stubborn limb. “We've got enough wood now," his lather said. “You want to camp here all day and all night?" The boy didn’t answer. He jammed his stiff hands into his pockets. Gus came up from the creek with the coffeepot drip- ping. With his good hand he dumped the coffee in and set the pot in the crackling fire. “What you think 1 saw' down there, boss?" The rancher looked around. “That >oung bull's track. Fresh," Gus said. Ralph McKeever scow'led at his son. “You must have Gus had the rein* wrapped around his hook; his good hand pointed. "There's his traek/’ he said. fc*It don't tell much about where he was going. It fades out i| * f 01 t11 62 ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM REUSSWIG 1

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63 oiv do some people ahvays know the an - vers? Not the old answers — luit the new Oli¬ vers that win prizes, promotions, popularity -that make them centers of* interest at all inds of gatherings? You can know these answers , too — id have fun getting them! Whether it’s sports, ?adline personalities, international events, jiienee, drama, music — or anything of general terest — Collier's NEW Encyclopedia will give ni the NEW answers, the right answers for lis new, fast-moving world! Mary yot all As ! Fbpyot promoted ! And it's so easy to pet them in Collier’s Encyclopedia — that profusely illustrated, easy reading, set-of-a-thousand-uses. It’s absolutely, entirely, completely fresh ami NEW from cover to cover of every one of its 20 hig, richly hound, easy-to-handle volumes! Owners say it reads like a magazine! It’s a live, vibrant, colorful, completely NEW and MODERN source of exciting, indispensa¬ ble information for alert, up-to-the-minute readers of all ages. Mom keeps up these days ! if it’s NEW' — if it’s EXCITING — if it’s important to YOU — it’s in Colliers Encyclopedia NEW from cover to cover — profusely illustrated — reads like a magazine! 14,000 brand-new pages containing 14,- 000,000 words — 100,000 index references — 50,000 fresh, NEW, interesting and easy-io- undersiand topics! N es — and 10,000 full-color atifl hlack-aud-w hito illustrations, photographs, drawings, charts and diagram* — PLl S 126 com¬ pletely NEW authoritative maps in full color, prepared at a cost of S400,000 — and many other new and exclusive features yotril find tn no other encyclopedia ! Collier's Encyclopedia is authentic — compiled by over 2.000 living authorities, as¬ sociated with 250 universities and colleges — and with scientific, educational, religious, research and business institutions here and overseas. SEND FOR FREE BOOKLET! Get this hig, free 24-page full-color booklet, crammed full of exciting topics and illustrations taken right from the pages of COLLIER'S EN¬ CYCLOPEDIA! See for yourself how Collier's covers new subjects, sports, science, cosmic ray and atom-smashing experi¬ ments! Yes, even unusual primitive tribes, outland¬ ish animals and a host of other surprises! COLLI Kit'S ENCYCLOFEDIV 640 Fifth Avenue, Now York 19, N . Y. Plena© send mo, without co*t or obligation, vonr big. 2t-pugo elaborately illustrated booklet “ Vrnnud tho World wilb Collier'* Kney e-lo podia’*. Abu, loll me how I ean own Collier’*. F.noyolo- podiu— -uvailablo in tho United States and Cunudu on convenient budget terms. City_ . Zon MAIL THIS COUPON Actual Size TODAY! each volunu-— 10%" x H Vfc" OPPORTUNITY WITH COLLIER’S; Collier’s Encyclopedia in available only through authorised representative*. Opportunities to join our or* gaiiizat ion are open to worthy men and women Interested in education and who would like to build up a substantial income. Write 1 Ralph (I. Smith, President— 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, New York.

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64 rode right past them/’ he said. “Didn’t you see anything?’’ “They’re half in the creek,” the fore¬ man said quickly. “Which way is he headed?” “Couldn't tell,” Gus answered. “Only shows where he crossed over. But I’d say he was heading down.” “We’ll separate then,” the rancher said, “after we’ve had some coffee.” He went to his horse and unbuckled the saddlebag. 1HHE rain was letting up, and the fire L burned briskly around the black¬ ened coffeepot. He laid out the sand¬ wiches and boiled eggs that Indian Mary, muttering some singsong to her¬ self, had fixed at daylight. A brown froth boiled over and hissed onto the fire. Gus pulled the pot off with his hook and poured smoking cof¬ fee into the tin cups. “We'll make a sweep down the moun¬ tain,” the rancher said. “I’ll go over and catch the other fork of the creek. Gus, you take this fork. You drop down the canyon, son, and follow Sheep Creek. One of us ought to pick him up on the way. We’ll meet down at the flats.” Gus rinsed out the coffeepot, scour¬ ing it in the sand. He stomped on the fire and doused it with creek water, though the woods were dripping. They got on their horses. “You know where to go, son?” the rancher said. “Down the canyon.” “And keep your eyes open. That bull is worth a lot of money.” The rain began to come down harder as the rancher rode off, his slicker gleaming above the wet flank of his horse. For a little way the foreman and young Dan rode together. Gus had the reins wrapped around his hook; his good hand pointed. “There’s his track,” he said, “but it don’t tell much about where he was going. It fades right out after he got across.” “We might pick it up again,” the boy said, “if he followed the creek.” “That’s right.” For a minute there was only the crunch of hoofs and the creak of leather. Gus fingered a pinch of tobacco out of his breast pocket and crammed it into his mouth. “Saw you limping,” he said. “That foot bother you?” Dan shook his head. “It caught in the stirrup when I fell,” he said. “It just got twisted.” “That canyon trail is rough. Maybe you better take this fork. I’ll go down the canyon.” The boy swung around, his thin face tense under the wide brim of his hat* “Dad wouldn’t — He told me to take the canyon. I can make it.” “Oh, sure,” the foreman said. “But Diablo’s spooking today. And your foot — ” “It’ll be all right.” “You sure, Danny?” The boy sat rigid in the saddle. Danny — that was what his mother had always called him. He hadn’t heard it since that gray day, with the snow7 swirling furiously against her bedroom window, a week before Christmas. “I’m all right,” he said. ‘He dug his heels in, and Diablo jumped ahead. The spruce boughs rained on him as he made for the head of the canyon. “See you at the fiats,” the foreman called. RALPH McKEEVER had forded the noisy water and come out on the green flats when Gus appeared, driving the yearling bull ahead of him. Dan was not there. They waited a w'hile in the rain, looking through the drizzle toward the canyon mouth, letting the horses pull at the wet grass. “He ought to be here,” the rancher! said. “It’s shorter down the canyon.” “Rougher too,” Gus said. The big man grunted. “That’s why I sent him that way,” he said. “When I w7as his age 1 knew7 every gulch between here and Granite Peak. I knew7 every foot of that canyon— could ride it in the dark. He’s got to learn.” N Gus put a wad of tobacco into his mouth. “You know how7 it w7as last winter,” the rancher said, looking off in the rain. “He took it hard. For a month after Christmas he wouldn’t do a thing but tend that colt in the stable — blankets and hot water, ground oats and warm bran mash!” He turned to the slouch¬ ing foreman. “But he’s growing up HAH AM 6 EfefeS 60* Hot Do&S . 2S DE LUXE •• . W °IE . >° tOFFEF . 07 BEAN SOUP A LA CONGRESS -S- lot 7® \ )** A ‘‘This place is good enough for anyone who wants to be just a sister to me’ JOHN DEMPSEY Collier’s for February 14, 195 luiiimu ALEMITE «S v u •> Of 35 YEARS OF LUBRICATION PROGRESS helping speed production on the USAF's mighty B-52 out all industry — Alemite Lubrica¬ tion and Lubrication Systems fight friction, speed production and guard vital machinery against costly down¬ time, save countless man-hours for more productive work in America’s economy and defense. Alemite — Great Name in Lubrication — Serves the Great Names in Industry It was Alemite’s invention, in 1918, that marked the end of the crude, unsure grease-cup method of lubri¬ cation, perfected the tiny Fittings that gave the w'orld of industry its first high-pressure lubrication method. Today— in industry-on farms — at sea -in the air — Alemite “Friction- Fighters” w'ork unceasingly. Roller skates to motor cars Bicycles to bombers. Wherever metal touches metal, you find these vital Fittings —and the lubrication “know-how” of 35 years of Alemite progress from invention to perfection. Eight mighty jet engines blast away. A modern air miracle speeds down the runway. And a B-52, pride of the USAF, is airborne to sing its song of power peaceful power- over an uneasy world. The very finest engineering and production “know-how” produce these giants of the air at Boeing. And here in the home of the B-52 — as in major manufacturing through- To help maintain 'round the clock, 7- day-a-week production, Boeing installed Alemite 'Oil-Mist Delivering precise quan¬ tities of oil automatically to bearings— Oil- Mist eliminates down-t'me, protects against over-lubrication waste and under lubricotion danger — greatly prolongs beoring life.

Page 501

65 now. Did you see him up there by the ereek when he fell? It hurt all right, with that dead braneh under him. But he wouldn't let me eome near.” The rancher smiled. “He got up and walked away. Did you see him?” Gus nodded. “I saw him.” He spat a brown stream past his horse's ear. Daylight was nearly gone; a heavy sky was pressing down on the high, bare slopes. “Let’s be moving,” the rancher said. “If he looks around any he'll see we've been here.” They jogged on along the creek, up a draw, across the big pasture. Through the dusk came a light drumming of hoofs. Then a yearling colt raced be¬ side them, head up, showing the white feather between his pointed ears. “That colt,” the foreman said. “You wouldn't think he'd been siek all win¬ ter. I guess Dan wasn't wasting his time. Look at that stride. See how he puts his feet down. He’ll make us a horse.” “He looks all right,” the rancher said, “if he’s got stamina.” They rode through scattered pines to the corral, and when they turned the horses out, the yellow lamplight showed from the house. They washed up at the pump, with a good smell of supper com¬ ing from the kitehen door and the radio going. Before they went in Gus looked across the pasture where the horses were standing in the thin, cold rain. Old Franz, his wrinkled, red face freshly scrubbed, was already sitting up against the radio that was on full blast. Soon he would take the sheep up to the high parks, where there would be no sound but the wind pouring down the pass and the sheep blatting. He got up and hobbled over to the table. “Where's young Dan?” “In the box canyon,” the rancher said. “He probably lost the trail and had to pick his way.” Collier’s for February 14, 1953 Indian Mary set food on the table, and they ate with the radio shouting. Ralph made a motion over his shoulder, and Mary turned the knob. Then they ate in silence. When she padded around again, filling the coffee eups, she stopped at the empty plaee, next to the end of the table where Ellen McKeever had sat. “That boy always hungry,” she said, nodding her head so that her big shadow moved slowly on the wall. “He never get full.” “He's empty now,” Gus said. Old Franz nodded. “Hungry as a sheep,” he said. Ralph buttered a square of eorn- bread before he spoke. “When I was his age 1 was out for days in these mountains. He has to learn.” INDIAN MARY stalked back to the kitehen, and there was only the noise Old Franz made, working his toothless gums and swilling colTee. They kept waiting for the sound of footsteps out¬ side, for the door to burst open and a voice hall bass and half treble to say, “I’m starved!” But when Old Franz pushed his plate back there was only the steady dripping outside the window and a rattle in the kitchen, where Mary was poking wood into the stove. Alter the cheese and pie and another round of the coffeepot. Old Franz turned on the radio again. “Not so loud,” Gus shouted around the stem of his pipe. Ralph leafed through the Durango Herald- Democrat and then tossed it down. He filled his pipe, stared at the dark window, and began talking about horses. “You know why our colts bring the price we get, Gus. They survive on their own.” “That colt. Feather — ” the foreman began. The rancher went right on. “Foaled on the range, born maybe in a snow- to bring the same expert care to your car's moving parts Somewhere near you is the most important man in your car’s life — the dealer who offers Alemite Lubri¬ cation. Behind him stands Alemite’s billion dollar investment in lubrica¬ tion progress. Were you to ask the car makers what they think of Alemite you would find that most of the cars on U. S. highways are equipped with genuine Alemite Lubrication Fit¬ tings. Put there by these car makers to assure proper lubrication lubri¬ cation by the dealer with Alemite “know-how" and Alemite Lubrica¬ tion equipment. The dealer who offers Alemite Lubrication has invested thousands of dollars in the genuine Alemite equipment specially designed to prolong your car’s life and maintain finest operating conditions. Know this man and his Alemite trained experts. No other dealer is so familiar with the Alemite Fittings on your car. Only through him are you assured of the original, the gen¬ uine Alemite Lubrication. Nowhere else can you buy such specialized care with your lubrication dollar. What’s good enough for Boeing is too good for you to miss! A fypicol Alemite lubrication Department — representing the finest, mast modern lubrica¬ tion equipment money can buy. Behind this man behind the gun . . . a Billion Dollar Investment in Lubrication Progress ALEMITE ■ tG u S PAt OM* 1850 Diverjev Parkwav. Chicaoa 14. 111.

Page 502

66 I seem dull with fatigue try two drops of Murine in each eye. Quick as a wink. Murine wakes them up to cool refreshment. Murires seven tested ingredi¬ ents. scientifically selected and combined, blend perfectly with the natural fluids of the eye. So Murine is gentle as a tear. Murine makes your eyes feel good. fiz, ytm v eyea- AMAZING PAZO ACTS TO RELIEVE PAIN OF SIMPLE PILES INSTANTLY Speed amaz ng rCxf from miseries of t n p'.e p l«s. \s.rh Pazo*' Acts to re -\c pa-n and dchir^ instantly — soothes m1 m.cd t ‘■Mic*— helps prevent soreness — re 1 ice sw«., n? Y gjt real comfort mg fir Ip So d :• t l ' i e me mint '°“r P £ GH1I* . ds , \ vsv, , t : o M: in ut" Q a EV KRYWHE -E u- ss thou; "tter On y x > 00 your dC3 n r Manufactured Only By MFC. C0.5 Dept. C 2, DeWitt, HeDo T7 -v illl^ storm, chased by covotes and bobcats before they Ye a week old they learn how to take care ot themselves. Sure we lose some, hut the ones that grow up are real horseflesh. They'll always have stamina." In the slanting lamplight his face was harsh. One hand held the dead pipe in his mouth, and the other twisted a to¬ bacco pouch till the leather was white. He was talking about horses, but even Indian Mary, moving around the table laying out the breakfast places, knew there were other things in his thoughts. There was his loneliness, his confused concern tor the son he had cut himself off from, his memory of Ellen Mc- keever playing the upright piano at the edge of the lamplight. She had insisted on going to Durango to buy Danny's C hristmas present, a bridle for the colt he was raising. She was already cough¬ ing when they started, and that trip was too much, the long cold ride back made longer when the chains broke in the deepening snow and Ralph worked with numb hands in bitter silence, mending them with a snarl of baling wire. That night, when she began to toss with fever, the telephone was dead. Some¬ where in the cold woods the wire was down, though a doctor could never have got there through the drifting snow . All because of a Christmas gift. Ralph held it against his son. And when the boy seemed lost without his mother. Ralph held that against him too. No man, or boy, can have things his way. Now he sat with a dead pipe clamped in his jaw. staring at the black w indovv. “ Shut oil the radio," Gus said. When Old Franz didn’t stir. Gus jumped up. pushed him out ot the way and turned the knob. Outside, through the dripping rain, came a high-pitched whinny . ’That's Diablo," Ralph said. Gus was already in the kitchen. He took the lantern from the wall, scratched a match on his metal hand, and turned up the wick. Then he went outside. 1> A1 PH came out after him. At the corral gate they found Dan's horse, with raveled reins and a scarred and dripping saddle ’T ell off again." the rancher said. “He had a bad foot." Gus said. “It twisted when he fell this noon." He lowered the lantern and looked at the horse’s ragged hoofs. “There's a rough stretch hallway up the canyon. That new rockslide." I he rain fell cold on their faces. “We can't get up there tonight," the rancher said. “We’ll have to wait for day light." Gus pulled off the scratched saddle and the sodden blanket, and then slipped the bridle off Diablo's head. His good hand made a flat sound on the wet rump, and the horse trotted off in the dark¬ ness. Oils heaved the saddle into the dark tack room. As they walked back to the house, the rancher began: “When I was his age — ' Gus cut in. “He's got matches, and there's shelter in the canyon. He won't try to tr, vel on a bad foot. He's hun¬ gry though, that's sure.” “Do him good." Ralph said sharply . ‘The kid's got to learn to take care of hiiViselt " Old Franz stuck his head out of the bunkhouse door. “Where's Dan?" “His horse came in alone." Gus said. “Where you think he is?" Old Franz insisted. “He's still in the cany on." the rancher said. “Saddle three horses in the morn¬ ing. We’ll start up as soon as there's day light." ... At breakfast, while darkness was thinning outside the windows, Old Franz hobbled in, excited. “W e lost a colt, boss. That new one, out ot the roan mare." “Dead’" Ralph asked. “Dead as a sheep. Throat slit wide open. And that other colt, Feather" — the old man pushed his battered hat back — “he's cut up bad. Part of the fence is down, above the creek. I found the colt there, scared as a sheep, with the wire cuts on him." Gus got up. “W here is he?" he asked. “In the corral," Franz answered. “I brought him in with the others." In the kitchen Mary had a package of sandwiches ready and a thermos jug of smoking coffee. “That boy be hun¬ gry." she said. “Better fill a jug of water, too," Gus said. The rancher followed him outside. As they crossed the yard. Gus pointed. The sky was brightening, a band of pale blue spreading over the long saddle of snow on Sheep Moun¬ tain. But what Gus pointed to was a thread of smoke showing against the dark spruce slopes above the canyon. “Hallway up the canyon," Ralph said. "He didn't get far." Gus nodded. “By that rockslide. Right there is where you'll find him." The rancher looked around. "You not going?" he asked. “1 figured to look at this colt." The clatter of hoofs began as the men opened the heavy gate. The colt ran stiff-legged, head up, ears rigid, eyes rolling. He stopped on the far side of the corral and stood there sweating in the raw air. When he turned they saw the torn forequarters and the black¬ ened stripes down his forelegs. The rancher went toward him. Snort¬ ing. tossing his thin head, the colt ran to the far corner. “Whoa, now — w hoa!" the rancher called, closing in on him. The colt bolted. The man waved his hat. and the colt dodged back, slammed into the fence, and fell. The rancher stepped up, but the colt got his black¬ ened legs on the ground and scrambled up. “Whoa, now! Whoa!" Ralph said again. But the colt flew past him, Hing¬ ing mud. Ralph walked back to the gate. “Bet¬ ter turn him out," he said, pushing the hat back on his head. But Gus stood waiting with a hacka- more hooked on his metal hand. “He's hurt bad," he said quietly, his eyes on the trembling colt. “He needs some help." “It’s a waste of time," Ralph said. (^LS walked up slowly, holding his T good hand out. “Easy. boy. easy. Easy now." Twice the colt jerked past him. and still Gus followed, his voice going on in that steady, quiet horse talk. “It’s no use, Gus." The rancher went to the tie rack and buckled the saddle¬ bags behind his saddle. When he looked around, Gus had the hackamore on the colt and was study ing the trem¬ bling forelegs. “Three deep cuts." he said. “1 hope they don't go through those muscles." Still muttering quietly to the colt, he tied the hackamore to the rail. “Turn him out," Ralph said. “I'll get some tar on him." Gus hooked the blackened bucket with his metal hand. “You're wasting time," Ralph said again. There was a new sharpness in his voice. “Turn him out. 1 said. Let him heal up himself. If he can't, he'll never be my kind of horse." Gus looked up, the blue eyes thought¬ ful in his leathery face. “What’s galling you, Ralph? Any other time — before last winter — you’d be doing this your¬ self. What’s wrong with you?" The tall man’s face was harsher than ever, and his voice was savage. "Noth¬ ing is wrong with me. But you can't make a sound horse out of a soft one. Let him heal himself, if he can." Gus set the bucket down. For a min¬ ute he stood scowling across the corral. Then he pulled back his sleeve and held up his right arm. It showed a worn harness strapped to his elbow and hold¬ ing a leather collar onto his wrist, with the hook anchored in it. “Your father didn't talk like that when I lost a hand Collier's for February 14, 1953

Page 503

67 soo you've rearranged the living room. collier's W hat did yon do with your brother?*1’ dick cavalli I with a stick of his blasting powder," he ' said. “1 was just a boy, and I thought I’d never be any good around horses or cattle with my right hand gone. 1 was ready to blow. But your father wouldn’t let me. He made me think I could be as good as any man.” Gus spat at a fence post and turned back to the colt. “It’s a waste of time,” the rancher re¬ peated. “Then I’ll do it on my own time. Take it out of my wages.” Gus’s blue eyes blazed as he hooked up the bucket. Ralph climbed into his saddle. In a grim silence he rode out the gate, tug¬ ging the lead horse behind him. At the canyon mouth he waded his animals across Sheep Creek and urged them up to high ground on the far side. He stopped there, his eyes searching. The sky was clearing, there was a thin sun now, and all along the west slope the wet spruce glistened. Finally he found the gray-blue thread, thinner now but unmistakable. In the windless air the smoke went straight up, across the pale swath of aspens on the mountain shoulder and the high snows on the ridge. Impatiently he nudged his horse ahead. He was not exactly worried about his son, but something was nag¬ ging him. AS HE moved on up the canyon his . mind kept going hack — not to last winter or any time before that — just back an hour ago, when he had ridden away in anger from the corral gate. Now he saw, as though they were there before him, a calm man and a fright¬ ened colt. He saw a maimed hand hold¬ ing the hackamorc and a good hand dabbing a tarred brush at the torn fore¬ quarters. He heard a patient voice say: “Easy, boy, easy. Steady, now, steady, steady, steady.” In that clear picture, Ralph saw the yearling flinch and stand. He was a proud colt, though he had been frail and awkward. He was a hurt and frightened animal, but he had cour¬ age. After this morning he’d be marked, but he’d be strengthened, too. As Ralph rode on. he heard his own voice following him like an echo. “Let Collier's for February 14, 1933 him heal himself . . . You’re only wast¬ ing time.” And he saw the flash of scorn in the foreman's eyes. He was wrong, dead wrong. And Gus was right. A realization came to him, and it was like the end of a long and numbing pain: They don't have to survive alone. They can count on help. The colts and the horses ... Gus and young Dan . . . Even grim Ralph McKeever himself. The sun had burned the ground haze ofT; and now he looked up at the washed blue sky. He nudged his horse and jogged through a scattering of cedars. In the clear again, he searched for the thread of smoke. All he saw was the rimrock and the huge sweep of the up¬ per slopes. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called: “Dan! . . . Dan!” The fading echo went from wall to wall. Then there was only the small noise of Sheep Creek in the canyon’s silence. He urged his horses up a sharp grade and around a jutting boulder. As it climbed, the trail grew rougher. Then there was no trail at all. There was only a chaos of shattered rock studded by snapped and broken cedars. “Dan!” he called. “Dan!” Now there was a pleading in his voice. No answer came except the mocking echo. But his narrowed eyes fixed on an unshattered pine beside a massive boulder. He dismounted, unstrapped the saddlebag, and picked his way over the slide of rock. He called again, “Dan . . This time his voice was different, but the huddled figure in the huge rock’s shelter did not stir. He stepped across the charred sticks and bent over. “Dan,” he said quietly. At his touch the boy awoke. For an instant his startled eyes showed white. He scrambled to his feet, but at the first step he collansed. Then Ralph saw the bruised and blackened foot bursting out of a tattered sock. He slit the sock with his knife and pulled it ofT. fie opened the saddlebag, poured cold water on the sock, and bathed the swollen joint. The boy’s eyes opened lie looked at his father as i! from .i distance I he older man said, “You've got a bad loot, D. m It — it doesn't hurt.” “Hint? Whv, sure it hurts. It hurts plentv,” he said, pouring fresh water on the sock. “It's as big as a feed hag The bo\ looked down and his eves widened. “But it won’t stay that way,” Ralph said. “In a few days we'll have >ou as good as ever.” The boy sank back. “What 1 don’t see.” the older man said, “is how you got this far. Every lurch in the saddle would throw )ou on this foot.” “I fell ofT,” Dan answered. “Right here? Where you had fire¬ wood and this rock for shelter? That was lucky, Dan.” “No. I crawled here.” THE man looked again at his son, and now he saw the scarred hands and the torn clothing. As he dabbed at the ankle a muscle quivered in his cheek. “We — vve saw your smoke first thing this morning.” “Can 1 have a drink of water?” Dan asked. “Em thirsty.” “Sure you can. Em forgetting every¬ thing. There’s hot cofTec here, and sandwiches. Mary knew you would be hungry.” As Ralph unwrapped the package a grimy hand reached out. The first sand¬ wich went in three huge bites. “1 kept looking for the bull. Dad. Did you find him?” “Yes, vve did. Gus picked him up, halfway down the gulch.” “Where is Gus?” “In the corral. Doctoring your colt. Feather. He cut himself on the new fence.” “Bad?” Dan asked. “Yes, pretty bail. But we can take care of him. He was scared and hurt, but we’ll get him over it.” The boy seemed to forget the food in his hands. Slowly his eyes went up to his father. “Dad— if we help him — will he — will he have stamina?” Again the muscle quivered in the man's gaunt cheek. His deep-set eyes looked squarely at the boy. “Yes, he will, Dan. More than ever.” The boy swallowed the last of the ! sandwich. He rubbed his stomach. “Em still hungry,” he said. “Well, Mary will know what to do about that. We'd better start home. Em going to carry you to the horses.” His arms cradled the bov. “Easy now. Take it easy. Just put your arm around my shoulder.” Ralph stepped carefully through the broken rock and lifted the bov into the saddle. They started down the trail, taking it slowly, the sun warm as a blanket on their backs. “You all right?” the man asked. “We can stop and rest, anywhere.” “I’m all right.” Dan answered. They forded the creek and came out on the wide, green flats, where the wet grass gleamed in the sun. A magpie flew over, showing its white chevrons, and from somewhere a 1 bobolink sang his bubbling, dingdong song, over and over. “Summer is getting here at last,” the rancher said. “It's a late season. We had a long winter, but it’s over now.” He turned in the saddle. “You're not saving much, Danny. What’s on your mind?” The boy smiled. “Oatmeal and corn- bread,” he said, “bacon and pancakes. l‘m starved.” , 1 M * ■ % \ -G LOOK for Rupture Help A *-4 Try a Brooks Patented Air \ Cushion appliance. This mar- - f velous invention for most forms of reducibte rupture is GUAR- ^ ANTKF.I to l>rm« YOG hcav- enty comfort and security — day and night — at work and at ptay — or it costsyou NOTH- * 1 N G 1 Thousands happy. Light, neat-fitting. No hard pads or T I springs. For men. women, and children. Durable. cheap. Sent on trial to prove it. Not sold in stores. Beware of imitations. Write for Free Book on Rupture, no-risk triat order plan, and I^oof of Results. Ready for you NOW ! BROOKS APPLIANCE CO.. 407 A State St.. Marshall. Mich. For Discriminating Users Scientists. explorers and engineers choose Burgess Batteries wherelives depend on battery power, because thev are recognized as best bv the experts. Insist on using Burgess Bat¬ teries in your flashlight. 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68 Thv LiU I v ttriili* COM1MI 1> FROM PAGE 23 We t i* to the ear, with John J sit- Kiu m> Kuril en.twing Mother s can ing, ,>d I .i t fid t ted to drive and look at i i. i ,a \ . t the same time It never s0e*|*i,J to e'M\N their nmuK that the) i ii ■ i fed Ma\me loi John J.. ii p . toe nevveomer . r I I \l KID as last as we could, .nd vv hell we got out in iront ot Ii. hn I who lisps. I he entire W hite- head tube has gone to ( hieago to make a loi tune in a ia// hand She still held J hn J oo/inc in hei arms. “Aren't sou ing to Iced him dear/” He ate on the train She looked as though she had had quite enough ol her d. tiling bov lor a while Mothci studied her lor a moment. I hen she rose and dtopped the babv mio Mixmes lap ' > ou d better look : tci lam. de.u.' she said, smiling and f ssi'r- Maxine s cheek ' I doti't know th sc i i huh us new methods “ F or one wh had a vv , ned John J.s visit with such anticipation, she was ecituinl) get¬ ting i id ot him quicklv . "Oh.' M xme said. 'Cove John J. to me,” Father de¬ nial ded gi ii ill v “Cio .Oong. ’ Mother ordered. “ Ibis •s not a man s business.” She gave me a w .lining glance . . . she would have her wav in Pus matte . though I thought Maxine needed a vacation, anil it all seemed ci ue1 to me She had hoped lor her tree do'ii as in the old da\s belore Jack and k hu I We s.d up most ol the night in mv bedroom the babv slept in hers. She said that ivei the air at home was bel¬ ter, not so thin and sharp. She sard ev erv thing was better, and repeated this mam times, .s though to convince hersell She warned me shaking her finger, “Jo, have a good ti no I inish at the umversitv Be equipped to go out and make a living no vou ic not dependent on vour husband or vour tamiiv. I ook at me -I lei t school too soon and tor no sound reason, and now what am I? \ dependent!” “Did vou tight with Jack’” “Not at all. lie fought with nit'.'" “That's what Mother said,” I warned her. “She has no svmpathv.” “W e-ell.” she said slowly, with that face ol ti agedv she had used when she was in a high-sehool plav as the voting girl who was stage-struck and had to give up her love tor her art. “W'c-ell, I've let t him, hut I don't want them to know. I hev thev’ve had a period marriage. T hev ‘re like children in a paradise, and they don't know other people mav not he as luck) as they. Most people make mistakes, and then the\ are chained together forever. I want to keep this from them as long as I can. I onlv told vou because I had to tell someone, and it's onlv light that vou know so \ oil’ll understand, so vou’ll remember to enjoy vour lreedom while vou have it and not give it up, tool- ishlv.” She had always seemed so clear¬ headed and right, it was hard to hear such unreasonable talk. Mother always said there w.is no such element as luck in man lage. “Did he strike >011?” I asked. 1 had in mind a scene ol tamiiv chaos in the kitchen like something out of the old silent films. “Strike me! 1 wish he had. It was nothing so simple.” “Was he cruel, then?” How terrible to think that she and Jack had come to such a situation when, in the beginning, 1 had thought that nothing could sepa¬ rate them. “Not Jack. Jack's never openly cruel, hut he sits and waits. Sheep can be ex¬ pensive, vou know, and much more im¬ portant than wives, especially when vou’rc just starting out in the nastv busi¬ ness. It makes me sick, Jo. when I think ol Jack’s education he gradu¬ ated with honors— and all the chances he had, and now he’s rotting awav in the mountains and expecting me to like it and rot with him because he admires that lile, and his father says he needs him. We have our own lives! Why, John J. acts like an animal most of the time, like a lamb or something.” “He’s awfully cute.” 'Tin avvtullv voung to be a mother, too. It isn’t altogether fair.” “I could just cat him.” “Actuallv, he’s homelv as a mud fence. He looks like Jack's father.” But she was pleased, too. that 1 found John J . attractive. I don’t know what Maxine expected of her family and her old triends. Mother said Maxine thought of herself as being a bride still, in the middle ol an everlasting hones moon. She may have thought of hersell as the same girl she had been before her marriage, hut there was an undeniable change which even 1, not wishing to see it, had to admit. She even looked different. A babv, a husband, and three years had done that, hut she didn't know it. She did not think in the same way, either, but she kept trying, and 1 wanted to believe she could have whatever it was she needed most. When vou are girls together, sleeping in the same house, sharing vour plans and fears, you think nothing can hap¬ pen to the other that does not happen to yourself as well. S ou seem an ever¬ lasting part of that one lile. The mem¬ ories, the temper, the years of similar background are not changed bv a sep¬ aration of miles. MAXINE clung to this ideal, too, hut I began to sense, largelv be¬ cause Mother was so firm in her stand, that something new had been added, something bigger and grander than the old days, the old ways. With Maxine, it was Jack, and this had changed her without her knowing it. I ake the matter of golf. She planned to plav every morning, but by the time she got John J. going lor the d.tv, and we drove out to the club with him in a jump seat between us— Mother made no offers to he a bab> sitter — she could not give her full attention to golf. She had missed all the carefree ways of her girlhood and brooded about them up there in the mountains. Golf had be¬ come a svmbol of all she felt she had missed. She could not think of what she had gained. Golf was the big thing, and Jack and John J, had no right to take it from her. Still, by the time we reached the fifth green, she seemed bored. She was forcing herself to get her money’s worth, and she was disap¬ pointed. The same was true w ith tennis. We put John J. in his stroller. Maxine had been country-club champion. Now she kept trying to watch the baby with one eye. ONE day, Bobby Hendricks, who was engaged to this Canadian girl with a lisp, came over from another court, and I sat on the side lines watching them play. For the first time, Maxine seemed to be as she always had been, laughing and playing hard. Bobby had admired her a lot and praised her for everything, joking with her. I did not want, how¬ ever. to fall into the position of baby sitter, either. Not that m> nephew was less than divine, but it doesn’t look good to he sitting with a babv w hen you want to play tennis. You appear like an il¬ legal member of the married set or a high-sehool kid who does it for money, and the position is not profitable. John J. was bored. We had to leave, but Bobbv walked to the car with us, and said Fie’d drop around that evening and talk about old times. “My girl’s with her tamiiv for the summer, so I'm fairl) foot-loose,” he explained. “Wonderful,” Maxine said, and she talked all the way home about how it was just like old times, after all, hut John J. yelled for a banana as it was past his lunchtime. He kept up a drool¬ ing dirge that made me sleepy, and 1 heard little of what Maxine said, hut I saw her face. Of course, I never believed Maxine had any real intentions about Bobby Hendricks. 1 am sure she was not aware of any. She was thinking that he’d alwavs been a good date, jolly and clever and an easv spender. He had taken her to one of the proms, and a girl remembers that, and he gave her her first orchid. I think his attention now made her feel like a girl without any cares, and, while Mother called it a clear ease of regression, I could not see anv harm in it. “It's not a real date or anv thing like that,” Maxine said when we were sip¬ ping iced tea after lunch and John J. was snoring like a goat, upstairs in his crib. (It sounded like a plane very low- over the house,) “It’s just for old times, vou know.” “You’re a wife and mother, Maxine. You can t afford this girlish vvhimsey.” Mother said. “Mother!” I said. “You know Maxine isn't like that!” “Uh-hunh.” Mother said, putting on the face she uses when she talks about what happened to her in I^aris when she was a girl — very wise, ver> vvittv, and very sane. too. “Honestly. Mother, you are quaint,” Maxine said. ' Just because I'm married doesn’t mean 1 have to be a corpse or something.” “Old times arc lovely, but don’t try to trap ►them like mink to w arm you, dear. Ihink ot them fondly over cock¬ tails. Remember that it was old times that gave vou Jack and the babv, and CollirrX for I-Ybruarj J4, 1933 ‘’Yon gave me permission. 1 asked if T could Use the card table to make a big \ alciitiiie collier s heart ami vou told me yes. Kemember?" scott brown

Page 505

69 now it's new times and even more won- deiful. if you’ll stop acting like a bride and be a mother and a wife It will be every bit as marvelous- only diflcient, dear.” I was full of awe for Mother. She made sense. ”1 hate it so,” Maxine said. ‘Von think Jack’s so perfect, but you ought to try living wiih him up there. He’s no happy college boy, now.” “Your father's a Republican, and that was never easy for me to live with,” Mother said. “But the life up there. Those ranch women. They’re so settled and com¬ fortable, and he expects me to act like one of them, frowzy and satisfied, going to the League of Women Voters, talk¬ ing about recipes until you think you’ll go completely mad.” ‘‘You hate it because they’re better cooks than you are,” Mother said blandly, not daring to look at me, be¬ cause 1 thought this was cruel, and it was not like Mother to be like that, nor was it easy for her. “But it’s me — Maxine, myself. Not someone Jack owns. I’m myself.” Max¬ ine put her chin in the air, looking frag¬ ile and pathetic. “It’s no longer you, yourself, alone — Miss Maxine Farrell, her father’s dar¬ ling, her sister’s idol,” Mother said, angrier than 1 have ever seen her. “It's you — Mrs. Jack Staunton, and that means you and Jack and that snoring sea lion upstairs, John J. It's no use try¬ ing to make things the way they were, because it's too late, and later than you think. About time you went home be¬ fore your fine husband gets range-happy himself and trots down to see some bright lights in Denver. You think he won’t?” “All he wants to do is hammer around the house and teach John J. to box. All the time, he’s down on the floor swatting like a man in a paper bag, and the baby’s what he wants, not me,” Maxine said. She rose in her proudest manner and went upstairs to turn John J. onto his stomach. Mother and 1 looked at each other, and Mother said, '‘It's hard to learn. You like to be the little bride everyone loves, so romantic, all white and starry- eyed, and you don't want to give in. You want to hang onto your little mo¬ ment. Oh, I remember — and all I’ve said to her, Jo, was what my mother had to say to me.” “She counts on us to help her, and we just hurt her,” 1 said. T his was nothing like the romantic life I had supposed Maxine had for herself with Jack, noth¬ ing like what 1 had thought I would have, too, someday. “She needs to be hurt,” Mother said, and blew her nose and went into the pantry where she likes to stand when she needs a good cry. 1 left her. J think she was remembering about being a bride herself, and she was loving every moment of this memory. MAXINE shoveled food into John J. She had her hair up in bobby pins and pink strawberry cream on her face just as she used to on the night of a big date, except that now her time was not her own. She had to stuff food into John J., who seemed to inhale it. Also, she could not take all the time she pleased in the bath because she had to bathe him and do the business of the drink of water and a story, making quack-quack and otnk-oink sounds until her throat was raw, and then murmur¬ ing the prayer to the guardian angel. 1 looked in on her then, and she was standing beside the crib looking down Collier’s for February 14, 1933 at John J , who slept with his rump in the air, clutching a viwcd-ofl I eddy hear that had been hers when she was a baby. She stood there, rooted, her body in th.it weary attitude vou have seen in paintings of peasant women with their children. I think she had never felt quite like this heloie She was alone there, and she did not want to move. “lie’s here,” I whispered to her. “Waiting on the porch. You'd heller gel to him before the folks insult him to death. The yellow convertible, the white buckskin shoes — all ready tor the attack.” “What’s the matter?” she asked. “W hat do y ou mean?” How could I tell her that 1 did not want to see her changed, a kind of fallen idol? You never say things like that. “I don't want you and Jack to lose each other,” 1 said. SHE came to my room to finish dress¬ ing. '1 want to have some fun,” she explained. “We can all drive out to Mickey's.” “I'm going to a French movie with Charlie.” “Charlie Slater — little Charlie with the bucktceth?” “He's got his growth. His teeth are okay now,” I said haughtily. “Besides, Mickey’s burned down, and everyone goes to the malt shop these days.” “A malt shop!” She was disgusted. “But 1 want a good hand. 1 want to dance all night.” “And the police patrol the road up at Luther’s Grove. You can’t park there any more.” “Oh, nonsense,” she said, blushing. “I happen to think you’re asking for it,” I said finally. “I think, personally, it’s a disgrace for a married woman, a mother, to try to hold onto an old flame who is engaged to another.” 1 had never spoken to her like this, woman to woman, and she was shocked. 1 was sore, too, that she mentioned Charlie as though he were still a crazy boy with poor teeth, and 1 was ashamed of her, Maxine, who had been the per¬ fect sister, almost always. 1 wanted her to be on Mother’s side — and on mine, now. All evening I felt uneasy about her, as though I had lost her somehow, and 1 must hurry to find her. At the malt shop, the crowd was younger. The mar¬ ried ones stayed home, had the neigh¬ bors over for television, drank beer and ate cheese sandwiches in their kitchens. That was what the proper, married ones liked. Besides. Bobby Hendricks was supposed to he a little dangerous these days, trying to sow his wild oats just before bis wedding, and everyone was going to be relieved once he settled down. Now he was having his last fling, and that could be dangerous, and Max¬ ine was in this wild mood. Also, she was naive. She had mar¬ ried young and had been protected hv her family and then In Jack. Bobby Hendricks was no longer a high-school boy. I knew, too, that Mother was try¬ ing every way she knew to make Max¬ ine go hack to Jack. “Doesn't Jack write to her?*' Charlie asked me on the way home from the movie. “Sure, but she won’t read them,” 1 said. “He writes to Mother. It's hard on all of us. I ought to go home so I'll be there when she comes in. You can never tell.” Charlie understood everything about women and took me home at once. I went upstairs to my room remembering how often 1 had lain awake to hear Maxine tell I the p.ulicv Sf . w home I coi t heat hci in her bed >tn 1 opened l he door and theie sf. w ,s sitting on the bed stifl we. trine bet I • ! u « * silk and the blue veil ol sequins ovci her eves. She was holding that big slob John J . crooning over him with tca.s running down her cheeks John J grunted like a pig and tiled to cram his entire list into his mouth “What happened ' What's the mat- tei ? Is he sick '’* f asked, lrantic She shook her head slovvlv in w uncle John J. opened one gl.issv eve and stared at me and asked vei> plainlv toi a banana. “It's too late— go to sleep,” I said Maxine muttered something about giving him his own wav this one time, the dear, blessed little lamb, and 1 fol¬ lowed them down to the kitchen, where he sat in his high chair, wide awake, very handsome and pink and solemn, messing up the banana. “You’re mad, Maxine," I said. “That Bobby Hendricks,” Maxine moaned, haliwav between tears and laughter. Her face was flushed. She sat at the kitchen table, her palms to her cheeks to cool them. “He's ccr- tainlv changed. I mean, he seems aw¬ fully childish, don’t you think?” “He acts like a ver> old college hoy,” I said. “But he hasn't changed. That's the point.” She frowned. “He always seemed so wonderful. 1 used to think he was for me, until I met Jack, and then up there at the ranch, I thought of what fun we used to have and how grand it might be to go out with him again. He’s always been fond of me, though that seems silly now. But he did give me my first orchid — remember?” “That was ages ago.” SHF. nodded. “Yes. It was so funny tonight, Jo. I thought it would be perfect to do all the old things, but do you know— I can't remember what I ever saw in him!” Her ev es were lull of amazement. She knew she had changed, and she found this change pleasant, at last. To me, she seemed even dearer than when she had been a girl teaching me to dance. This time, she had taught me the difference between a girl and a woman, a lesson it was just as well to learn early in lite. “Didn't you have a good time?” 1 asked. “Not really. Everything’s dull here without Jack. Do you know lie’ll often come in otf the range in the middle of the day just to see me? And I never would have thought Bobby would — Why, I'm Jack’s wife, and we've got John J., and you'd think Bobby being engaged and all would have some manners.” She laughed. “I guess 1 asked for it. But. honestly, Jo. I was bored. Really bored! And with Bobby Hendricks, the gayest blade in town.” Whatever her grievances against Jack, real or imagined, they were now forgotten. She had assumed a proper, matronly attitude. The honevmoon was over. For im own part, having seen her dilemma. I hoped when my time came I would he wiser. I was sleepy, hardly hearing a word of her running account of the dangers threatening a good marriage. I picked up John J.. who was groggy with sleep. Maxine followed me, murmuring about train schedules and packing, the talk of a well-married woman, and there was nothing of the little bride about her now. Love, until now a childish and vaguely pink dream, had suddenly be¬ come a practical reality to both of us in that moment. “My eyes are thankful !” Mrs. James A. Hartley of West Hv atts- vi lie , Maryland , writes, "Our first *•- vision set was bard on the eves but our new- Syl vania TV with H.U.n- LlGHT* is easy to watch for hours Right, Mrs. Hartley' HaLoLigHT — the frame of light that’s kinder to your eyes is the greatest advance ever made in eye-comfort viewing. And only Syl vcima TV has it. See the beautiful new 1953 Syl vania models — with HaloLight and many other great features — at your nearest Svl- vnnia TV Dealer — today . Svlvania Electric Products Inc., Radio and Television Division, Buffalo, N Y. with a JB-8 Stone The right stone is a NORTON Abrasives CRYSTOlON"K with coarse and fine sides oil-filled at the factory for your convenience without added cost J2 45 at hardware stores The "know-how" on all kitchen, household garden and shop tools is n the "HOW TO SHARPEN' Book — 32 illustrated pages that take all the mystery out of sharpening For your copy, send 10c to Behr-Manning Troy, N Y . Dept. C-2 ** rc j u«in, As /BIM* MA \ ^EfW-MyVN/NG di*: iron oJ .VO/trOM Company The way thousands af physicians and dentists recommend Here's Why . . . Anacinlv is like o doctor's prescription. Thai is, Anacin contains not one but a combination of medi- colly proved active ingredients. Anacin is speciolly compounded ta give FAST, LONG LASTING relief. Don't woit. Buy Anacin today.

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COPTER COMMUTING You'll Be Doing It Soon By FRANK TINSLEY Limited pas.-enger service will begin this year. And helicopter makers are working right now on plans for big sky busses to speed the farmer to market, the salesman to customers, and the housewife to shops Collier’s for February 14, 1933 70

Page 507

HERE COME THE COMJIUTERS: RUSH HOUR IN THE SKY . A copter commuter’s view of New York City from the East River near Williamsburg bridge (facing north, with Manhattan on the left): (1) Bell 32- passenger copler-hns from an outlying airport. (2) midtown rooftop heliport. (3, K 3) heliports on East River pier roofs. (6 and 8) Sikorsky taxi copiers. (7) combined seaplane depot and heliport. (9) a 40-passenger Hiller bus arriving from Connecticut. (10) Piaseeki commuter copter, bringing 83 to 90 passengers from Long Island: the passenger pod under main fuselage may he detached at landing place and towed away on own wheels like trailer V. 8 1HAVE just had a preview of tomorrow’s air travel. Not the world-girdling jet flights of the major aviation prophets, but the kind of local everyday trips you and 1 will be making within the next 10 years — shopping, business, going-to-sce- mothcr hops in big bus-type helicopters. I traveled on three helicopter airlines— in Los Angeles, Chicago and New York — which already lly regular schedules. At present these scheduled flights carry only mail, but sometime this year all three airlines plan to begin copter passenger serv¬ ice. And helicopter makers already arc working on huge military transports — some of them designed to carry ultimately 40 or more passengers. 4hc.sc ‘ giant aircraft arc the prototypes of the copter- busses of the future. 4 hey arc going to revolu¬ tionize your life, just as the automobile and the railroad transformed your father’s and grandfa¬ ther s lives. The copter-bus, with its higher speeds and beeline flights, will bring the farmer another I step closer to his market, the salesman to his cus¬ tomer, and the housewife to the big-city shops. At least two thirds of the time most of us now spend in travel will be handed back to us in added hours for ; production or leisure. Suppose you are a farmwife, living outside a small Indiana town. You now spend half an hour or more going by bus or car to the county seat to shop. In the same time, a copter-bus could take you to Fort Wayne, Indianapolis or Louisville, where the selection is wider and bargains more plentiful. You would just drive to the town heli¬ port — a small, 1‘enccd-in enclosure with an auto¬ matic beacon and possibly a passenger shelter. The copter-bus would take you right to the center of the big city’s shopping district, landing on a mid¬ town roof — the post office, depot or a smart hotel. You lunch in a restaurant, shop to your heart’s content, and return home in plenty of time to get dinner. If you live farther west, where distances are greater or mountains and livers now force long, surface detours, the time saved would be multi¬ plied. Living over, instead of around, the hills and streams, the copter-bus would reduce tedious day¬ long jaunts to an easy hour or two. A simple signal, like a railroad stop Hag, could make every ranch house an air-bus station, forever ending the loneli¬ ness and isolation. The severest winters would lose their terrors. In an emergency, copters even now can hover above newly drifted snowbanks and lower supplies to your porch roof or upstairs win¬ dow— or evacuate sick or injured members ot your family without touching the ground. Hydraulic winches, strap-on harnesses and attachable litters long have been in use. In Korea, the fast, eomtort- ablc movement of the wounded b\ helicopter has saved thousands ol soldiers who otherwise might have died belore doctors could reach them. With proper landing gear, a helicopter can set down on almost any kind of surface l and or w ater, roads or rooftops, snow. mud, deep grass or growing crops: they are all alike to the rotary-wing pilot. The copter can lly fast or slow, high or low As Lawrence Bell, pioneer helicopter producer, once remarked, “It is the onl\ aircraft in existence that can make a flight six inches high and twelve inches long— then retrace its course backward and land like a leather!" 1 can testify personally to the time saved by cop¬ ter travel. In Los Angeles I Hew in an S 51 mail carrier from airport to downtown rooltop in less than 10 minutes; by automobile, it is a traflie-buck- ing, 50-minute drive. 1 made a similar trip in Chicago, in about the same time. In New York, 1 71 ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR

Page 508

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THE ELMO COMPANY DEPT. 3CL2 DAVENPORT, IOWA B MtATHiNO i* easier choking spasms of bronchial asthma arc reduced when you inhale the soothing aromatic fumes of Dr Si h i f f m aim’s ASTHMA- DOK — largest selling in¬ halant, year after year. ^ Try easy - to - use A ST H M A DOK at al) drug stores in U S & Can¬ ada, in pow der, c igarette or pipe mixture L form. You breathe more easily when you use ASTHMADOR * DOG HOUSE OCCUPANTS! D n t (w. ii the dog house with your dog' Give hm Rival Dos; Food' Body- building :\i it pius n urishin.g .grains Satural flavor. vitamins minerals Depend on Rival. Ice is v u: K g sest sensible price saves you RIVAL DOG FOOD Now START A PAYING BUSINESS by telephone and mail ! Collier’s offers both men and women an opportunity to make a substantial, spare- time income by telephone, mail or per¬ sonal eall>. l ake care ot new and renewal subscriptions tor (.'OLLIER'S. THE AMERIC AN MAGAZINE, \\ OMAN'S HOME COMPANION and all popular magazines. Eor details, mail u post curd to — Independent Agency Division THE CROWELl-COLLIER PUBLISHING COMPANY 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. flew from an East River pier to a Biidgcport, Connecticut, aircraft plant in 40 minutes; the return trip by stand¬ ard transportation took two hours. The time gained on the copter hop permit¬ ted me to lunch, interview several addi¬ tional people and still get back to the city before dark, had 1 made the return trip by copter, the saving would have been that much greater. Over Same Routes as Air Mail Were these flights just stunts? Not at all. The flights in Los Angeles and Chi¬ cago were made on existing copter air¬ lines flying regularly scheduled mail trips. The other hop could have been; one of New York Airways’ postal runs parallels the course I flew. These three helicopter airlines fly over federally as¬ signed routes hundreds of miles long, and they pick up and deliver air mail at scores of scattered heliports several times daily. In England, British Euro¬ pean Airways’ copters have flown pas¬ sengers and mail between London and Birmingham, and CardilT and Liverpool since early 1950. Across the English Channel, Sabcna Airlines carries the mail on whirling wings throughout Bel¬ gium. The granddaddy of them all, Los An¬ geles Airways, has more than five years of successful service behind it and has been called the laboratory of helicopter operations. Don’t let that label fool you, however. LAA is no test-tube ex¬ periment. Serving about 5,000,000 per¬ sons in an area the size of Rhode Island, it delivers mail daily to dozens ot subur¬ ban cities just as promptly as to the downtown Los Angeles business dis¬ tricts. It has carried more than a billion letters since it started in 1947, speeding up their delivery by 24 hours or more. Treading closely on LAA’s heels, Helicopter Air Service of Chicago is starting its fourth year of air-mail op¬ eration. It is about the same size as the older line and, allowing for differences in climate and geography, functions in about the same way. Despite the Windy City’s severe winters, its little Bcll-47 copter postmen boast a 97 per cent completion of their appointed rounds. The junior member of the big three. New York Airways, commenced oper¬ ations last October in vs hat is undoubt¬ edly destined to become the lushest helicopter transport field in the world. Starting with a triangular mail shuttle among the big city’s scattered airports - — La Ouardia and ldlcwild on Long Island and Newark at Newark, New Jersey it is rapidly extending its routes to cover the entire industrial and resi¬ dential area of Greater New York. All three airlines soon will move from the all-mail phase of development to that of combined mail-and-passenger service. As fast as new ships become available, the Los Angeles and Chicago airlines are replacing the early S-5ls and Bell-47s with the larger Sikorsky S-55s; New York Airways has used S-55s from the start. These intermedi¬ ate-sized machines have a much greater carrying capacity and can seat up to eight passengers. Although this air¬ craft’s Korean service has proved it a sale, rugged helicopter, it still carries too few persons to make its commercial operation very profitable; but all hands realize that a beginning must be made, and limited S-55 passenger service will be started sometime this year. New York Airways will probably start the ball rolling with a 20-minute shuttle between New York Inter¬ national (ldlcwild) and Newark air¬ ports, costing about $6. Compare this with the present three-hour, $3.50 bus trip, with its midtown transfer and four baggage handlings! Or the through trip by taxi, which cuts the time to a little over an hour, hut ups the tariff to $18! In Los Angeles, the initial phase will consist of several round trips daily be¬ tween International Airport and the cities of Long Beach, Riverside, Santa Ana and San Bernardino. Passengers will be landed alongside their planes in a third of the present road time. Chicago’s Helicopter Air Service hopes that larger and more economic machines will come along soon enough to permit skipping the S-55 phase en¬ tirely. “In this area,” president T. Ha- mil Reidy explains, “intercity runs arc the logical introduction to passenger service.” He points out that his present northernmost stop, Waukegan, is al¬ most hallway from Chicago to Milwau¬ kee. In the other direction, Detroit, Cleveland and Toledo — all important traffic centers — are within a 300-milc run. With these facts in mind, Reidy is eying 12- to 24-seat military types to link the cities by helicopter. At least three copter models in the 12- to 24-scat class are now being built. The Piasecki Work Horse has been test¬ flying for the Air Force since last April. A Bell submarine hunter and a Sikorsky assault transport will make their offi¬ cial bows this year. A fourth copter transport, Piasecki’s monster XH-I6, big ns an airliner and with a civil po¬ tential of 52 passengers, will be ready about the same tune. Under speeded- up military testing, the bugs should be worked out of all four models within two years. Commercial versions should be ready in four. In addition, several entirely new types of helicopters are in the design stage. Bell and Sikorsky are consider¬ ing gas-turbine-driven models, and Pia¬ secki is reported already building one. This even larger version of the XH-16 will carry a separate freight or passen¬ ger pod, hung beneath the main cabin and increasing the passenger-carrying potential to 85 or 90. Equipped with built-in wheels, the pod can be de¬ tached and towed away like a trailer truck. Western helicopter producers like Hiller, Hughes and McDonnell are trying to by-pass today’s heavy mechan¬ ical transmissions mounted in the fuse¬ lage. Instead they hope to build simpler, more powerful copters driven by jet engines mounted at the tips of the rotor blades. The prototype of one of these weight- lifting monsters, Howard Hughes's XH- 17, is already flying. The big copters arc designed primarily to ferry heavy military cargoes and have been dubbed flying cranes. Civil versions also are contemplated, however. A projected twin jet — Hughes-205, a civil version of the XH-I7 — is a double-deck 70- passenger job. Stanley Hiller’s 40-pas- senger Skybus is based on a similar flying-crane design; it has a two-bladed rotor, powered by twin ram-jets at each blade tip. Several other copter makers are ex¬ pected to enter the civil air transport field, but for the moment they arc too preoccupied with military orders to plan for civil production. For example. Doman Helicopters, Incorporated, of Danbury, Connecticut, is building cop¬ ter ambulances for the armed forces; converted to civilian use, they would carry seven or eight passengers, plus cargo and mail. McCulloch Motors Corporation of Los Angeles, California, is building a two-passenger helicopter for the Navy. Cessna Aircraft Com¬ pany, Incorporated, of Wichita, Kan¬ sas, and Kaman Aircraft Corporation of Windsor Locks, Connecticut, also are building small helicopters for the Navy. Even with the early models now available, the helicopter airlines have proved the safety and dependability of this type of transport. They have flown millions of miles on tight schedules and have made innumerable take-offs and landings on tiny heliports — including more than 100,000 on rooftops alone. Los Angeles Airways has carried more than 3,000 passengers as guests on reg¬ ular postal runs. And nearly 2,000 paying passengers have ridden British European Airways’ routes. Count in the unnumbered thousands of military personnel toted in service copters and you have quite a volume of passenger traffic to date, almost all without injury. The reason for this remarkable safety record lies in the basic design of the helicopter. Even with power off, a heli¬ copter’s rotor blades continue to whirl, f driven by a natural effect of weight and * air resistance called autorotation. This will not keep the copter in the air in¬ definitely, but it slows the rate of de¬ scent and permits complete control right up to the moment of touchdown. In effect, its autorotating wings provide the copter with a built-in parachute. Unlike the conventional airplane, which can glide only forward, the heli¬ copter can descend in any direction — forward, sideways or backward. I have made autorotational touchdowns on i roofs and heliports in fair weather, heavy rain and wind squalls without detecting any appreciable difference from normal, power-on landings. An Important Safety Factor The helicopter has other unique safety characteristics. As the last few feet of its descent are vertical, it settles down in its own tracks. Thus any space big enough to contain a copter — with a small margin all around — permits a perfectly safe landing, from which the machine can take off again as soon as its engine has been repaired. Like many conventional airplanes, two independent power plants double j the safety factor in flight. One may conk out, but you still have the other ( to get down on. A twin-engined mili- ; tary assault copter-transport is now be- ] ing built by Sikorsky, a division of ( United Aircraft Corporation, and will { be ready for flight testing early this \ year. It is reported to carry up to 24 L passengers and cruise at 125 miles an t hour. Converted to civil use, this ship e w’ould make an ideal medium-sized bus jj or intercity copter. Probably the most intensive use of *< the big transport helicopters will be L made in the commuter areas surround- ; c ing great metropolitan centers. Twice * t, a day the average suburbanite dribbles \ away 30 to 60 minutes of his life get- c ting to and from his city job. Traveling e by copter will give him more time to c spray his rosebushes or just plain relax d Colliers for February 14, 1953 ( I

Page 509

f ular mail trips — and made 100,000 safe rooftop landintfs 73 — a prospect that should interest any country dweller. What will commuting by copter be like? Take a typical suburb like Tar- rvtown, 25 miles up the Hudson River from New York City. It could, of course, just as easily be San Fernando, outside Los Angeles, Lake Forest, out¬ side Chicago, or Falls Church, Virginia, outside Washington. The running time from Tarrytown to mid-Manhattan by train is about 40 to 50 minutes; that means getting up pretty early and rac¬ ing through breakfast. But if you trav¬ eled by copter, you could get at least a quarter hour’s extra sleep, cat more leisurely and still have plenty of time to get to the Tarrytown heli¬ port. It might be down on the river front — a large, single-story structure, surmounted by a con¬ crete landing deck. With a glance at your watch, you would file into the lobby and up the stairs with the rest of the eight-thirty regulars. The previous flight has taken oil and your copter is just coming in. It is a big 72-scatcr, especially de¬ signed for commuter traffic. The body is divided into compart¬ ments, each with individual side dcors in the European railway style. You swing into one, settle knee to knee with your neigh¬ bors, and run through the morn¬ ing’s headlines. A scant quarter hour later, the towers of Man¬ hattan stream past the windows and the copter settles down on a piertop, one of a number of heli¬ ports spotted like express subway stations along both the Hudson and East rivers. Thus your office may be just a few blocks away from the nearest heliport, and a brisk walk would get you there by nine. The trip has been short, com¬ fortable and convenient. Later flights will bring in the big ex¬ ecutives from their estates 100 miles or more away. Around eleven still more leisurely wave will descend, this time women shoppers and matinee- goers. Throughout the day, lesser copter currents will ebb and flow until the great five-o’clock migration turns the flood tide backward to the suburbs. The advent of the helicopter age will not mean the end of present surface transportation. Far from it. The cop¬ ter is expensive to build and operate. It cannot possibly handle more than a fraction of the vast daily traffic that pours in and out of our great cities. What it can do, however, is stretch out practical commuting distances from the present 30 or 40 miles to 150 or so. I It will appeal principally to people who enjoy country living and can afford its higher fares. It will have an emergency l value to the man who has missed his usual train, or has to get home or to \ town quickly. For businessmen or trav¬ elers, it will cut down the time wasted in short intercity runs. Calculations show' that the helicop¬ ter is the fastest form of present-day ♦medium-distance transportation — city Iccntcr to city center. At distances up to 200 miles, it can beat the 300-mile- an-hour conventional airplane because of the need to take a bus or taxi at either end of the airplane’s run. When faster copters go into service, this marginal distance will increase to a possible 500 Collier’s for February 14, 1953 miles. Since some 60 per cent of all air¬ line passenger travel is 400 miles or under, the potential usefulness of to¬ morrow’s helicopters becomes evident. Again, however, helicopters will not put fast regional airlines out of business. Instead small taxi copters will cut the airport travel time as wxll as the over¬ all time spent on airplane travel. Clarence Belinn, president of Los Angeles Airways, insists that the heli¬ copter’s function is to complement, not compete with, the automobile, railroad and fixed-wing airline. “1 can see fu¬ ture transcontinental travel,” he says, ‘‘as a joint copter-airplane service. Pres¬ ent municipal fields are being located COLLIER’S AL RAMEE farther and farther away from centers of population; there, land values are low and the nuisance element nil. These focal fields will serve a whole group of cities within a four- or fivc-hundred- milc arc. The traveler someday will leave Los Angeles or San Francisco via a rooftop heliport, be carried by a feeder copter to the central airport, and transferred to his jet liner. He will speed across the country at 500 miles an hour, land at another focal field and be whisked by copter to his hotel in midtown Washington, Philadelphia or New York. It will be a straight- through process in which passengers are drawn in from dozens of cities and towns, sped across continents or oceans and scattered to their individual des¬ tinations.” This concept will take at least 10 years to get under way. “However,” Belinn goes on, “it takes more than a good copter to make a helicopter airline. Better radio must be devised, all-weather flying made safer, and satisfactory passenger-handling techniques evolved. Above all, proper heliports must be established — rooftop depots capable of handling mass traffic rapidly and efficiently. If the helicopter cannot pick up and drop passengers at their ultimate midtown destinations, it loses some of its natural advantages over the fixed-wing airplane.” Copter operators, civic officials and businessmen are all aware of this fact In New York, the commissioner of marine and aviation, l.dwaid I C ava- nagh, Jr., has worked out far-reaching plans adapted to the city ’s geography “ 1 he waters surrounding the various boroughs arc natural helicopter fly- ways,” he says, “and an extensive pro¬ gram of piertop heliports is under way.” A commercial heliport on Bier 41, Last River, has been operating for nearly four years and is the oldest in the world. A concrete landing deck will crown Bier 57, now under construction in the North River. Other shore-line instal¬ lations, designed exclusively for heli¬ copter and seaplane use, arc in the design stage and will be spotted around Manhattan and the other boroughs. Architects’ drawings show' handsome waiting rooms, restaurants and other modern depot facilities. The Port of New York Au¬ thority recently paid a group of experts $70,000 to study the probable volume and pattern of future helicopter service in the New York area. The group fore¬ cast a three-stage helicopter de¬ velopment program. It predicted that helicopter passenger service among New York's three air¬ ports will start this year or next; that intercity flights will be in¬ augurated between 1955 and 1957, and that suburban service will begin between 1963 and 1965. By 1975, the study group predicted, helicopters will be fly¬ ing more than 6,000.000 passen¬ gers, 40.500,000 pounds of mail, and 6,500,000 pounds of cargo in New York and the surround¬ ing area. In Chicago, the lake front also provides sites for copter land¬ ings. In the built-up business sec¬ tions of most big cities, however, rooftops offer the only safe, con¬ venient locations for heliports. Unless incorporated in new buildings or developments, these may prove quite expensive, although hotel and other concessions could cut operat¬ ing costs. In downtown Los Angeles, a heliport atop the Pacific Mutual Life building already has been leased to L.A. Airways. Connected by bridge to an ad¬ joining hotel, it brings the heart of the business district within half an hour or so of any of Los Angeles' satellite cities. The copter’s effect upon rural land values will be tremendous. Villages well beyond present commuting limits will become expensive estate areas as the circles of 60-minute air travel spread out and overlap. Many lovely but secluded wilderness areas will be opened to settlement. Imagine, after a hot day in the city, being able to fly home to a mountain lake or seashore hamlet in plenty of time for a cool swim before dinner! The city dweller will find the heli¬ copter of equal benefit. Special runs will take sportsmen to their favorite haunts in the morning and bring them back at nightfall. Surf casters and trout fishermen, hunters and hikers will spend week ends at spots now reached only on long vacations. Skiers will be able to follow the snow to distant slopes. Indeed, an amazing new era of local air travel is closer than we even dreamed a few years ago. j^Jk^Jk. a Above — Cooitol lundown at Short Sondi Sfote Pork in Oregon. Below — Ploy-time on the beoch ot Seoiide, Oregon. On Your 1953 Holidays enjoy Oregon's genuine Western hospitality and her many kinds of scenic lands. Plan to explore Oregon fully, front Pacific Ocean beaches to mountain -top snow playlands. For every vacation activity there are lavish natural settings- — sparkling lakes, streams and waterfalls . . . deep-walled gorges. . . colorful wildflowers . . . quiet evergreen forests . . . open plateaus . . . verdant valleys. Come soon. We invite you to happy Oregon days this year. SEE A LL OF BY TRAVELING SCENIC HIGHWAYS Send Coupon for free Oregon Picture Booklet Travel Information Oiv., Room 153 Stole Highwoy Oeportment, Solem, Oregon. Pleoie lend free booklet tor Name — I Addreii s ! City - Stole _ .Zone.

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C 'ol tiers Editorials JOHN F1SCHETTI Now’s the Time to Clean Up r \ FRY NOW AND THE N somebody comes alone with a device or scheme which is so sim¬ ple and wonder! ullv useful that the inevitable reaction is Win didn't somebodv think of it be- Utl* 1 his remark was probablv made about the invention ol the wheel, and repeated periodi¬ cal!} down through the ages to the introduction ol the beer-can opener and the pa\ -as-\ ou-go tax plan Now we are going to sa\ it once again ■hi ut a svstem for increasing government clli- cieiiev suggested bv a man named John (Tamer. 1 or the last dozen vears Mr (Tamer has been coveiing a rather unglamorous beat for the Washington IXulv News He doesn’t interview congressmen, or second-guess the President. He writes lor and about the capital’s anonv- mous thousands ol government clerks, stenog¬ raphers and other civil-service employees. In the course of his dailv rounds Mr. (Tamer has had plentv ol chances to observe the everv- d.iv UuKtiomnc ol the federal maclunerv. trom the bare, u Icvd down to tic lowest echelons \nd si>me vheie along the line he hit upon a I kelv solution t> the extravagance, lrresponsi- bibtv and general boondoggling which he kept running into It is smiplv this: run the govern¬ ment. which is the country's biggest business, the wav anv sensible and orderlv business of ain si/e is i tin I he picsent tradition and practice in govern¬ ment in to give a department or bureau head a sum ol monev lor the v ear's operation, alter which he in on his own l \ccpt in rare instances, there is no attempt *.t systematic budgeting. Bureaus are divided into divisions, branches, sections and units I ach ot these subdivisions has a supervisor. I here are about 1(H), 000 su¬ pervisors in all. But, according to the estimate of Mr. Cramer and his newspaper, only 5,000 of those 1 ()(),()()() supervisors ever get to see a working budget for the outfit that they manage. So what do the 95.000 do? They spend, most of them, because there is no curb on spending and because, according to the current bureau¬ cratic rulebook, the more people a supervisor has under him the more important he becomes and the better his chances are for promotion. If such practices prevailed in the Crovvell- Collier Publishing Company, for instance, we can assure sou that we wouldn't be around for long. Any other sizable private enterprise would surely tell you the same thing. I hose practices are just as wasteful in govern¬ ment as they are anywhere else. But, of course, the government isn't in competition with private interests in very many fields. In fact, it doesn't have to compete. If it loses money it still stays in business. Mr. Cramer’s plan is to reverse the present operation completely. He would give each su¬ pervisor a budget and have him understand that he has to function within that budget. He would be responsible to his immediate superior. Econ¬ omy and efficiency, rather than numerical supe¬ riority. would be the basis for promotion — with a premium on budgetary saving. In short, Mr. Cramer would have the administrative side of government adopt the practices of a well-run private business. How this solution has escaped the notice of Presidents and e\-Presidents, congressmen and former congressmen, business leaders, top- drawer economists and others who have sought to overcome government inefficiency is some¬ thing of a mystery. But we don't see how the solution could miss. It has worked too often and too well in the business world to be a doubt¬ ful quantity. We don’t think that the plan would require any legislation. It could be put into effect by the administrative branch of government. The same can be said for Senator Douglas’ plan for not refilling every vacancy on the federal pay¬ roll, which we have already endorsed on this page. Together they could save the American taxpayers an impressive sum of money. We trust that both will receive serious considera¬ tion and be put into practice. As for Mr. Cramer, if he doesn't win a Pu¬ litzer prize for his efforts, he deserves a vote of thanks from his fellow citizens for even mak¬ ing the suggestion. (»oo<l l.xamplr \lwa\s llrl|» THIS EDITORIAL is a sort of background memorandum with, we hope, a moral. But it isn't to be read until you have finished John Ger- rity's article in this issue called Racial Prejudice — How San Francisco Squelched R In preparing the article for publication, the author and Collier’s research staff talked to a good many people who are actively concerned with San Francisco's efforts against discrimina¬ tion. And they were surprised to find some op¬ position to publication of the article where they least expected it. These reactions, which ranged from fearful to hostile, came from members of business firms who have helped to break down the racial barriers, from representatives of state government groups, and from organizations that seek to stamp out prejudice and segregation and promote equality of opportunity. None of us here at Collier's questioned their good will and good intentions. We were all on the same side. But we found it hard to under¬ stand some of their objections. The article, they said, told only one side of the story: prejudice still exists. There was fear that our piece might be sensational or irresponsible. We were warned that we might thwart the passage of an FEPC law in San Francisco. Well, here’s how we feel about those objec¬ tions: We think that San Franciscans have made impressive strides toward breaking down racial prejudice, and we think the country .should be told. Of course the picture isn't perfect. But must all news of progress be stilled until perfec¬ tion is reached? We don't follow that practice in the campaigns against still-incurable diseases, or poverty, or illiteracy, or crime, or dishonesty in public life. We don’t see why it should hold in the case of the social illness called racial prejudice. Much has been said about the enormous prob¬ lem which this social illness has created, and about the shame and injustice which accompany it. But we believe that it is legitimate journalism to write not only about how much there is to do, but also about how much has been done. And we further believe that legislation is always less desirable than voluntary action where voluntary action gives indication of doing the job. As a reader of the article we would like to ask you: Do you think that it will cause San Francisco to return to the segregated status quo of 1946? Do you think the example of San Fran¬ cisco's progress will have an opposite and harm¬ ful effect in other cities? Do you think that Collier’s has set back the cause of antidiscrimi¬ nation? N either do we, 74 CollierN for February 14, 1953

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Wmi/iftL h U(wJiM~Ty Look AT THE STYLING Admiral offers you the finest in furniture artistry . . . tasteful styling, enduring construction, flawless finish. Each Admiral cabinet traditional, modern or provincial — is dramatically distinctive, yet blends harmoniously with home d£cor. Typifying matchless Admiral cabinetry is this stunning 2T TV Model 221DX26L with Super Dyna-Ray picture tube — 252 square inches . . . Caseode Long Distance Chassis . . . TV Tone Control. 3 "faok'idl uijuj AT THE PERFORM A NC E \dmiral TV gives vou bigger, be ter. s itviuher pictures . powered by the amazing Super C.iscude Long Distance Chassis* breaihtrking performer in city or fringe”. Plus- H II F reception 2 trays . . \v»ih i erehangenble tunmgstrips for built-in Turret Tuner hi the ill-channel way with exCu- v square nches . . . TV Intonated” radio Super TOO 'Triple-Play Phonograph. Admiral WOK I. P'S I.AKPKST TKLKV1SK IN M ANITACTI'KER FIRST /.V VALVE STYLE. PERFORMANCE at the value Whatever the model, whatever the cabinet style you choose, you’ll be amazed at Admiral’s sensational savings! For example, 21" TV is yours at the price of other 17" sets in handsome Model 121DX11— America’s Most WTanted TV Set . . . Value so highly favored that popular demand consistently exceeds ever-increasing production ! With Caseode Chassis . . . 21" Dyna-Ray picture tube — ebony finish, only $199.95. Base optional. On TV — See and heor Bahop Fulton J. Sheen, ’ Life Is Worth Living See locol paper for time ond station, ^rices include Federol Tox ond worronties— -subject to cl ;>nge without notice

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YOU and a .22 BACK-YARD HUNTING ^uni^.AMpN 'puJiBur y h vry How Much Pain Can You Stand? COOJE'S MAWtT C6TiZS V jnvo 3wv9Nnun8 A«vu8n ongrv vnwvMfl lAiHn wni^v% Collier's FEBRUARY 21, 1953 FIFTEEN CENTS Do the Real Heroes Get the Medal of Honor?

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Every hour of the day or night. Sundays and holidays, the telephone stands ready to give wings to your words. The cost is small— just a few pennies a call. HELL TELEPHONE SYSTEM

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4 T'M A FURNITURE NURSEMAID " “I represent thousands of Mayflower Ware¬ housemen who are proud of their reputation for careful handling of your furniture. We are trained men, skilled in the art ol mov in u; and storing prop¬ erk. To us the care of \our possessions is of first concern. Yes, I’m a fur¬ niture nursemaid.” “ Store with Confidence ” | NAME • ADDRESS | CITY _ Know >otir near t.x Mu> (lowet ^ iirtrhuuu'min tnn»ult > our trli'ph i> ii *• iliret. tor> Mayflower Warehouses Ccxvd l to C&aA / (KlUi'K «Ct«TS me «*trvO»l* Hus • C 9 ALBKKT E. WENGER CLARENCE E. STOUC1I Chairman of the Board President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CIIAPL1.N, Assistant Publisher CORDON MANNING, Managing Editor DAVID MANESS, Assistant Managing Editor MACLE.NNAN FARREI.I , Fiction Editor ALLEN CLEATON, Senior Associate Editor JAMES THRASHER, Editorials Go and Kiss Him if You Durr. . . Tuneful Stranger . 40 b lih \ee N.-w -,-r . I. nt«. Dimiiv O'Sullivan. Si- • • i .0C 2 >ears COLLIER S Ynr. Sum.nai PUBLISHED WEEKLY 1.x ’ M ^ 1 . [■ • • . -;■> ml.- 1 1 u .t. . n-- .. « - ' .ii i t . i- . i i i .1 1. ■ M \ K N \ \*|.,- t I W I r,3. in THE CROW ELL COI.LI ER PUBLISHING COMPANY ( All rights reserved) Publishers of Collier’s. The American Magazine, Woman’s Home Companion Associate Editor , • J FRO ME BEATTY, JR. • WARREN BROWN • GFRTBCDE BUCK MAN JEAN IL CAMPBELL • SLY CHASM I R • HOWARD COIIN • WALTER DAVENPORT BILL DVMDMLN HELEN WORDEN IRSKI.NE • EVELYN HARNEY * DIANA 1I1RS11 HOMER JK.NKS • CIIARLOTI K K N I G1IT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED M. LANSING JOHN LEAR FRANKLIN C. LOR ANGER . TOM ME ANY • BUCKLIN' MOON JOHN C. PELL EW • ROGER PIPPFTT • ELEANOR PORTER • CORNELIUS RYAN JANET SUFI’S • FRANCIS WALLACE • WILLIAM WEAVER MARTHA WEINMAN ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research • ROSANNE Mi \ AY, Chief • MADFI.I.N ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOW NS • ALAN M. LEVENSOIIN • JANICE MOSES • JOHN NEW HOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON: JAMES C. DFRIEUX, Chief j TODD W’RICIIT WEST COAST (Eos Angeles ): TIIFODORK STRAUSS, Chief; RORERT CAIIN, JOHN FLORJEA MIDWEST ( ( hiengo ) : BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR FRFIDIN, WILLI VM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): PETER KALlsCllER February 21, li)53 ARTICLES Do the Real Heroes Get the Medal of Honor? . BRIG. GEN. S.L.A. MARSHALL WITH BILL DAVIDSON 13 Why the Stars Love to Play the Palladium . ROBERT M US EL 18 The Great Imitation . SEY CHASSLER 30 You and a .22 . LEONARD A. STEVENS 40 Frogmen in Korea . . 50 Drift wood Latest Treasure of the Seas . MORTON M. HUNT 60 All Sizes , All Shapes . BERT BACII ARAC1I 64 lion Much Pain Can You Stand? . JOHN LEAR 66 “ Sterincash That Gyve , Srrudd!” . SCOTT CORBETT 69 FICTION

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rr 01D Ihompson THE Triple A) Blend WED-IN-THEWOOD » instead of being bottled immediately after blehding, Old Thompson is put back into barrels to assure uniformity. A MADE BY GLENMORE the famous distillery that has made more Kentucky Bour¬ bon than any other distillery. There is no substitute for experience. A BLENDED IN KENTUCKY by Kentuckians whose “touch-of-quality” has been a family tradition for three generations. 0 L. ..X 86.8 PROOF • 4/5 QUART Kr7 WHISKIES IN THIS PRODUCT ARE FOUR YEARS OR MORE ^STRAIGHT WHISKIES. 62/2% GRAIN NEUTRAL SPIRITS ■ GLENMORE DISTILLERIES COMPANY • LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY THE STRAIGHT WHISKIES IN THIS PRODUCT ARF FOUR YFARS HR MflRF Dl n 77'A0^ CTOiirswT wuickif c — ft?

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6 Week's Wail CONTINUED Brushing Teeth Right After Eating with COLGATE DENTAL CREAM STOPS BAD BREATH and STOPS TOOTH DECAY! Colgate Dental Cream in¬ stantly stops bad breath in 7 out of 10 cases that origi¬ nate in the mouth! And the Colgate way of brushing teeth right after eating is the best home method known to help stop tooth decay! PURE, WHITE , SAFE COLGATE'S WILL NOT STAIN OR DISCOLOR! print new paper money at intervals short enough to keep ahead of the Al¬ lies’ issues. For instance, all paper money might be called in on the first of each month and exchanged for new money bearing the date of that month and a new design, again good only for a month. It would be impossible to obtain sam¬ ples of the newly printed money, dupli¬ cate it and dump it as fast as Russia could issue new currency, because they could print this well in advance. HpRACE C. Knerr, Philadelphia, Pa. . Reading Mr. Steinbeck’s story brought to mind an incident that hap¬ pened while I was flying with the 487th Bombardment Squadron of the Eighth Air Force. On August 6, 1944, we made a mis¬ sion to Berlin, and the Fortress I was on, instead of being loaded with the conventional bombs, was loaded with cardboard cylinders much like shotgun shells. Inside of these were tons of ra¬ tion stamps for meat, eggs and butter. James T. Dunn, Milwaukee, Wis. . . . There is nothing new under the sun. If John Steinbeck will read the William Pitt Papers in the British Public Record Ofliee in London, he will find receipts for assignats (French paper money) printed in London and furnished the British invaders of France in the early 1790s. The French economy was wrecked with a little assistance from the horri¬ fied Lord Halifax’s countrymen. Frances Pircher, Nokomis, Ill. . . . The “money deal” won’t work. It would turn the superficial hate for us, which the Russian government has thoroughly propagandized, into a real, deeply felt hate. The Russian people would believe all that has been said against us — germ warfare, indiscrimi¬ nate atomic and gas warfare, and the most unspeakable atrocities. It w'ould achieve a short-lived confusion, per¬ haps panic, then frustration, sorrow, and the end result of irreconcilable hate for us, and the complete unity of Rus¬ sia's people and her satellites. Wayne L. Shick, Champaign, Ill. Colliers Home Detective Course Editor: About 8:30 a.m.. Wednesday, Dec. 31st, V. J. Ziegler, manager of a state-owned liquor store here, opened shop. Moments later, he was looking down the barrel of a .38-calibcr pistol, and a gunman was warning him not to move. Ziegler followed orders, and the gun¬ man took about $600 from the cash register. He ordered Ziegler not to fol¬ low him when he left, but Ziegler fol¬ lowed and got a description of the getaway car. Police arrived a few minutes later, and Ziegler gave them a description of his robber that Police Chief James Waller praised publicly as being ex¬ cellent. Ziegler told them the man was about six feet tall; was of medium weight; wfas clean-shaven with slight traces of a dark beard; wore a hat, brown leather jacket, brow-n trousers, brown socks and brown shoes, and had small pock¬ marks on the lower part of his face. Police asked him how he managed to get such a good description, and Ziegler told them about reading How to Spot a Bank Robber, in Collier’s of Jan. 3d. Roy Thompson, Winston-Salem Journal, Winston-Salem, N.C. Ziegler & instruction book Btcana Ruark Editor: Robert C. Ruark is to be com¬ plimented for the frankness and humor that he has written into the first arti¬ cle of his African Safari series, Ruark Shoots a Lion (Jan. 3d). However, he indicates a lack of knowledge concern¬ ing firearms and the merits and limita¬ tions of the numerous cartridges which are manufactured. I’ll bet that a lot of firearm enthusiasts stopped for a sec¬ ond look when they came across the passage defaming the deadly little .220 Swift as a woodchuck cartridge. You can take the word of thousands of devoted users that the .220 Swift is sudden death when employed on wood¬ chuck and similar varmints. It is not surprising that the cartridge did not perform well on hyenas, since the bul¬ let is not constructed for use on that sort of game. Wm. H. Houff, East Lansing, Mich. . . . I would suggest that author Ruark use a 75-mm. recoil-less rifle in any fu¬ ture lion hunts. The sympathetic Selby could load the shells. I suppose I would fit nicely into the class to which Ruark refers as “the de¬ serving poor” and I’d be glad to take the .220 Swift off his incompetent hands. For really exciting hunting, he might try the “police action” in Korea. When I left there on a stretcher the hunting was very good and the game very dan¬ gerous. Virgil A. Eggers, St. Louis, Mo. Author Ruark did his share of hunting more dangerous game in both the Euro¬ pean and Pacific theaters during World War II. He came out of the war with an injury that keeps him front further military service and confines his shoot¬ ing to and at the animal kingdom. Collier’s for February 21, 1933

Page 519

7 We made this rocket really fly ! CRUISING SPEEDS up to 89 miles an hour are easy for the Hock Island’s Rocky Mountain Rocket to maintain. This crack Chicago- Denver stream¬ liner rolls on Timken' tapered roller hearings. Timken bearings eliminate all speed restrictions and delays due to old-style friction bearings. They helped bring the streamliner age to America s railroads. Nov, the rail roads art* looking to them to streamline freight service, too. B\ elimm it- ing the "hot box" problem the result of overheated axles Timken roller bearings will end the No. 1 cause of freight train del ivs. Now meet the next great step in railroading TO MAKE freight service ever better, the rail¬ roads are finding the answer to "hot boxes’’ in "Roller Freight” — freight cars on Timken roller bearings in place of old-style friction bearings. THE RECORD for one railroad’s "Roller Freight” is 50,000,000 car-miles without a "hot box”. By contrast freight cars on friction bearings average only 212,000 car-miles between set- outs for "hot boxes”. ANOTHER RAILROAD cut running time in half on a livestock run with "Roller Freight", upping its business 30' ( in two years. Timken bearings permit sustained high speeds, cut the cost of lubricant up to 89' < . TO TAKE the shock loads of railroad service, rollers and races of Timken bearings have tough cores. Hardened surfaces resist wear. When all railroads go "Roller Freight”, they’ll save an estimated $190 million a year, net a 22% yearly return on the investment. COMPLETE ASSEMBLIES of cartridge journal box and Timken bearings for freight cars cost 20' ( less than applications of six years ago. Applica¬ tions are available for converting existing cars. Other products of the Timken Company: alloy steel and tubing, removable rock bits. NOT JUST A BALL NOT JUST A ROLLER" THE TIMKEN TAPERED ROLLER BEARING TAKES RADIAL : AND THRUST f LOADS OR ANY COMBINATION ' Copt fD.t.'l The Timken • /In'rc Cnmn..’i\ ( <i "t n h On ( 'a hie address ' ' 77 M It OS CO Watch the railroads Go. . . on. TIMKEN Tapered Roller Bearings TRADE-MARK REG. U S. PAT. OFF

Page 520

8 r» ~ s / ... ISNT THAT JUST \ ' TH£WAV! A Nl££ &uy LETS Od Y SCALP ftUINJ Hi S LOOKS ! IF I £££OMM£ND ' VASeUNe' HAlC TDHIO... WILL H£ G£T iT ? ^ -3 I Hair looks better... Scalp ■ feels better. . . when you check OR/ SCALP with Now a few drops a da\ keep dr\ sealp away . . . and what that does for hi" appearance1! \o more dull, lifeless-looking hair. No more itchy scalp or loose dandruff either. ‘Vaseline* Hair Tonic supplements natural scalp oils . . . contains neither v\ater nor alcohol . . . work.-> uith Nature not against it. gDD IE GOT ITT.. Vaseline hair tonic TRADE MARK ® N \SELINt is the registered trade mark of the Chesebrough Mfg. Co.. Cons'd STATUS OF Ml AO By WALTER DAVENPORT We’re glad to announce that Con¬ gress is not going to investigate reports that the Communists have infiltrated baseball. It is not true that subversive pitchers will be throwing baseballs at the heads of capitalist, warmongering, imperialistic hitters. Nor is the cur¬ rent rumor true that Yogi Berra has been approached by Kremlin agents seeking the H.-bomb formula. ★ ★ ★ Customer in Bangor, Maine, wishes it known that he is unalterably opposed to the new idea of a motor-driven re¬ volving house — a recent architectural vision. Says it’s much too cold these nights to be standing on the doorstep trying to catch the doorknob and the keyhole as they whirl past. ★ ★ ★ Prince, the only horse in Nome, Alaska, having been saved by popular subscription from starvation, is now writing a column for Jessen’s Weekly in Fairbanks. Specializing in national politics. Behind-the-brass-curtain stuff. Syndicate handling Prince’s copy de¬ cently makes no mention of feed-box sources or horse sense. ★ ★ ★ Important information from old 48’s unequaled service department to those contemplating moving to Fort Wayne, Indiana. It's illegal to build a barbed- wire fence in Fort Wayne. Also, you may not tether your horse to a lamp- post in that city. Furthermore, there’s a law forbidding you to tell fortunes in Fort Wayne’s public parks and you've got to wear a bathing suit if you go swimming in the river. Maybe you’d better move to Kokomo. ★ ★ ★ Just before you hit a stretch of road that’s under repairs in Mariposa County, California, you’ll see a sign: SLOW — MEN SHOULD BE AT WORK. We have a photograph from Mr. W. T. Scheld in Merced to prove it. ★ ★ ★ The man at the Internal Revenue office in Kansas City, Missouri, listened with admirable patience as the tax- happy guy across his desk said what he thought of the late administration, Con¬ gress, the Treasury Department and so on. He also had a number of bitter re¬ marks to make about Big Government. But presently he ran down, giving the income-tax man a chance to remark: “Cheer up, my friend. It might very well be worse. Suppose you got all the government you’re paying for.” ★ ★ ★ China going in for zoo treaties with Russian satellites. This item from Mr. Kai Lung Shan, of Reno, Nevada. Many strange wild animals already ex¬ changed with Hungary and Czechoslo¬ vakia. Large number of rare birds already arrived from the U.S.S.R. ★ ★ ★ Guide on sight-seeing bus in Milwau¬ kee informed his passengers that at that moment they were passing the largest brewery in the world. A bored gentle¬ man in the back came suddenly to life. “Why?” demanded he, rising to his feet. ★ ★ ★ Fellow in Columbia, South Carolina, tells us he’d been bothered by a loud j noise on the right-hand side of his car. He decided to do something about it so he let her drive. ★ ★ ★ Motel owner in Ohio kicking about business fall-off. Said it was due to the new superhighway built a mile away from his cabins. Friend said he saw a “No Vacancies’’ hung out in front of the fellow's establishment and that looked like prosperity. “Yeah?” said the motel owner. “Before they gypped me by running that new highway over yonder where I ain’t, I used to turn away twenty, thirty parties a night. Now I’m lucky if I have to say nothing do¬ ing to ten or twelve.” ★ ★ ★ Just been talking to our congress¬ man. He said yes. Congress was surely going to do some cutting in spending. Asked him about tax reductions. “Take it easy,” said the honorable gen¬ tleman. “We’ve got to have something left to promise you in 1956.” ★ ★ ★ Next time you meet a guy with $240,- 000,000, urge him to stop in the bank and get 240,000,000 one-dollar bills. Mr. Bill Prellwitz has just written from Walla Walla, Washington, saying, if IRWIN CAPLAN laid end to end, that many pieces of folding money would encircle the earth. Have a good time and let us know if the above is true. ^ ^ ^ Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 521

9 Tlecesh I I w \.s loo bad that M.irv and Paul WostIe\ nr\i-rli.i started the whei Is in motion. It was not, they discovered, a simple matter. You don’t just walk into a place and say, “WeVI like a nire, cuddly hoy with blue eyes and light hair, please,” and walk out with him bundled in your arms. Mary and Paul found that they look into your background and your way of living very carefully. You have to have* the best of references. Because they want to make sure the child will have the very next best thing to parents of his own - and a home in which he'll be happy. Paul and Mary Westlov asked several people in town to vouch for them. They wrote nice letters saying that Paul and Mary were fine people, which was true enough. But A1 Barnett went a step farther, as the Westleys discovered later. He went to see the adoption representative and after he explained the purpose of his visit he said, “I’ve known Paul \\ bu o i »i* ot d i \ lo d ' . .t : oui d of id pi f r * • „ ' - * Pud b- i« \i n ’ r • f J * »: . ■ \ ii p i pr gr • ' . a ; c i w i1 i I . .o r t > v id«*d b «t\i i tie M during the la*- 1 w ir lie f c.-ie 1 * g* r • gi)t ha ; still see Westlev. M;ir \ . on M.iple Stn<t ssitr t same listing she hi- h.id for tl e ten tr- »■ Paul West ley died . But t b tc's <i mss h-tmg n t : book now that reads Westlev. Lawrence Ut\ ofc, 200 Main, SPrng 7- 10a 7. The v put it it. tl.* direc tory only last fall. The listing is in the usual small pr 1 1 t. 1 ut it looks mighty big to Mary West ley Ye-, at d to A1 Barnett, too. i

Page 522

20 SECONDS AFTER start of acceleration text, 1953 car with 1953 gasoline pulls far ahead of same model car u>ing 1925 gasoline. Trailing both new cars i an outstanding buy. While general living costs in the U.S. have jumped 52.2% since 1925, gasoline today is priced about the same as gasoline was then — only the taxes are higher.

Page 523

1 1 Pro b lent Pa ren Is Bv CHARLES PEARSON Keep Hair Neat All Day This New Greaseless Way THEY’RE CARELESS CLUMSY INCONSIDERATE INACCURATE LOUD LAZY books are written MISERLY oil how to understand us “V-7”— new grooming discovery now inVitalis Hair Tonic— outdates messy oils. Keeps your hair neat all day without gummy film or matted-down look. Not an animal, vegetable or mineral oil Feels tingling good — kills dandruff germs on contact If you object to over-oil v hair tonics, as most men do, here’s good news. Now you can keep hair in place and easy to manage — yet avoid that gummy, "oil-slick" look. The secret is a completely new kind of grooming agent — introduced to you in new' finer Vitalis Hair Tonic. Called “V-7,” it is not an animal, veg¬ etable or mineral oil. In fact. “V-7” was developed in the laboratory especially to overcome the messiness and other disad¬ vantages of various greasy oils. Make this easy test Even if you are satisfied with your present hair tonic, we think you’ll be pleasantly surprised the very first time you use new' finer Vitalis containing “V-7”: 1. Hair stays neat, natural-looking. No heavy greasy look. 2. No gummy film or “matting down.” You can easily prove these facts for yourself. Just apply the tonic you are now' using to one side of your head new finer Vitalis to the other. See if you don’t agree that the Vitalis side looks far better. In addition to good grooming, new Vitalis gives you a combination of active ingredi¬ ents found in no other leading hair tonic. Massaged briskly onto scalp with the fa¬ mous “60-Second Workout.” new finer Vitalis feels tingling good ... far more refreshing than creams or oils. And lab- orator) tests prove it kills, on contact, germs that many doctors associate with infectious dandruff. No mere oil or cream can do this. Outgrooms any other hair tonic — or double your money back We think you’ll find new Vitalis with "V-7” the finest hair tonic you ever used. If you don’t agree, return empty bottle to Bristol- Myers, 630 5th Avc.. New York -0. N Y. and get double your money back. (Offer expires December 31, 1953.) NEW PNER vnaut MAfe TONIC Now contains New g baseless grooming discovery! Product of Bristol-Myers Collier’s for February 21, 19.>3

Page 524

Du Mont CLINTON— 150 'quare inrhr* of picture area from 17-inch rectangular Du Mont tube. Clean-lined Contemporary cabinet of sturdy v*o »«N and »maii bracken brown or LlouJ Pleilooe finishes. Kor optional ensemble, matching wooden base with casters at slight cstra cost. Proof you can See. ..of greater pleasure at every price 245 square n h 5 ■ Du Mi>nt Tel •iron for record plates heasy, \-inrh * or blond seneer*. Du Mont Custom SOMERSET II ’ r “ 21 1 i. > n •' an ben ami -."it >n cab net t- a rnaho*;. \\ h\ i.v Du Mont Teh*\ ision the fn>t. second and third choice of many families Avitli extra sets? I)ccau-c DuMont offers a greater pleasure! You will quickly >ee tlie proof at your Selected DuMont Dealer. Compare the authentic styling and custom eraft>man>hip of DuMont Telesets* at e\erv price. Choose your fa\orite DuMont . . . then turn on station after station. See television’ fme>t pictures appear in full >harp focus . . . automatically. And listen, as you look, to the truer oi the famous DuMont tone ^\-tem. See . . . hear . . . compare. And expect to be envied . when yon choo>e your new DuMont! ( Provision for thrifty adaptation to L HF.) I ra U- Mark 1#5 S tone oil Mont Now you/tooycan afford First with the Finest in FREE! NEW BUYING GUIDE < - Him B. Du Mi •». L«b • A1 en 5. Du Mo • Du V'»nr in authentic styles for your home. *ier Priority Dept., Box CF, Fast Paterson, Y eu. Jersey. Teiev’s’on R erp'v^r Divis'on Fnu Pntprmn New !pt<pv nnrl the Du Mont Television Network. 515 Madison Avenue. New York 22. New York.

Page 525

Collier's, February 21. IUT>2 Do the Real Heroes Get the Medal of Honor? By Brig. Ceil. S.L.A. MARSHALL »illi BILL DAVIDSON Sometimes they do, says this expert. But the4 selection system shamefully unfair. \Iany of our greatest heroes don't even get a pal on the back, while fools and cowards mav he rewarded HARRY s. TRUMAN often said, “I’d rather have the Congres¬ sional Medal of Honor than be President of the United States,” Most Americans — I’m one of them — share his feeling of respect for the nation’s highest decoration. But after careful study I have come to the reluctant conclusion that the Medal of Honor and our other high decorations aren’t being used as they were intended and have lost a great part of their value among our troops. Many men earn their medals the hard way. But others sometimes get them without truly rating them. The deco¬ rations are awarded by boards of ofiiccrs who often lose sight of the main idea in a snarl of red tape. Under our present system, not only does it take so long for medals to be awarded that they lose their good morale effect, but — far more seri¬ ous — morale is undermined because too many outstanding acts of heroism go un¬ rewarded. How can such injustices occur in the world’s most scientifically run military organization? If you had analyzed com¬ bat operations during two wars, as I have, you would find little science in our cumbersome method of awarding deco¬ rations. Injustices occur constantly. The bravest action I ever recorded, for example, took place along the Chongchon River in Korea, where a handful of men in B Company of the 2d Division’s 9th -Infantry Regiment held back hundreds of attacking Chinese and gave the Eighth Army a sorely needed 24-hour breathing spell in the retreat from the Yalu River. The company commander. Captain William C. Wallace, of Petersburg, Vir¬ ginia, led an attack directly into an en¬ emy machine-gun position. His ear and check were smashed by a grenade ex¬ plosion, but for four hours he continued leading the outfit before collapsing from loss of blood. When Wallace was struck by the grenade, Pfc Dennis Rush, of Casper, Wyoming, crept out under the machine-gun fire to pull him back to ANTON BRUEHL cover, while Private Robert Noel, ol Beckley, West Virginia, stood in full view of the enemx, tiring his automatic rifle at the Chinese gun until his last round was gone. That night, an eighteen-) ear-old South Boston, Virginia, farm box, Corporal Walter K. Crawford, crawled twice through the Chinese lines to get am¬ munition. Then tor two hours. C r<.w- ford and Corporal James C. Curcio, ot Philadelphia, Pennsx 1\ ania, lidded 40 enemy hand grenades, catching them in mid-air or scooping them up from the ground, then throwing them back at the C hinese betore thex could ex¬ plode. 1 his feat which must be un¬ paralleled in our militarx historx kept a tinx band of 14 men on a kex knoll from being wiped out. Acts of heroism piled one upon the other. In the lord rent was B Compands executive officer. Lieutenant Ellison C. Wxnn, who took oxer alter Wallace collapsed. A handsome six-toot five- inch Negro trom Durham, North ( aro- Iina, Wxnn became the rallxing point of the night detense against a Chinese force which had his position sur¬ rounded. At last, with the eompanx reduced by casualties from 129 to 34 men, its last machine gun shattered and its ammunition gone. Wxnn told his men, ‘Ciet down the hill; I'll cover xou " I hex stared at him in amazement, know¬ ing that he had nothing lett to lire. But thex started down the ridge. I hen thex looked back and saw a sight thex 'll never torget. The giant lieu¬ tenant was on his teet. silhouetted against the skxline. ^ dlmg and cuismg. he was holding back the C hmese. then onlx 20 teet distant. h\ throw mu rock \ and cans of C rations at tfnm ! A white enlisted man. Pie Paul f rost, of Ros- lindale, Massachusetts, stood next to Wynn, swinging his rifle like a club. As they watched, a hand grenade blew aw ax part ot Wx nil's t.ue. But the big officer fought his wax down the hill. 1 oi fix e hours, he continued to command, refusing bandages and plasma on 13 t

Page 526

14 Whole classes of soldiers — like medical-aid men — are victims of discrimination grounds that other m^n needed them more. Fi¬ nal*} he collapsed. It took him 1S7 days in Army hospitals to recover from his wounds. Soldier alter soldier, white Southerners among them told me later that V\ >nn was the bravest man the\ had ever seen, and I consider him as worthy o! the Congressional Medal as anyone who ever received it. I think Crawford, too, earned the Medal of Honor; and that Wallace, Rush, Noel, C ureio and Frost plus two others in the company, Fie Lawrence h. Smith. Jr., ol Sandston, Virginia, and Master Sergeant Herbert Seegar, of Pittsburgh, Penns} lvama all deserved the D.S.C, Did thev get it? 1 hev did not. In the retreat, the battered 2d Division had neither the time nor the equipment to make out the lorms required by our archaic decorations system. So no B Company men received proper recogni¬ tion. Wvnn finally got a D.S.C., but that was all. Do >ou think the case of Wynn and the others is an isolated example? My official records are tilled with others like it. 1 he Sergeant York of World War II, for exam¬ ple, was StafT Sergeant Harrison Summers, of Riv esv Ule, W est V irginia. On the day ol the Nor¬ mandy landings in 1944, Summers singlehandedly attacked five stone barracks filled with German soldiers, kicking in the front door of each, and spraying the interior with his submachine gun. It took him three hours; other men who tried to help were shot down. Summers accounted for more than 100 Ger¬ mans, and Arms historical reports describe him as a major reason for the success of the entire Utah Beach enterprise. But did Summers get the Con¬ gressional Medal? No; he lost out through my own technical error in the filing of the affidavits. 1 neglected to get signatures, and when I went back for them, two ol the three witnesses were dead. One night in North Korea, the Chinese threw' their weight against I Company of the 27th Regi¬ ment. Corporal Lunzo Mosier, of l vler, Missouri, alone in an outpost, held fast until ordered back. 1 hen the Chinese lighted a brush lire against the company line. I he others w ith Mosier were forced back, but he held oil the enemy while the line re¬ formed on another knoll. He finally burst through the fames to rejoin the main body. Chinese Strafed with Own Machine Gun 1 he next morning, the company charged a Chi¬ nese position which was blocking the escape of a large part of the 25th Division. Mosier leaped into the enemy strong point, grabbed a machine gun and turned it on the C hinese crew as they fled. 1 hen he dragged the gun to the side of the ridge and slaughtered a score or more of the enemy g ouped below. 1 hat night, the Chinese again lighted a forest fire, yvhich drove evervone back but Mosier. He kept firing until his last bullet was gone. At last, with the C hinese only 20 yards away and the flame beating at his clothing, he retired, lugging his 80- pound machine gun with him. His award' Nothing not even a Bronze Star. His was a sustained periormanee, but no one both¬ ered to link the heroic episodes together. It simply didn't oc^ ur to anyone that he rated a decoration (I'd sav the Medal of Honor). Vet 1 know of a battalion commander who re¬ ceived the Medal ot Honor for an exploit which, he later admitted, wouldn't have occurred as it did except tor his own carelessness He ordered an attack, but didn't see to it that his orders were un¬ derstood bv the whole battalion. Only a fraction of one company followed him and that made his leading the attack seem braver than it really was. Even more ironic is a case imolving two men who became terrified and didn't follow their com¬ pany into an action which proved to be an ambush. The others were all killed or captured. I he two malingerers scampered back to summon aid, and both later got the D.S.C. — one “for holding his po¬ sition singlehandedly in the face of the enemy," the other “for voluntarily, at great risk to himself, bringing in a support force to re-establish the posi¬ tion." In cold fact, neither had been subjected to a single enemy shot. The effect of such cases on troop morale is greatly damaging. The men know who deserve the medals and who don’t. During the Normandy landings in World War II, 1 asked a battalion commander if he was planning to cite any men for extremely £rave actions he had reported. He said wearily: “No, sir; I quit in Africa. Invariably, when 1 put men in for deco¬ rations, the least-deserving cases got them and my outstanding men were by-passed. So I gave up. It yvas demoralizing the battalion." Until the day he left the battalion, this commander did not cite a single man for bravery. Dozens of heroes thus went unrewarded in one of the most valiant Amer¬ ican regiments. What's responsible for the confusion surround¬ ing our awards system? You have to go back into history for the answer. George Washington estab¬ lished our first military decoration, the Purple Heart, then awarded for valor, instead of for wounds, as it is today. But the Purple Heart fell into disuse after the Revolution and there was no award for military heroism until Congress created the Medal of Honor during the Civil War. (About ISrig. Gen. S.I .A. Marshall Hated among the world's top analysts of L'.S. Army combat operations , Gen. Mar¬ shall is a Detroit A eivs staff member and Armv reservist t cho recently returned from a mission to Korea. His activities have made him an authority on aivards; during If or Id War IK he teas (wen. Eiseuhouer' s representative for the ETO unit citations 3,150 Medals of Honor have been awarded since then; perhaps 300 holders of the award are now alive.) It wasn’t until World War I that the Distin¬ guished Service Cross, the Distinguished Service Medal and the Navy Cross were added, to be fol¬ lowed in recent years by the Silver Star, the Bronze Star and all the others. During the Civil War, the Medal of Honor was intelligently awarded. But then there was trouble. When the war ended, many soldiers claimed the medal without documentation. The crow ning abuse came when General George Custer’s forces were massacred by the Sioux in 1876. Several companies were sent to Custer’s res¬ cue; none arrived in time, but the company com¬ manders recommended nearly every man for the Medal of Honor. Brigadier General Alfred A. Terrv turned down the awards, commenting tartly: “Medals of Honor are not intended for ordinarily good conduct but for conspicuous acts of gal- Fantry," Terry asked that the deserving cases be resubmitted with complete documentation, and a board of officers was appointed to review the list. That first board solved the immediate problem, but it was also the beginning of the present laby¬ rinth. As time passed, the Army piled board upon board. Today, a Medal of Honor recommenda¬ tion must go through a gamut of officer groups. When a man commits an exceptionally heroic act nowadays, his commanding officer writes up perhaps eight pages of facts, then sends a Medal of Honor recommendation, and the sheaf of docu¬ ments, to his division commander. Now the parade of boards begins. The division commander has a board to advise him; he merely rubber-stamps the board’s decision and sends it to the corps commander. The corps commander, in turn, submits it to his awards board, then bucks it on to the Army commander, with his awards board, A theater awards board considers the rec¬ ommendation before it goes to the Pentagon — where the Department of the Army Decorations Board takes a final look at it. Recommendations May Be Easily Vetoed At each level, the awards board is usually a group of officers called in from other jobs. Any board can disapprove a medal or suggest a lesser j decoration, but the boards must forward all Medal of Honor recommendations until they reach the Department of the Army board. However, that top group rarely approves a recommendation that has been turned down on a lower level — so the rec¬ ommendation must brave six separate vetoes. The only appeal is to resubmit the recommendation — if new facts warrant it — and go through the entire j procedure again. The defects of the system are obvious. The highest boards, separated from the act of valor by hundreds of miles, have only a vague idea of its value in relation to the remote battlefield. Also, all board members have other pressing duties; they usually have scant interest in decorations. I hav e been a member of three theater boards which, in an average session, passed upon 50 to 150 closely documented cases within two or three hours. The first board knew' the regulations and studied the cases. The second board neither read the cases nor respected the regulations. Members of the third board didn’t even bother to attend; they sent subordinates. But even if all board members were consci¬ entious, decorations would still be “boarded to death.' Boards tend to haggle over trifles, to con- I centrate on technicalities and to search for ex¬ cuses for saving no. A citation may spend a year I in the pipe line before it is finally bucked back to the source with a request for more information. By then, the hero may be a civilian — or a corpse. I Possiblv the greatest weakness of the boards is that they take the easy way out. by approving cita¬ tions which they know are sure-fire — the single, spectacular act, such as falling on a hand grenade or charging a machine-gun nest singlehanded. Some of the sacrifices which have won decorations have been plain suicides. We also have rewarded men for foolhardy ventures from which they had to be extricated with loss of life. Because of the appeal of the stereotyped, the boards discriminate against whole classes of sol¬ diers. I have known medical-aid men who shamed panicky infantry into holding fast by refusing to abandon wounded soldiers under fire. To me, such men are as deserving of the Medal of Honor as any doughboy who captures a new' hill. Yet it is almost an unwritten law that the aid man receives nothing higher than a Silver Star, though no other group in the Army is more uniformly courageous. It has also been an unwritten law' that leading men in acts of bravery over a prolonged period is not, in itself, worthy of the Congressional Medal. The smug attitude of the average board is: “He merely did his duty" — and there they make the * greatest mistake of all. Strong leadership under fire is the rarest sight on the battlefield. The traditional disregard of leadership was finally broken in 1951, when Marine Lieutenant Collier’s for February 21, 1953

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15 w ho might oiliei w l i f de * a the DSC on the ids iee ot h s \ v ' • ■ i Responsibility, tor the ( oi . . M should l'o 1 1 o higher lli (ii ih' \ , w ho should have ;i lull tin e c 1 1 1 c c * u Medal ot Honor c iscs Awards ** *.• . J b convened to consider ma , i* i‘ . . ; ’:J cases, pass upon recommend ti n • .■ .. operationally independent units ,,-id u f :.*r .... decorations tor nonhatllc service Patton Il say they don't want to cheapen the award. To my nund. you can i cheapen an award except by awarding it to the wrong man. The present system is not free of cheapness and hypocrisy, as is proved bv the quota method of distribution. Under the quota arrange ment (which is not chronic hut is used periodi¬ cally), just so many awards of each class are g ven to each command. The command may cither use up the decorations by rewarding minor acts, or cheat true heroism by husbanding the awards too carefully because there are so few. Some outfits in Germany after the war were given a quota of Silver Stars and Bronze Stars long after most of their combat men had been rotated home. So they pinned medals on replacements who had never fired a shot at the enemy. When it came time to distribute the French Croix de guerre fourragerc to our best divisions in Europe, we received 12 from the French on a quota basis. More than 30 U.S. divisions had been put in for it. They all had magnificent cita¬ tions which read much alike. The weighty prob¬ lem was solved in this scientific manner: two U.S. officers put the numbers of the 30-odd divisions in a hat, then drew out the “12 best.” In the same wav, a division might have 30 valid winners of the D.S.C. But if somebody topside has ruled that 12 is its limit for the period, the other 18 go without. It would he fairer io draw the num¬ bers from a hat. As one bitter Gl put it to me. “If the quota’s gone, you couldn’t get a Bronze Star for saving Eisenhower. If it isn’t, thev might give you a Congressional Medal of Honor for recover¬ ing 150 yards of telephone wire.” 1 think we ought to eliminate the cynicism and bureaucratic nonsense from the system and get hack to the original purpose for which awards were created — to stimulate pride of unit and morale in the men who do our fighiing. And I wouldn’t worry about bow medals are given away just so long as they’re deserved. I also want to re¬ turn the prerogative of awarding medals to the eommanders in the field, where it belongs. No one ever stated the basic principles more forcefully than George Washington in hts New¬ burgh Proclamation of August 7, PS2. which established the Purple Heart as a reward for valor. It was the first time in history that a commander had thought of decorating enlisted men almost as revolutionary an idea as the Revolution ttsell. Washington ordered Purple Hearts “not only for instances of extraordinary gallantry, but also of extraordinary fidelity and essential service in any way.” He ordered the medals presented on the basis of the facts plus a certificate from the com¬ manding officer forwarded to the commander in chief, and ended w ith stirring words. “1 he road to glory in a patiiot army and a free country,” he wrote, “is thus opened to all.” Man who valiantly exposes self to enemy fire may never get medal — unless an officer sees him Colonel Raymond G. Davis, of Arlington, Vir¬ ginia, led the 1st Battalion of the 7th Marine Regi¬ ment to the relief of its F Company, which had been surrounded by Chinese for five days. That ac¬ tion was the essential preliminary for the 1st Ma¬ rine Division’s historic march to the sea. To rescue F Company, Davis forced his men eross-eountry in 30-degree-below-zero cold, wres¬ tled them to their feet when they fell exhausted, and finally stormed with them across a valley swarming with Chinese to blast a pathway to the besieged company. Marine Brigadier General Ho¬ mer Litzenberg said, “The personal example of Davis was one of the rallying forces which most directly contributed to the extrication of the bulk of the division,” But it took two years to get a Congressional Medal of Honor approved for Da - vis. Navy boards ehewed over it, and finally sent it baek for better and stronger affidavits. Why Some Heroic Deeds Go Unrewarded Besides the board system, other evils have held over from Custer’s time. First, there grew up a tradition requiring a man’s commanding officer to put him in for decoration. When a soldier per¬ forms a heroic act while separated from his offi¬ cers, he usually remains unknown and unsung. My records arc filled with accounts of feats merit¬ ing the Congressional Medal or D.S.C. , where we have been unable to learn the hero’s identity. In other cases, the name is known and the merit of the act clearly established, but no one took the trouble to initiate the award action. Our best men in ranks often feel abashed about heroism. They are not talkative about their own actions, and few of them know they may put a comrade forward for a decoration. So the unit commander has to initiate awards. That places a great burden on a young, overworked officer who may be too inexperienced to know what medal an act is worth. So what wins a Silver Star in one com¬ pany might look like a Bronze Star aet to the skip¬ per next door. Moreover, in time of emergency, heroism goes begging. In the 2d Division’s terrible march through the Chinese gantlet in November, 1950, at least 10 Medal of Honor possibilities were overlooked and perhaps 60 to 80 D.S.C.s. Later, the unit commanders were too busy rebuilding companies to bother with awards. Collier's for February 21, 1953 And that brings me to the most exasperating evil of all — the fact that literary style often counts more than the merit of the act. An officer who ean write effectively may de¬ scribe a comparatively inconsequential act with such drama that he makes it seem worth a high- ranking decoration. Most combat officers don’t possess that literary knack; when they submit worthy citations, their clumsy narratives do not eateh the eye of the bored awards-board members. I’m a professional writer. In Europe, I recom¬ mended 58 men in my command for decoration; 56 got awards. Of course, writing out the recom¬ mendations took time; when I wrote the Medal of Honor narrative for Captain Lewis L. Millett in Korea, it required two and a half days and the full¬ time services of two stenographers. What happens in the thousands of cases where the commanding officer can't write well and ean’t take a couple of days off to eompose an epic? A good example is that of Sergeant William D, Owens, of Alhambra, California, one of the out¬ standing heroes of World War II. In June, 1944, Owens took over a maehine-gun position in Normandy and fought off four German tanks advancing along a causeway, A full German bat¬ talion was behind the armor. He engaged the force for over an hour, and finally beat it baek. His action preserved the flank of an entire U.S. eorp.s. But Owens’ commander was no writer. His narrative recommending a Medal of Honor wasn’t exciting enough, Owens got a Bronze Star. The men of his company were livid over this injustice. One of them asked me later: “What do you do to win a Medal of Honor — capture Hitler?” How can wc correct such abuses? The answer is fairly simple: First, the narrative should he short; decorations should not he a competition in prose. Any heroic aet can he described in a half-do/en paragraphs. Second, the operations officer, or S-3, of each regiment should he charged with systematizing awards, with a full-time decorations specialist un¬ der him to collect the necessary information. That would take the burden off inexperienced, harassed junior officers. The unit leader would simply make a recommendation to the specialist, who would then interview the witnesses and write the citation. Besides scouting out deserving men, the special¬ ist would bring about standardization, identify

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17 Go and Kiss Him If You Dare By BKNKDKT TIIIKI.KN The old ones iere trviui> io star xonii"* mu! the xoun " ones ivere trxin " to " rote nj). \ohodx mis having nuteh Inch* hut it tens fnn to l;e tr\in" s, \£'r IN lilt quiet summer night, the sound of a car drawing up in tront of the house, with a spraying of gravel and a screech of brakes, sounded unexpectedly violent and loud. When she heard it Nancy turned and rushed up the stairs. Near the top she tripped and almost tell, but she caught at the banister and pulled heisell up the rest of the way. in a convulsed tangle of white saddle shoes, Hying shirttails and rolled-up blue jeans. Mr. E'llis. who had been standing by the living- room window looking out at the sea, turned to his wile with a puzzled expression. “1 thought she was all ready to go," he said. "She was." Mrs. Ellis said, “but it wouldn't do to seem so." "That's true," Mr. Ellis said slowly. "Ed forgot¬ ten." She sighed and said. "We forget so much." Eighteen years of marriage had given Mr. Ellis a certain subtlety ot response to his wife's moods. He looked at her thought 1 ully. "So many things," Mrs. Ellis said, and he felt the deepening of the melancholy in her voice. Just then there was a sharp, impatient loot of a horn Horn the car oirtside. Mr. Ellis went to the door and snapped on the switch ol the porch light. Leaning forward with his face close to the screen, he called, “Come in. She'll be right down." lie looked back at Mrs. Ellis. "If there's anything 1 hate it’s people who honk horns." The door opened, and a boy dressed almost e\- actlv like Nancy stumbled across the threshold. "Watch it. led," Mr. Ellis said. With a bright smile Mrs. Ellis said, “Nancy'll ner ami all. Since the Bremers go r hcavi’v n square dancing." He lmvc a brie!, v rdonm laueh "Big deal." Nancy came languidly downstairs and s ud. Hi led got up. said. * 1 1 1 1 and tor a tew \eco* ds they stood there staring at each other with c\p cs- sronless laces. I hen I ed sard. "Okay ’’’ Nancy answered, "Okay," and they went out letting the screen door slam behind them When the ear had dmen otT. M: E l shook h«s head ami sard. I don't get it " He brought out a caid table, drew up two straight hacked chairs, and sat down, "the general attitude. I hev don't seem to get a kick out ot anvthmg. I hev seem to know all the answers." Mi s. Ellis came ov ci and stood by his side. 'We 1 suppose we thought we did too." "In a difTeient wav, * he s. id. were hard-boiled and yy rid. birt They’re just blase." Mrs. Elhs laughed and said. Necking in ears." He looked up qurekly. "Who?" he said. "No. no. We." Mr. Ellis smiled and said. "1 guess we were sort of wild at that." He started to de. I the cauls, then looked up. "Do >ou suppose Nancy . . Oh. hclf she’s only sixteen. But with a couple ot drinks "All they dirnk is milk." Mrs. I lbs said. "Or Cokes." "1 unny. But it’s probably just as well ” He mo¬ tioned to the chair opposite him. "Went wu go ine to srt down?" he sard. We thought we these kids . . . Drinking crn. I hev?" Mr. Ellis saw Nancy whirling in the renter of the floor with a tall, dark young man who looked somewhat older than the others. i%\\ ho*s the big lug she's with?*’ he asked his wife. Mrs. Ellis an¬ swered dreamily, “The iceman" be l ight down, l ed." They all sat down. Mr. I 11 is stilled a yawn and, picking up a pack of cards Irom the table by his side, began to examine it. "How’s your mother, led?" Mrs. Ellis asked. "She's okay. Ihcy're over at the Bremers'. " "Oh, I haven't seen her in perteet ages." Mrs. Ellis sard. " I hey don't go out much." \ ed said IE crossed his legs and began twitching one loot rapidly up and down. Mr. Ellis watched with a nerv¬ ous lascinalion, as one battered biown moccasin gradually worked loose from (he heel, hung sus¬ pended from one toe, then tell onto the lloor with a thump. "Yeah." fed said, as he picked up his shoe, "they generally stick around pretty close to the old home plate. Although as a matter ol luck ' he added, "they did say something about coming to the square dance tonight. Being with the Bremers tor drn- SHE sat clown, picked up the cards, and looked at them ahsent-mmdedlv . She gave a small and almost impel ceptrhle sigh. "W hat is it. Jo?” he asked. Is something w r on_ ’ ’ "Win. no, Howard." she said, "not at .11 Eel’s play." He shook his head. "Something’s bother ng you. Come on. you mrght .s well tell me now What was that you sard beloie? About loi getting things? So many thrngs ' "Oh." she said, beginning to sort the cards. “Nothing." A sh.de ol impatience came into hn voice Don’t keep saving nolhine, Jo." he said. I can tell when you've got something on vour mind 1 orgottmg w hat things ’" "Well." she said, and her eves moved around the room. I hen she suddenly looked directly . t I i n and with a kind ol distressed dctcrmmai ion said. "All I mean rs: don’t you U onliniud on ec 44 ILLUSTRATED BY TOM LOVELL

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18 WHY LOVE TO American stars can earn mor\ Judy Garland & g Betty Hutton Bob Hope By ROBERT MUSEL London MARTHA RAYE, of Hollywood and points east, sat at a table in a London night club fortliving herself with champagne. The eurtain had just 1 alien on her first night on the stage of the I ondon Palladium and she was wait¬ ing lor the verdict of the morning newspaper critics With a groan, she explained her predicament: “It vouYe an American artist these days and \ ou don't make a hit at the Palladium- — well, vou re dead! London's approval has come to mean as much to a star as a Hollywood Oscar. But, gosh, the wav vou have to work and worry to get it!" Miss Rave was giving expression to a phenome¬ non ot the entertainment world: many of Ameri¬ ca's top-drawer comedians and popular singers would as soon appear on a I ondon vaudeville stage 1 *00 miles trom Broadwav and 5,500 miles Irom Hollv wood as in a new American movie or a tele- v ision shuw I hose who make good as Miss Rave did — treasuie the Palladium accolade as a memorable high i _h t in their careers. I he theater has become a svmhol 1)1 success . x great as New York's Palace I heater n the pa truest davs ol American vaude¬ ville As a matter ot tact. Damn Rave never got .e: his recept on in I94.N, one ot the greatest per¬ sonal tiiumphs in stage historv. Jack Benin, another Palladium favorite, tells of the day he met Danny on Hollywood Boulevard and asked him the time. It was midafternoon, but Dannv. with a farawav look in his eves, replied: “Six fifteen and eight t o r t v -live." Danny was da\- di earning ol 1 ondon again, the curtain rises on the tw iLe-nightlv Palladium shows at 6 Is and N 4* l* M \nothci season of big-name vaudeville will open it the Palladium next month and once more \meric m night-club and theater propnctors can be expected to stand by m awe while l ondon lures thei box-office stars across the Atlantic What is the Palladium's Mien call? Reigning film stars regard an engagement there as a chance to achieve success on the stage lop stage, radio and television pertoimeis see a new world to con¬ quer 1 asling stars see a chance tor a last, new start to the top i hen, too. Britain ranks next to the United States it sell as a nuiket lor -\mencan films, popu¬ lar music and -ecords. An appearance on a Lon¬ don stage helps a star at the movie box office and the record and music counters Significantlv . manv film-name engagements coincide with the release of the star's picture in Britain, and singers get a chance to plug their records trom the stage. Still another attraction is the opportunity to see Europe on the Palladium’s money. Singer Frankie Laine says that consideration was a primary rea¬ son why he signed a contract; then his wife, ex¬ film actress Nan Grey, bought so many antiques in Britain, France and Italy that Frankie claims he had to squeeze in an extra concert on his last Sun¬ day in Britain to "make enough money to get out of town." Betty Hutton says she came so that she and her husband, Charles O’Curran, could visit Britain, France and Ireland. Valentine (Val) Charles Parnell, managing di¬ rector of the Palladium, shrewdly takes all these circumstances into account when he begins ne¬ gotiations with an American performer. No one in the business can draw a finer line on how little to offer a big star and still have him strike at the bait. Not that the London salaries are peanuts. Kaye, Benny and Bob Hope pulled down from $9,000 to $14,000 a week, but over the same period they could get $25,000 and more at home. However, they play only 14 shows a week at the Palladium compared with about 30 a week at big American movie houses. American Stars Spend Freely in London Despite the sizable salaries, few' American stars manage to leave London with much of their Pal¬ ladium pay. Living in Britain comes high for them. Hired Rolls Royces, suites at the Savoy Hotel or Claridge’s, and innumerable purchases soon eat up the money. For example, Ma.xene Andrews of the Andrews Sisters bought a $10,000 British auto¬ mobile. and Red Skelton purchased a couple of smaller cars before leaving for home. W hatever the lures Val Parnell dangles before them, he has succeeded in bringing to his theater during the past five years probably the greatest galaxy of American entertainers to appear on a single vaudeville stage in recent years. Not all the stars found the success Parnell had promised was waiting for them. There have been a couple of Hops and a half-dozen near misses. But there also have been enough smash hits to en¬ courage Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. Johnnie Ray, Hope and Laine to agree to play the house this year. Hope and Laine needed no urging to return; they had such warm receptions in the past that they look forward to playing the Palladium. And they know that once a British audience ac¬ cepts a performer, it remains loyal. Despite the Palladium's world-wide fame, the theater looks any thing but imposing. It is squeezed in between office buildings on narrow Argyll Street, a half mile from teeming Piccadilly Circus, the hub of London. It is so far off the beaten path, in fact, that it was one of four theaters permitted to reopen in the early days of the Nazi aerial blitz during World War II simply because they were not in crowded sections of the city. The narrow sidewalk permits only a small mar¬ quee. The facade is in the style of a temple to Pallas Athene, from which the theater took its name. The Greek architectural style is heavily conventionalized and the front of the building is painted cream. Inside, past a shallow lobby, the Palladium’s two balconies and red-plush and gilt decorations make it look superficially like a lot of legitimate theaters in the United States. When built in 1910 at the then fabulous cost of $1,200,000, however, it was the only theater in London completely car¬ peted and with tip-up seats throughout the audi-‘ torium. Moreover, Frank Matcham, one of the finest theater architects of his day, somehow managed to achieve in the auditorium of nearly 2,400 seats the intimacy of the small music halls then strewn thickly through London. Billy Daniels, the Ameri¬ can pop singer, puts it this way: "As you stand on the stage, you can feel the audience close to you. It’s like standing on the handle of a giant fan, with the fan spread out before you. There’s no real gulf between you and the audience because of little alcove boxes overlooking the stage and the way the balconies curve toward you. And when those lights hit you, you know that everyone clear up to the last row of the top balcony can see and hear you.’’ Still other novel features were introduced by George Black, a former movie-theater-chain owner, who took over the Palladium in 1928, and Parnell, whom Black hired as his booking agent. They built a soft-drink counter; until then British music-hall audiences could buy only alcoholic beverages in a theater. They introduced a policy of two shows nightly plus two matinees a week — un¬ der which the theater now sells more than 1,500,- 000 tickets a year at prices ranging from two shillings and sixpence (35 cents) to 14 shillings and sixpence ($2.03). They threw out the London theatrical tradition of having the women ushers — who also distribute programs at seven cents each — sell trays of tea with biscuits to the audience at intermission time. Instead, the then new regime built a mission-style lounge behind the orchestra section and added a chef to the payroll. Audiences are tempted out for a drink and a snack between halves of the show. Collier’s for February 21, 1953

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19 PLAY THE PALLADIUM money at home. ) et I hey “Tab at the ehanee to shoir their mires in an bullish theater Parnell, a 56-year-old six-footer with a build like an ex-football player, continued to add improve¬ ments when he became managing director after Black died in 1945. As Parnell tells it: “We try to keep it all top drawer. Our pit band is the best. You ought to see the leader, Woolf Phillips, from the stage. He smiles at the artists, encourages them, gives them the thumbs-up sign, tells them they’re great. When Judy Garland was nervous, Woolfie sang the English version of Easter Parade. She thought he was trying to throw her oil. It brought baek her concentration and became a running gag between them for her engagement. “Our scenery is the best we can get. So is our lighting, which is operated from the front of the house on a device like an electronic organ. Music, too, is tops. We were using Leroy Anderson’s mu¬ sic before he became famous in the States.’’ Show business is in Parnell’s blood. His father, Fred Russell, now 90 and still active, was the first ventriloquist to use a single dummy, which he called Coster Joe. Val began his own theatrical career at 13 as an office boy to a producer. Val’s wife, the former Helen Howell of Honolulu, was in an adagio act at the Palladium before their marriage in 1937. Today Parnell supervises the booking of about 200 acts a week for the Moss Empires group of theaters in addition to directing the Palladium. He works long hours at the job, and even away from the office frequently entertains show people in his luxurious eight-room apartment in Westminster Gardens, behind Westminster Abbey. His method of negotiating with American stars — and with Brit¬ ish performers, too, for that matter — is to coax rather than to bluster. He is slow to anger, and he rarely lets a personal dislike keep him from book¬ ing an actor who might help the box office. Although Parnell is responsible for the postwar American conquest of the Palladium, there have been American performers on its stage off and on ever since the theater’s gala opening December 26, 1910. The opening bill included a male imper¬ sonator from Baltimore, Maryland Ella Shields, known as Birmingham Bertie from Bow. Then, on down through the years, some of the Americans who appeared were Nora Bayes, Ramon Novarro, Joe E. Brown, Gregory RatofT, Polly Moran, Bert Wheeler, Ethel Barrymore, W. C. Fields, lorn Mix, Jackie Coogan and Gene Dennis, the clairvoyant. ( Parnell fondly remembers Miss Dennis because he w'on a sizable sum on her prediction that Windsor Lad would win the Derby in 1934. Windsor Lad paid 1 5 to 2. ) Jn 1940, the Palladium switched temporarily to bright, bouncy revues. It headlined such stars as Ben Lyon and Bebe Daniels, two of Hollywood’s silent-screen stars now resident in Britain (and top radio comedians at the moment), and Tommy Trinder, who will go down in London theatrical history as the man who squelched Orson Welles. (“The name’s Trinder,’’ said Tommy, in opening his act. “Why don’t you change it?” bellowed Welles from the audience. There was a hush. “Are you proposing marriage?” Tommy inquired.) The Act That Inspired a New Policy During the 1947 season, Parnell booked Laurel and Hardy. Box-office receipts indicated that he had hit pay dirt; he decided British audiences were ready to flock to topnoteh American performers whom they had seen in American movies, or heard either on records or over the United States Armed Forces radio. So Val flew to the United States and signed the first American stars for what he de¬ signed as the Palladium’s new — and still continuing — poliey: 31 weeks of big-name vaudeville, 10 weeks of an autumn revue, one week to refurbish the house and 10 weeks of pantomime (traditional, noisy British musicals based on fairy tales). Parnell concedes that the success of the ^ I -week vaudeville season hinges primarih on getting Amer¬ ican stars to head the bills Only three British headliners have been able to fill the theater by them¬ selves in recent years. 1 hey are Gracie Fields who also has made a hit on American stages, singer Donald Peers, who is Britain’s Guy Mitchell, and Max Miller, a burlesque-type comedian who cH s himsell the Cheek le C happie and uses some of the bluest material in show business. The whole project nearly foundered at the start, however. Parnell had signed Mickey Rooney to open the 1948 season But Val’s sleek, iron-gray hair nearly curled when he read in London news¬ papers that the ebullient little actor on his arrival in England had told reporters: “I can act. sing, dance, write screen plays, direct and produce pic¬ tures, play drums and ride horses. 1 am show busi¬ ness. 1 know it all.” Mickey was just being his brash, natural self. But the British, who prefer understatement, didn’t ap¬ preciate his egotism. The press roasted him even before the show opened, and the brickbats in¬ creased after the first night. “Mickey didn’t seem to care,” Val says now “He used no make-up. He did imitations of people and things our audiences had scarcely heard of.” Then Mickey’s manager, Sam Stiefel, compounded the British ire by explaining Mickey’s failure to appear at a children’s benefit in these words, according to the London press: “I thought it was outrageous to fix Mickey up with a show without consulting me. It’s like asking your king or one of your great ath¬ letes to appear without warning." After the Rooney debacle, the British press was ready to carve up Parnell’s next American star for British breakfast-table reading. But the next star — Danny Kaye — approached his engagement with an altogether different atti¬ tude. Danny arrived in London several days in ad- Located among office buildings away from theater district, Palladium doesn't appear very imposing on outside. But crowds quickly fill its 2,400 seats when a U.S. star is on hill BILL STAPLETON RLB0R0UGH galleries, MOOtlN I ANTIQUE HHWTUM f Oueen, Princess Mar lend roval touch to a rincc Philip )er forma nee

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20 rullatliunt audiences have tony memories. Tony Martin once relearned the Tenement vtln».c of h v v pv r ing to K-mil uri/e himself with the ffie t l r . "J he [ lepaied ^tud u^'\ ! or his preshow ,i«v - c ' ’eier-ce Hi hod two Mends his mun- - [ d DuD.ff .i id j \ e te.r 1 n American foreign c , 4 nde;»t pop u(ie t ■ >ns at him so that he 1 *\ e ^ 1 1 Ms i: swcrs icadv . lm , , .tsh vou how nui'i money vou're get- . jv | !u's a e a sore p»m*t here now," the cor- •• ;■ i-de p t a Tied him 1 11 tell them that a r • * e s e i ! s 1 hmpe I earn it.’ Danny said. Alter i -j e -e i IXMrV. *0Kl ais inends. Boys, hm j 1 1 i the e Hi'eiCrice Mono or, nn own." He i ! the- pres lot 1 ere nee v\ent e)ll like cloek- a ■; Is When a Hi tish icp'ute* audU recalled that IL'm . hdd fl- 'p pe d in a prew . i dancing act at Eon- J fi - Do uhestef Hole the comedian smiled and •! I was the time of Munich, and I've always the leel ng 1 niav hne started the war,” 1 he C • t o w ei e disarmed Dti.nv opened e n February 2, 1CMS — and he ... de theatrical h su-rv 1 he 4.000, UOU-cireulation D i v Lxpress gave him a >ave review on page one ret the drama page 1 he first house demanded •i many epcuies that the street outride became eh. r ed with hundreds o! tieket holders lor the sec- or d shi w. Danny s triumph assured the success ut Parnell s new po ie\ ot leaturing American stars. Mcnihrr of Peerage \rnoiig Standees Among those who bought standing-room tickets tor the second house that opening night in 1948 was the Marquess ot Milford Haven. He fought 1 is way through the crowd to Danny's dressing room after the final curtain. ‘ 1 cn ned it " he told Danny. "May I bring my cousins.) ‘ He could, and he did. 1 he cousins were Pnncess Mil/ both (now Queen Hi/ubeth ID and Princess Margaiet 1 hev .oined the audience in mg ng M<nnie the Moodier with Danny, and Prin¬ cess t izabeth went backstage afterward to invite him t i supper with her party. 1 can’t.' su mmered Dunnv '1 have a previ¬ ous en 'ageinent After the ioyal party left. Bairy St, r i tie Pall idium man ger. snapped: A ou c a * f to ri down invitations tiom rovultv. What engagement could possibly be more important?” Red-taced, Danny confessed; “I didn't have any engagement. 1 was too nervous to accept,” Elizabeth and Margaret went home to Bucking¬ ham Palace and told King George VI and Queen Elizabeth about the new comedian. On February 26th, lor the first time in recent history the king and queen sat in regular orchestra seats for a music- hall performance. Afterward, the king and queen spent nearly a half hour chatting with Danny in the royal box. Queen (now the Queen Mother) Eliza¬ beth told Danny she too had tried to sing Minnie the Moocher, but couldn't keep up with his scat. The Times, most austere of newspapers, pub¬ lished Danny’s photograph in action — an almost unheard-of honor for a vaudeville performer. Fa¬ mous people crowded into his dressing room, Winston Churchill — guarded by detectives, for on the night he attended the show Scotland Yard hud been tipped there would be an attempt on his life — told Danny his impact was frightening. ”1 start quietly and gradually build up," said the great ora¬ tor, "but you come on and hit your audience in the ey e." The Duchess of Kent, Prime Minister Clement R. Attlee. Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin and An¬ thony Eden all went backstage to pay tribute. Danny was booked for lour weeks, but Parnell hastily rejiggered his line-up and gave him six. Ticket scalpers got 10 to 15 times box-office prices for seats. Everything Danny did made news in Britain. His car almost ran down the Archbishop of Canter¬ bury. "Young man," said the Primate of All Eng¬ land, with a smile, "you almost achieved a measure of real fame." Danny lunched with George Ber¬ nard Shaw; the entertainer bruised his ribs in an automobile accident while returning to Eondon, and when he went on that night, he was hailed as a hero. On the last night of his run, the scalpers were asking S50 for orchestra seats. I he audience sang Auld Fang Syne and kept Danny on stage so long most transportation shut down and many of those without ears had to walk home. Word that Danny would fly back from the United States lor the Royal Variety Performance brought 80,000 applications for 2,400 seats. Four months before his 1949 season at the Palladium, forged tickets were on sale; Parnell had to put out tickets with a special design to foil the racketeers. During Danny's provincial tour in 1949, thousands gathered before his hotel in Glasgow and sang Will Ye No Come Back? His eight-week 1951 season at the Palladium was sold out befoie he opened, Electric Tension on Opening Nights Danny's success had several aftereffects. Par¬ nell started the Palladium Oscars — the brass name plates affixed to the star's dressing room, Danny took his along, and so has every star who followed him. Since 1948, the first show on opening night has always run suspiciously late. Parnell blandly denies he engineers the jam-up in Argyll Street be¬ tween the two shows; but he admits it adds to the electric tension of first nights. Audiences devel¬ oped an attitude toward American stars which Bev¬ erley Baxter, Member of Parliament and drama critic, named "palladiumania.” And Parnell found American resistance to his blandishments collapsing. For example, take Danny Thomas, "Why did 1 come?" says Thomas. "Because Benny, Kaye and my other friends in show business told me that you haven't performed to an appreciative audience until you've performed in England." Thomas represented Parnell’s big gamble tor 1950, Val booked Thomas for four weeks although he was almost unknown in Britain, The comedian won the audience with his opening line: "1 wouldn’t like to be in your shoes tonight. You're supposed to be the best audience in the world — you've got a lot to live up to.” Only one other top American entertainer — Jack Carson — has given Parnell a headache approach¬ ing that of the Rooney incident, "Carson wouldn't listen," Val sighs, "He tried out his act in Man¬ chester, I went up there, looked at it, and told him it wouldn't do at the Palladium. He said, Tm kill¬ ing the people, aren't 1?’ I nodded. They're Eng¬ lish, aren’t they?' he said, 1 saw it was no use and he came into Eondon. The first night was painful — for Jack as well as for the audience.

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21 Symphony for first-niyhtors. And IPorothy ! Attn our had to put on a hastily made sarony “Carson then agreed to change his act But when I came hack to see it. I found he had put m a lew bits I didn’t like. I phoned his agent, Harry Foster, who was having dinner, and said, Drop your fork and hurry right over here.’ We both talked to Jack and, do you know, alter that his act did quite well.” What Carson did at Parnell's request was to tighten his act by cutting out a long card-trick routine and two songs. But if there hasn’t been much temperament, there has been a lot of drama and comedy hoth on and oil the Palladium stage. During the 1952 season, Betty Hutton tried to do her trapeze act despite gastric flu and nearly fainted as she swung over the edge of the stage. Her husband, Charles O’Curran, saw she was on the verge of collapse and was hanging on only by instinct. He ran out onto the stage and directed stagehands to bring her down. Betty missed the next night and Frankie Laine, who had tickets to see the show, substituted for her. Judy Garland began her comeback at the Palla¬ dium in 1951. Parnell assured her that her widely publicized emotional problems would meet only sympathy in London. As she finished her final re¬ hearsal, she said: “I’m all right now, if only I don’t fall down.” On the opening night, she stumbled and fell while going into a tricky dance step, but the gallery already was screaming, “You’re great!” Critics Were Won Over by Sinatra Frank Sinatra was another whose career got a high-octane injection. Frank came over in 1950 during his courtship of Ava Gardner, and the criti¬ cal knives were whetted. But the critics decided at his opening night that he really could sing and that he was — as they admitted somewhat grudg¬ ingly — quite an artist. By one of the lucky breaks which have studded Frank’s career, he was invited to sing at a society party given by Lady Bailey, widow of Sir Abe Bailey, the South African diamond millionaire. Among the 100 guests who sat around him on pil¬ lows under a marquee in the pelting rain was Prin¬ cess Margaret. It developed he was one of her favorite singers, and this news dulv broadcast by his press agent, Mack Millar hit the Iron I pages in the L mted States Frank could have lunched with George Bernard Shaw, too, but he blithely passed up the rare honor lor tea with Ava. As Si¬ natra’s run ended, hobhv-soxers paraded heloie the theater earning placards reading: I hanks, \ al PaKNI l I . Wl KM W 111 ’[) HI SWI I 1 Dinah Shore went on depressed that her hus¬ band, George Montgomery, had not even cabled good wishes But the handsome actor had secretly llown to London and went into the wings during his wife's first numher. Dinah caught a glimpse of him, broke olT her song and ran oil stage to em¬ brace him, crying: “George! George!” I he audi¬ ence loved it So did a little man who stood at the side of the orchestra applauding loudly. When John Curlsen, the theater press agent, questioned the little man, he got this explanation : “Please don't think it's hecausc she sings my songs: it's hecause no song writer could ever hear his songs done bet¬ ter than Dinah sings them.” The little man was Irving Berlin. Dorothy I .amour didn't think she would need her sarong — although Parnell warned her that the British often remember artists for things they them¬ selves have forgotten. (Tony Martin, for example, had to relearn T enement Symphony quickly when the first-nighters wouldn’t let him off without it.) So a sarong was quickly run up backstage for Doro¬ thy out of some prewar silver lame from the ward¬ robe department. Jack Benny is one of the best-loved of the Ameri¬ can visitors. On one of his first visits, he asked Hannen Swafler, dean of British columnists, how he thought his act would go. “If it’s in English, you should be all right,” said Swafler. “Some of us here speak it quite fluently.” Benny is another who cannot hope to make anything like his Ameri¬ can salary in London, but he says: “Back home I’m on the go all the time. Here I’m free during the day and can get some golf in. Playing at the Palladium is good fun— a relaxation, if you like.” Red Skelton won public acclaim, but the critics were unaccountably cool. The Andrews Sisters also drew an unenthusiastic press for their 1951 act. which went in he v i v fn- w i . * . B t the | i manager, 1 ou 1 cvv p- mpitv - 1 1 1 e d 1 c e t with the emphasis on sj jr.j v ted .■ eniies to see the show ,u.nri 1 tn to. e the no- lives were good Bums, «nd Mien eot thur st . rt in h c-t r .e v i dc- vi lie in I ondon * I lies were ;T. w t eh ist in l‘>29.” Parnell recalls, k-r-d I w s t: r.y w *h I d- die Darling. the chief hunker fo tpe \neru n Keith-Or pheum circuit ’Who are the* he asked I told him they were A meric ns and he s. id. Never heard of them.’ But he hooked them t or the Pal¬ ace in New Y ork and they never looked h ek Jack BcnnvN “long-Distaucc'* (’all Benny and George Burns are great friends and never fail to wish each other luck PLymg golf in California one day in 1949, Benny remembered that Burns and Allen were opening in I, ondon in a couple of days. He staked his golfing partner his dentist — to a ticket and both flew to I ngland Burns was at a cocktail party when he got a phone call from Jack “What do you know.” he said when he hung up. “Jack called me all the wav from California just to wish us luck.” And Benny walked into the room Three of the big hits of 1952 were singers Billy Daniels. Frankie Laine and Sophie Tucker. Laine had heard a great deal about British reserve and was so startled when ecstatic shrieks descended from the gallery during his first numher that he turned to his accompanist. Carl Fischer, in the mid¬ dle of a song and asked: “Wfhat happened?" In an¬ other numher, Frankie suggested the audience sing along with him. “Are you ready0” he asked. A large, well-dressed woman jumped to her feet in the orchestra section and shouted: “Any time, Frank-eh. Any time!” What with all his success, you might think Par¬ nell would be a very happy man. But he isn’t. He has never been able to tempt Bing Crosby. “I’ll come when I need the money ," Crosby as¬ sured him. “And you know when that will be.” Val Parnell sighs. AAA

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CHARLES HAWES The stranger tossed up a coin. “Most women wear dresses/’ he said, glancing at Aunt Vicki By MARK 1 TRIED to get in a little fishing that morning, while we waited for the men to come to cradle Aunt Vicki's wheat, but just about the time the biggest tish in Little Stony Creek started to nibble at the cricket on my hook. Aunt Vicki yelled that the men had come. It’s a pure sin to leave a nibbling fish, hut 1 had to. I met my Aunt Vicki at the barn. The guinea hens were potracking shrilly at the barn door. "What's the guinea hens exeited about?” I said. “Must be a hawk flew over,” Aunt Vicki said, and then she handed me a fifty-dollar bill. “Run to the store and get this bill changed so I can pay the men oil this evening.” Aw, shucks, another trip!” I said. “Why don’t you marry you a man, like everybody says you should?” “I will, when my man comes along,” Aunt Vicki said. The guinea hens were getting more noisy. “That wasn’t no hawk,” I said. “They duck from hawks. It’s something strange in the barn.” Then we heard the sound of a man — a man in¬ side mv Aunt V icki's barn, humming a tune. We backed away as the barn door opened and the stranger stepped out. He was tall, lean and black-haired, and he had a bag in one hand. He looked about thirty. W hen he spoke, he seemed to speak to himself. “Only trouble with a barn is,” he said, “a man can’t get his sleep out. Things wake up too early. loo noisy.” Then my Aunt Vicki spoke. “Most men work for a living and sleep in houses,” she said. The stranger glanced at my Aunt Vicki. He tossed up a gold coin. “And most women are mar¬ ried and wear dresses,” the stranger said, and with that, my Aunt Vicki glanced at her overalls and fumbled with her tumble hair while the stranger glanced at the wheatlield. “But all the gold,” the stranger said, “is not in your wheattield. miss. Some ot it is in vour hair.” With that, the stranger put the gold coin back in his pocket. He set his bag down, opened it, and got out a small mirror. Then he took off his hat 22 HAGER and walked over to the waterspout and began to lather his face. ”Bub,” my Aunt Vicki whispered, “there’s a man I’d like to find out about. You can ask him while he shaves. Find out who he is, where he’s from and going to, and is he married, and a be¬ liever. I can hear what he says from inside the barn.” Then my Aunt Vicki disappeared into the barn, and the stranger came back to shave. “You seem to be a stranger around here,” I said. “I am,” he said. “My name’s Medley McKay. I’m what you might call a globe-trotter. You and your aunt live here alone?” “Yes. sir. I have to stay with her since Grandpa and Grandma died, and her man ain’t ever come along yet for her to marry.” “Tell your aunt that when her man does come along, he might be old-fashioned enough to like his woman in a dress.” “Yes, sir, I'll tell her. But she likes overalls when she works. In overalls she can outrun me on a dead level. How’d you leave your folks?” “W ith a tune in their hearts,” he said. “Your wife and children all right?” “Ain’t ever had a wife,” the stranger said, and I said, “W hy?” “My woman ain’t ever come along yet,” he said. He pitched up the gold coin. “One ever comes along who can pull this gold out of my pocket, I might marry her,” he said. “Believe the Scriptures?” “Uh-huh. Only Samson had an awful good pack of hounds to catch them three hundred foxes that day.” “Been baptized?” I asked. “Indirectly. Boat turned over while I was fishin’ in the Jordan River one day.” “Bein’ as the reason you’re foot-loose ain’t be¬ cause you left a wife, my Aunt Vicki might hire you. Ever cradle any?” “Cradle? Grew up on Sourwood Mountain among cradles and fiddles.” “You could sweat out ten bucks in the wheat- -field today.” The stranger glanced toward the wheatfield, ripe and hot. “Mind to lend me that fifty-dollar bill a minute?” he said. I glanced at the stranger and at the barn door. It was my Aunt Vicki’s money, but the stranger had a friendly and harmless twinkle in his eyes, and l didn’t think he’d run. He took the bill and walked over to the men. “I’ve heard,” he said, “that there’s good blood on Little Stony Creek. I’ve heard men are men here.” The big cradlers glanced at each other. “I’m not a man to hire out for wages,” the stranger said, “but I have a streak of the gambler. I’ll cradle one swath. If I’m not the front man at the end of the swath, you men get this fifty, and 1 finish the field. If I am the front man, I take the fifty and you finish.” The big cradlers were running hard thumbs along the keen edges of the cradle blades. They huddled, whispered, and said, “Stranger, you’re called.” AUNT VICKI had come out of the barn, and she gave the stranger Grandpa’s old cradle from the apple tree and the mossy old whetstone from the forks of the tree. He stood the cradle on its handle. A cradle has four or five wooden fin¬ gers out from the blade, and they catch the grain as the blade sweeps through and hold it, and the cradler lifts it out. The stranger adjusted a warped finger or two, and then he began to whet, stroking the blade first on one side and then on the other with the whet¬ stone, and at the same time he hummed. He was the only man ever on the waters of Little Stony Creek who could whet a tune on a cradle blade, and the tune made me and my Aunt Vicki shiver, for it made us think of Grandpa with no calf on his leg because a Minie ball hit him when he climbed the hill with General Pickett’s men that day. For you see, the tune was Dixie. When the stranger got done whetting, the men opened the gate and started cradling. The stranger started as the hind man. Aunt Vicki ran to the house. She came back in white moccasins and a flaming pink dress, and she smelled like she’d waded through a patch of primroses. I stood with Aunt Vicki, and we watched that first swath that day. We saw the stranger’s blade swish and sing at the heels of the next man, and the next. We watched the big Stony Creek men jump from their swaths to get away from the blade at their heels. When the last man had jumped out of the way, the stranger shouldered the old cradle. Me and Aunt Vicki sat down on the plow beam at the barn lot. He came back whistling a tune. “I could use a man like you on the farm,” Aunt Vicki said as she handed him the fifty-dollar hill. “You are beautiful in pink,” the stranger said. “But l suppose you could never settle at a place like Little Stony Creek,” Aunt Vicki said. “I might,” the stranger said. “I might even de¬ cide to settle and work for a living and sleep in a house,” and with that he tossed the gold coin. Aunt Vicki whispered to me it was a good time for fish to bite and shoved me off the end of the plow beam. I went on fishing, wondering could it be that my Aunt Vicki’s man had come along. But of course 1 wasn’t sure, not sure until some weeks later when l saw the stranger make the last toss of the gold coin, which he did because Little Stony got on a high lonesome that day and the stranger and Aunt Vicki couldn’t cross, and the preacher just came down to the bank of the creek. He married my Aunt Vicki and Medley McKay across the creek that day. Then the preacher seemed puzzled. He hesi¬ tated and waited. My Uncle Medley felt in his pockets. He got out some bills, but when Little Stony Creek gets on its Sunday clothes, you can’t throw paper money across, and my Uncle Medley dug again, and this time he came up with the gold coin, and, with that last toss, it sailed across the creek, and the preacher picked it up from the sand. ^ ^ Collier's short snoRT

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Il You can make many main dishes with the many fine Borden's Cheeses Vera -Sharp k Spanish Rice B- --- — Only Borden's extra-long Slices can do this slick trick Do you want your meals to be more interesting and varied? Then just depend on Borden’s Cheese! Here’s a tine example of a main-dish meal that wouldn’t, couldn’t taste half as good with¬ out the zippy flavor of Borden’s Vera-Sharp Process Cheese Slices. Prepare your favorite Spanish Rice recipe. Place in baking dish. Cut Borden’s Vera-Sharp Slices lengthwise into half-inch strips. Only Borden’s extra-long Slices let you do tricks like this without patching and wasteful trimmings. Now place slices lattice-fashion on top of Span¬ ish Rice and pop under broiler until slices brown and bubble. What a really heavenly dish this is! So hearty and satisfying — filled with the real sharp Cheddar flavor that has made Borden’s Vera-Sharp famous! Of course, these handier, more convenient slices come in 3 other popular varieties — American, Swiss and Pimento — all wonderful for topping casseroles or for sandwiches of every size and shape. Look for Borden’s Fine Cheeses in the dairy case at your favorite store. Man-tempting Macaroni s&W Use plenty of Borden’s Grated American Here’s an all-time American family favorite macaroni and Borden’s Cheese. And the more cheese you use — the better it tastes! Borden's Grated American Style makes a crunchy golden-brown crust on top of macaroni or any casserole dish. Made of fine American ^heddar cheese, it comes in handy 2-oz. and 4-oz. shaker-top containers. Be sure you always have a container on vour kitchen shelf Borden's American Cheese Spread! In the economical Impound loaf This new Borden’s American Cheese Spread is sure to be a big hit! First, it’s mild, mild, mild the kind of cheese flavor youngsters love. And it comes in an economical I’/^-lb. carton so there’s always plentv on hand for sec¬ onds or for guests, or for good eating all week long! And it spreads for sandwiches like a dream . . the perfect cheese for a soup ’n sandwich supper. Bondenls Rne Cheeses Folks who know cheese say "Borden’s, please!' AH Aboard I All Q-BonjQrls! Hs EI£Y£P 5000' -food fine / ft The Borden Company

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j By FRANK ROONEY - r* Donovan was a craftsman who took pride in his skill. A proud man cannot betray his own pride. He cannot fight dirty, for if he wins a dirty fight he destroys not his opponent, but himself t DONOVAN, who was neither articulate nor talkative, admired his friend, Joe Evers, but did not always understand or agree with him. Evers, a sports columnist for a New York City afternoon paper, had written three years ago, when Donovan retired from the ring, that no fighter in his memory had had more pride in his skills than Donovan. Donovan, Evers wrote, was dominated by his pride the way some inferior men are dominated by a woman. Pride was Donovan s mistress. This pride , fierce and probably unrecog¬ nized by Donovan himself, would not allow him to perform a small or mean action in the ring. He is retiring from the ring now at thirty-one because he is afraid his diminishing skills will demean him . He is afraid that his body, made slow and clumsy by time, will try to replace skill and stamina with trickery’ and deceit. Donovan, lying on the bed in the hotel room a half mile from Yankee Stadium, wondered how many people had read that column. He wondered too how many of the people who had read it would be in the Stadium tonight to watch him fight Kid Grover. The kid was twenty-four and weighed one sixty, and Donovan was giving him ten years and six pounds. Not that the weight mattered. Fifteen pounds would matter but not six. The years were important, the ten years, including the two he had been away from the ring. Those two years had hurt him. The three fights he had had during the last year had proved that. But this was the big one. The kid now in September, and the champion in June — if he got by the kid. And there was another thing that might hurt him too: the heat. The hotel room was air-conditioned. What would it be like on the floor of the Stadium under the lights? Getting off the bed, he checked the thermostat by the window. It was set at seventy-five degrees. He did not want to risk getting chilled, nor did he want to go directly from a temperature of sixty- eight to one of eighty-five or ninety. His wife, Mary, came into the room shutting the door quickly behind her; Donovan could hear the voice of Tully, his manager, in the brief time the door was open. “1 heard you moving around,” Mary said. “Is there anything you want?” “I don’t want to see anyone.” “1 won't let them in, honey. How do you feel?” “Good. 1 feel like 1 need a little exercise.” He smiled when Mary laughed, grateful to her for recognizing and appreciating the joke. Not many people knew when he was joking and when he was not. Even five months pregnant, even in the maternity dress, she looked fresh and hand¬ some. They had been married three years ago, the day he announced his retirement, when he was still middleweight champion retiring undefeated and not, as he was now, simply another challenger. An average challenger, coming back a one-way street and bucking the traffic all the way. Joe Evers had written that in one of his columns, Joe who had come from the same neighborhood on the lower West Side of New York and knew what it meant to get away from it. They live there in the old street , Joe had written, and they will die there, softly or loudly, in love or in hate, in filth or in decency . When we were kids, we dreamed of getting away . Donovan was one of those who got away. Some of us who got away go back now and then but Dono¬ van never did. Perhaps Donovan feels that getting away was a miracle and going back even for an hour would put that miracle in jeopardy. “Joe call?” he asked, and Mary said, “He’ll be in the dressing room. Do you want to be alone now?” “In a minute.” He stared at Mary, thinking that he would like to touch her but remembering that it was bad luck to touch a woman before a fight. Or not bad luck. It ruined his concentration. If he touched Mary, he would no longer be alone. Joe Evers had writ¬ ten: Although the fight game is often a filthy racket populated by evil men dedicated to the slaughter and robbery of the innocent , there are some fighters who approach a bout with the mysticism and rever¬ ence of devout men entering the pew of a church . The cynical will clutch their sides and roll out in the aisles with laughter at the above sentence. What the cynical do not and cannot understand is the frightening simplicity and devotion of a man who works at a trade that has not only enriched him but has removed him from the environment of crime and degradation. To a man climbing out of a sewer, the gutter is heaven. That was it exactly, Donovan thought. A talent, even a talent for fighting, made it certain that he would not have to live and die like his father, live in dirt and poverty and die in a brawl on the docks. And his talent bettered not only himself but also his three brothers and his sister. A whole gener¬ ation. And there was his mother too, finally taken away almost by force and set down in a clean little cottage in New Jersey. Living on a ranch in Cali¬ fornia now, he did not see his mother very often, but it was pleasant to think of her in the cottage, pleasant to think that two of his brothers had a profitable trucking business in New Jersey and saw his mother almost every day; his sister too, married and living in Connecticut; and the other brother, the youngest, teaching in a high school on the out¬ skirts of Philadelphia. Without his talent none of this would have been possible. A whole generation uplifted (that was Joe Evers’ word) by his talent Crouching, Donovan threw a right as the kid closed in. Bent nearly double, he threw the right hand hard and straight, as he had in¬ tended in the early rounds, and the kid fell 1L TRATED BY MORTON ROBERTS

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Page 538

26 • nd h r 'icy A man who had done v I it hcloic it tight concentrating on the h^h,t pi ai ning it, shutting au;i\ cv- inu that did not belong to it and n ht i'-ssen his c hilit) to think cleaily jth* >ut it vv 4 s . pat t ot h s tiade like Pairing Ite ought to stall doing tins n vv. hut there was Mai) . Ivvcntv thousand,” Donovan said. Mj v he tvveiitv -live. * Or i t think about that now.” * t \e got to think ahout it. Money. \ i j and me and the babv .” You ought to rest, lorn.” liil ,i minute And after the kid, the eh i nip Mavbe another twentv, twenty- I \e thousand 1 hen the champ again in September. And then no rnoie. What time is it ' Seven. I 11 call >ou at eight thirty.” VI'IFR she left. Donovan, crouched in the sp ace between the bed and the window jabbed twice with his left hand, holding his right close to his body and even with his belt. He was going to end this earlv in the first round. The kid was «i counterpuncher and Donovan would h. \e to force the tight. He had it planned. He would push the kid into the ropes, the kid would come oil them last, and Donovan would hit him from a crouch, the right hand pushed up Irom the hip with his weight solidly be¬ hind it, the elbow crooked and rigid, the shoulder rising last. It was a sucker punch crude and tasteless, and would not have been possible against the kind t t man he had t ought ten >ears ago, hut it would be possible against the kid Ihe kid did not know how to light. He had i right hand and was hard to hurt, and n >w adav s that was enough to give a man a shot at the championship. 1 en vcais ago. Donovan thought, he would have chopped the kid down like a tree. Or better, no one would have thought ot malchrng the kid with hrm. 'Ihe kid would have staved in the preliminaries wheie he belonged, and his onlv contact with Donovan would have been m a training camp as a sparring partner. Donov. n lav down on the bed again and tried to get his mind back on the light Ihe monev. In the beginning it w,s twentv -five dollars and now it was twuitv five tin usand He did not won¬ der where it had gone, as some men did. Ho knew where ever) pennv ot it went to Ins nn tiler, his three brothers. Ins sister. He had thought he had enough when he reined, hut there had been the r. nch and Man's lather and now the h.ihv. Joe 1 vers had written, alter he had tlown out to see Donovan in C'ali- loiiiid and had got the exclusive story oi Donovans plans to fight again: HV s ki\ fists. Iir l .Mis r >r C\ I ) \ till Hi; I am .ntamst. / u d h n li a / unit r- n tand w l \ t: tm :st /it v i » / 1 h/ not lit tin cops tin « ! ''* M ,r H h\ / * da t/ u tih tt in his hand Is, e as In d the cun B hite\ con .» s', \ ■ . ^ . v Uc n he stn et. So he dm! sti . ite\ hud his gun. Po/unu" . \ his ‘ sts. I ha\ t my typewriter It s> ;t a td to take my typewriter aw ■>. nn . I'd fi^ht too. And I won d /., i * s* ■ as ena Iv as Oonouin is "oir.e i\ •>.[. id in>fit dirty — like H'hitiy. He must have dozed then because there was Mary shaking h s shoulder, I ully, his manager, and Millstein, his trainer, standing in the door behind her. He stayed with Mary a moment after 1 ully and Millstein had gone down to the elevators. “You can turn on the radio,” he said. “1 don’t want to listen.” She had never seen him fight. She would not turn on the radio when his fights were broadcast, nor would she look at the movies made oi them. He remembered coming home to her after the first fight of his comeback, and remembered the shock in her face as she saw' the strip of adhesive over his left eye and the cut on his lip. “Well, I'll see you in a couple of hours,” he said. He went out the door and down the hall to the elevators. When the elevator ! _ ■■■ - - came he said “Wait a minute” to Tully and Millstein and went back to the hotel room. Putting his arms around Mary, he kissed her and held her tight, feeling the bulge ot the baby inside her against the taut muscles of his belly, douching her might be had luck and it might ruin his concentration, but this time he was going to take Mary with him. “Attabov.” Millstein said when he rode down in the elevator. “You feel good. First time 1 seen you smile.” ‘It s the baby,” he said. “My broth¬ ers- the older ones — got two apiece. I his is m> first. We'd like to have a girl, but we’ve got a hoy’s name picked.” MAKING the cigar out of his mouth, 1 ullv said, “Work on his belt. He’s got a chin like a boulder,” and put the cigar hack in his mouth. The cigar was light brown, smooth and expensive, hut where 1 ullv had chewed rt, it was dark, almost black, and crushed. Donovan did not like lull) and when he had signed with him. he had said. “You get the monev. I'll do the fighting.” He had wanted O'Brien, the man who had taught him how to fight, had brought hrm the championship, who had man¬ aged him for twelve years before he re- tiied. But O'Brien had said, "it's like this. lorn. You're not going anywhere hut where you’ve been before — if you go that far. 1 can’t stop you from fight¬ ing and 1 can't stop you from getting hurt. But I’m not going to be a party to any of it.” Down in the dressing room under the stands, Donovan asked about the crowd, talked with reporters, and, after they left, started the business of shutting out everything around him. It was a conjurer’s trick. You made people van¬ ish until you were alone in the room. Now' was the time to think and to plan. In the ring, if a man thought he knew, he was beaten. There was no time to think. You fought, and thought after¬ ward. You never saw an opening, either. You hit and saw' it later, w hen the fight w'as over, when it was necessary to start thinking of the next fight. If you saw an opening clearly enough to want to take advantage of it in the ring, you knew that you had missed it. Keep the left hand out. he thought, and get your weight behind it. Hurt him with it. And in the first or second round, the sucker punch to the jaw'. Ten rounds. He would have to go fifteen when he fought the champion, but tonight it would be ten. Joe Evers came in while Donovan w'as having his hands taped, the kid's manager coming in too to watch Mill¬ stein wrap the long cotton strips over Donovan's knuckles and the first joints of his fingers. Donovan, wearing a towel and the blue bathrobe with his name on it, stood in a corner, talking to Joe. As he talked, he stretched lazily and bent at the knees, loosening and testing his muscles. Joe Evers had written: Donovan is not only putting a magnificent record on trial tonight but the myth of invinci¬ bility many people who have seen him fight — and many who have not — cher¬ ish in their minds. No man can he as good as his myth. On his record Dono¬ van was a great fighter. Ninety-one professional fights. Eighty-three wins, two draws and six losses. Sixty-two knockouts and he himself was knocked out only once, early in his career, when he w'as fighting four- and six-round pre¬ liminaries. lint this is not enough for the people who create myths. They want and expect a superman and Dono¬ van was never that and is not now, at thirty-four, even a shadow of that. Joe’s columns were highly personal and not always ahout sports. Short and stocky, he often referred to himself as “that round little man.” He had writ¬ ten: / am on the short side and must watch my weight and l am not sure you would like me the first time you saw me. I know that l hit people in the eye, when l hit them at all, and sometimes l am sensitive ahout this. / do not have all my hair either and l sleep badly , / talk tough too and hearing me talk you would know l came from the street. I write like l look, sometimes in pain, often in ridicule , and almost always in anger. “How about it if you lose tonight?” Joe said. “You going to quit?” Donovan thought for a long time. “1 don’t know. Mary wants me to quit. But this is the only way 1 know how' to make money. I’ve got to have one more fight.” “Your brothers are doing all right. You helped them plenty.” “I can’t ask them, Joe.” “Sure you can.” “No.” ‘‘You going to try to end it early? The sucker punch?” “Like I told you.” “Good luck, then.” “Don't say good luck, Joe, If I’m good, I won’t need luck.” “I’ll see you after the fight.” “Come back to the hotel with me. Mary’s got a pot of coffee for you.” EVERS had written: The skills go first. The timing is poor, the reflexes had, and the fighter cannot put a com¬ bination of punches together. He knows what to do hut he cannot do it. His legs tremble and buckle under him, and after five or six rounds the old fighter reminds yon of a man with weak arches chasing a kid of] his front lawn. Only this is a kid with a brick in his hand and when the old man gets tired enough the kid is going to turn and clip him. The skills go but the pride stays. Pride is senseless then. It can injure and some¬ times maim. But no one can tell the old man this. The old man will never be¬ lieve it. In the ring, Donovan looked briefly at the kid while the referee was giving his instructions, seeing the heavy shoul¬ ders and arms under the light bathrobe, seeing the heavy, square lace and the broken nose. He can be hit, Donovan thought, and he'll take three punches to get one in. 1 don’t even have to re¬ member that. 1 don’t have to remember anything. All 1 have to do is fight and win. Donovan did not listen to Tully as he stood waiting for the bell for the first round. Tully irritated and disgusted him. “Work on his belt,” Tully said. I hat was all the man knew. What I ully meant was: Do anything you can get away with to cut the kid down. And that meant all the cheap little tricks he had learned years ago that other fighters used but which he himself had never used. It’s a business arrangement, Don¬ ovan thought, and what Tully is cannot touch me. Donovan came out quickly in answer to the bell, and after feinting w'ith both hands, jabbed twice w'ith his left lightly, moving to his right, making the kid miss. He got in three straight left hands with¬ out a return and hooked his right to the body, taking a right hand on his shoul¬ der before he moved in and tied the kid up. Midway in the first round he began to put more weight behind the left hand, hoping for a chance at a combination. He missed badly with his right and took a left and a right to the ribs that shook him. The kid could hit but Donovan Collier’s for February 21, 1953 “Tommy and I had planned to elope on Thursday night, hut li is father wouldn't let him borrow the ear . . .* KATE OSANN

Page 539

had expected that. And (he kid was quick with his hands, quicker than Don¬ ovan had thought. Donovan was feeling the heat a little; the air was thick and vvaim under the overhead lights, and there was no hrecze to move it. He sensed the crowd too for a moment and then torgot it, as he always did. It was simplv a move¬ ment or a sound outside the ring. It had nothing to do with the three men in the ring and what happened there. The kid tried to work closer, Dono¬ van stabbing him with the let t hand and bringing his right straight into the body, the first solid punch he had landed. He followed it with a left hook to the body and a left to the head; ducked the kid's right; and then from his crouch, his own right hand low, he saw the opening he had planned for saw' it and knew that seeing it meant that it was gone. He had to tell himself not to think about it, to keep moving, to keep his left hand out. The time to think about the fight was later; the time to light it was now. In the second, third and fourth rounds Donovan stayed away from the kid and used his skill as a boxer to pile up points. He did not use the right hand very often, hut when he did he made it count. In the fifth round, with the crowd restive and yelling for ac¬ tion, he tagged the kid with a clean right hand, shaking him, hut took a left and right to the body later that hurt him. He was feeling the heat more too, and in the sixth round his legs began to go. The kid was able to work closer, brush¬ ing aside Donovan’s left hand and hook¬ ing both hands to the body. Donovan missed continually with his right, and when he set himself to use it, took more rights and lefts to the body. “It’s still your fight,” Millstein said at the end of the sixth round. “Now, listen. Make him come after you. Watch him. He drops his shoulder when he throws that right.” “I’ll get him,” Donovan said. “Sure, you will. He's wide open.” Wide open, Donovan thought, and I can’t hit him. A kid that ten years ago would have been making twenty- live bucks a light and h.meing around training camps trvmg to get taken on as a sparring paltrier He sat on the stool, raging at his own clumsiness, disgusted with the delective bodv. humiliated by what be knew was to come. He had been beaten belorc but not this wa\ . not like a duck being knocked over in a gallery by a man with a rifle, not like a snail crushed on a sidewalk by a man's heel. T ^ II i N the bell rang for the seventh round. Donovan, abruptly deter¬ mined to get it over with, came out fast and put his left hand in the kid’s face. Working faster now than be had in any earlier round, he jabbed with the left and hooked the light to the body. He missed with another right, took a right and left to the body, and landed a hard right on the cheekbone and followed it with a left book to the body. He stag¬ gered the kid with a right cross and. holding him off with his left, hit him twice more with the right. Then he had the kid on the ropes and was hitting him with both hands — a left and a right to the head, a left to the body, a left to the head, and a right and left to the head. But the kid grabbed him and hung on and grabbed him again after the referee broke them, and Donovan, trying to hold him off. missed with a right and a left, and the kid grabbed him again. The referee broke them, and Donovan, coming in fast, took a hard right over the heart, then missed with a left and a right. As Donovan crowded in, the kid, in a crouch, grabbed him, and Donovan, off balance, slipped and felt the sting in the left side of bis face as his face struck the kid’s skull. He held the kid and, when the referee broke them, grabbed and held, feeling the blood running dowrn into his left eye. Closing his eye against the blood, he jabbed and clinched and backpcdaicd until the round was over and Millstein could come out and lead him to his corner. He did not know it was the end of the round until he saw the kid drop his hands and walk away, and he did not know where his corner was un¬ til Millstein led him to it. He was tired. He had never been so tired. What he had left after six rounds in the heat had been used up in the seventh. Mill- stcin said something about luck, but Donovan knew that it had not been luck. What had prevented him from finishing the kid off was something more im¬ portant than luck. Luck could conic back to a man, but not this. When this went away from a man it stayed away. “Okay,” Millstein said, after he had stopped the blood. “Keep him away from that eye.” That was a beautiful idea, Donovan thought, as he moved out for the eighth round. Keep him away from the eye, but what with? His disgust made him careless. He did not back away. He moved in and stayed in, slugging it out. The blood was run¬ ning into the eye again; and, missing a right hand, he slipped and fell, getting up quickly and not hearing Millstein yell at him to stay down. He felt the ropes against his back and then EVERYBODY LIKES Sunshine Cookies Your choice of many delicious varieties... packaged in protective cellophane. AT FOOD STORES EVERYWHERE! Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 540

28 THE GREAT AMERICAN BRANDY- SUPERB AS A STRAIGHT OR MIXED DRINK America's leading Brandy, produced by The Christian Brothers of California, an Order founded in Reims, France in 1680. “COOKING AND ENTERTAINING WITH WINE AND BRANDY” N e u- 3 2 - p a g e I>ooklet shows you how to work fla¬ vor magic with wine and brandy in a wide selec¬ tion of famous dishes and mixed drinks. MAIL COUPON FOP YOUR FRKK COPYI FROMM and SlCHEL Inc r 218 Wesf 57 Ih Street C New York 19 NY Ail J rcss. _ _ City - / _ St.i-c _ Sole Distributors FROMM and SlCHEL, Inc. New York, N. Y • Ch cago !■> • Sa- F’j-- > 0 Ca f suddenly, shockingly, canvas against his chest. Pushing h i nisei 1 to his hands and knees, he looked toward his corner, and when Millstein’s hand came tip he came up with it, the referee grabbing his gloves and rubbing them against the gray shirt. And now, after his careless¬ ness and disgust, he realized that he did not want to lose this light. He had been close to throwing it away. It was still, despite the knockdown, his fight, and if he did not win, it m'ght he his last one. And there was Mars and the baby and the ranch, and there was a year of the punishment of training and fighting to get himself into shape and now — if he won a shot tit the championship and the money. A lot of money. Not his, hut Man's and the baby’s. And then of course he was too good, still too good, to he beaten by a novice like the kid. He was hurt, but his head had cleared, and v\ith the kid coming at him fast, he had to cover and duck and run and jab and hold on until he had strength enough to fight back. The kid, anxious and overeager, crowded Dono¬ van against the ropes, using both hands to the head. Donovan tied him up and, alter the break, moved out into the cen¬ ter ot the ring. Donovan's left eye was closed and he had trouble seeing the kid's right. Donovan jabbed with his lelt, keeping his left shoulder high to protect his jaw. A hard right to the temple forced him to the ropes, and, crouching, his right hand low. Dono¬ van threw the right as the kid closed in. Bent nearly double, he threw the right hand hard and straight, as he had in¬ tended to in the early rounds, and the kid fell and rolled on his side, holding his belly. Donovan, moving to his cor¬ ner. heard the bell and saw the referee signal and saw the kid's handlers com¬ ing into the ring. “What's the matter?" Donovan said. “What are they doing that for?" TIRED and dazed, confused by the sudden action in the ring, he al¬ lowed Millstein to push him down on the stool and work on his eye. “You got him now. He's hurt. What a break! Sit still." “I want to know- what happened. Why don't they count him out?" Dono¬ van tried to get up but Millstein held him down. “> 011 hit him low." "Why, 1 never — " Donovan said. “I never — " "Sure, you didn’t. That punch was six inches above his belt. But the ref¬ eree’s giving it to him. Forget it. You lose the round, that's all. Okay. Go get him." I he kid was ofT his stool now, and Donovan came out to meet him. In New York a fight cannot he lost be¬ cause ot a foul. The fighters are equipped with protective cups and it is presumed that these cups prevent them from being injured by low punches. It is up to the referee t o decide whether or not the fouled fighter is in shape to con¬ tinue the tight. Donovan was not angry with the referee. I he referee had made a mistake, and the mistake could either he corrected or denied success! u 11> by the people who saw the fight. It was the kid, turning a clean knockout into the du tv business ot a deliberate foul, w ho infuriated him. I he round was lost hut not the fight. It was the fight that mat¬ tered. It did not take long. The third time the kid went down, the referee stopped the tight. In the dressing room, Dono¬ van collapsed. The doctor who worked on him wanted to send him to the hos¬ pital. but Donovan refused. Back at the hotel, he rode up in the elevator alone, wanting to see Mary and Joe Evers and wondering what he was going to say to them. The motion pic¬ tures of the fight, he thought — they ought to show clearly that it had been a fair punch. Sometimes they showed very little. It would depend on the an¬ gle — where Donovan, the kid and the referee were in relation to the camera. Donovan knew that he had not hit the kid low and that in the morning the newspapers would prove it. But unless the referee reversed his decision (and that was hardly possible) the foul would go into the records or at least into the public memory, and his twelve years in the ring, thirteen now, would end like this — In doubt, in shame, in agony. When Mary opened the door and saw his face, she started to cry. "It’s only a cut," he said. He kissed her hair as she cried softly against his shoulder. "It'll heal. Anyway, I won. The referee stopped it." He sat with her on the couch under the windows, holding and patting her hands. "T hey claimed I hit him low. I wouldn't do that, Mary." "I heard it, Tom. 1 couldn’t help it. 1 didn’t want to. Just the last two rounds. It was terrible." "Have you seen Joe? I’d like to talk to him." "He called and said he’d be up later. Are you all right?" "Fine. You don’t believe I hit him low, Mary?" “I don't care. It’s over. That’s all I care about. Do you want something to eat? How about some scrambled eggs?" "A lot of people are going to think 1 did it on purpose. They’ll think I had to do it to win. You see? That’s what they'll think. They’ll think the kid had me beat and this was the only way I could win. They'll think — " "1 don’t care what they think. Why don't you lie down here while I get the eggs ready?" Mary was in the kitchenette when Joe came. Donovan got up of! the couch to let him in, then set up a card table in the middle of the living room and brought three straight chairs. Eat¬ ing the scrambled eggs slowly, his mouth and gums sore from the kid’s punches, he listened to Mary and Joe talking and began to go over the fight in his mind. After a fight, he had to re¬ member it round by round, punch by punch, before he could sleep. He re¬ membered all his fights and never made a mistake about them. THE first six rounds were easy to re¬ member but he became confused in the seventh. It was clear up to the point where the kid had butted him, cutting the skin over the left eye, and after that it was not at all clear. And the eighth — what exactly had happened in the eighth? "I was knocked down," he said aloud. "I remember that." "You took a count of nine," Joe said. "What was I hit with? A right hand?" "You could call it that," Joe said. "Eat your eggs," Mary said. "Then I got up and I hit him. Wasn’t that it?" "You slipped once." "That’s right. That was earlier. After I got up I — I was in the corner." "Why don’t you eat your eggs?" Joe Evers said. "And then I hit him. Over the heart, wasn't it? Maybe under the heart. Maybe a little lower than the heart. That right?" Tom drank his coffee and Mary told him to eat the eggs and stop worrying about the fight. "No lower than that," he said, "I had my hand down and I brought it up fast. I caught him coming in. That right?" "That's right," Joe said. "The kid was wide open. I couldn't have landed it against anyone else." He put down his fork. “I landed that one. Just the way Ed planned it before the fight. You remember that, Joe. I planned that days ahead. I thought about it a lot. It wasn’t just something I did without thinking about it. And they claim I fouled him. Hit him low." Joe nodded. "The doctor examined the kid after¬ ward?" Joe nodded again. Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 541

29 “Where was the bruise?” “Please,” Mary said. “I’ve got to know.” “All right,” Joe Evers said. “It was a little low.” “How low? I'll find out tomorrow anyway.” “Low enough,” Joe said. “You were half blind. It was an accident. He was wearing a cup but it didn’t do much good.” “I suppose the kid and his manager are yelling 1 did it on purpose.” “What else did you expect, Tom?” Donovan got up and went into the bedroom, where he lay down on the bed and shut his eyes. Mary came in and bent over him, and without opening his eyes he asked her to send Joe in: “I want to see him alone.” WHEN he opened his eyes, after a time, he saw Joe standing with his back against the closed door of the bedroom. “You’ll feel better about this in the morning,” Joe said. “Pm going over to write my column. I'll send it over to you as soon as it’s done.” “I want you to put this in,” Donovan said. He looked at the ceiling. “I did it on purpose. 1 hit him low because I had to do it to win. You can say I needed the money. You can say any¬ thing you like, but say first I did it on purpose. I’m through, Ice. This is my last one. If I had another fight, I’d probably do the same thing. You can say 1 don’t like to lose and you can say this is why 1 did it.” He closed his eyes. “I ought never have tried to come back, Joe. I wouldn't have if I’d known this was in me.” Joe Evers left Donovan in the room with Mary and went to the newspaper office where, typing with two fingers, he wrote: It is a part of Donovan' s creed that he must take the blame for fouling Kid Grover . He claims that he did this on purpose , that this was what he had to do to win. 7 he blow that struck Kid Grover was delivered by a man as bereft of sight and sense as the victim of an automobile accident . I talked with Donovan after the fight and it is my conviction that he believed at the time that he had landed a fair blow . Collier’s for February 21, 1953 week ago , Donovan outlined the plan of the fight to me. Stated simply, his plan was to maneuver his opponent into such a position that Donovan would be able to hit him on the jaw with a right hand , the right hand to be held low, down on the hip, and moved upward with Dono¬ van s body behind it. Donovan himself described it to me a week ago as a sucker punch, one that woidd only work against a clumsy , inexperienced, or in¬ ept fighter. Like Kid Grover. The blow was to be delivered in the first or second round and if it landed was to have ended the fight. As it happened, Donovan had just such an opportunity in the first round but because of his slower reflexes he was unable to take advantage of it. Since I was looking for this, I saw it clearly. In the eighth round Donovan had a second opportu¬ nity but now the circumstances had changed. He had been beaten to the floor by a roundhouse right he had not even seen. Dazed and bleeding , he crouched against the ropes and because this was his creed he fought back. He caught Kid Grover coming in and hit him the way he had planned to hit him. And he fouled him. There is no doubt of that. I saw the bruise on Grover's body afterward and, more important , I sat ringside and saw Donovan's glove on Grover's trunks. Half paralyzed, dragging his right foot, in terrible pain, Grover was a sitting target. The point of all this ? Just as Dono¬ van took the credit for his victories, so he must take the responsibility for his defeats. And this was the worst of his defeats, a defeat that could not even be dreamed of and something he must now live with the rest of his life. I have tried to tell Donovan that few people out¬ side of those who stand to gain by it will believe that he struck that blow on pur¬ pose. Donovan is a proud man and pride never allows a man an accident. To the proud nothing they do is acci¬ dental. All their actions are parts of a grand and regal plan, even those that demean and injure them. Especially those that demean and injure them. . . . “Do you mean that?” someone look¬ ing over Evers’ shoulder said. “I think I do,” Evers said. “I hope to God I do.” a If your carfeels like this ... its time for MARFAK chassis lubrication That cushiony feeling lasts longer with - More rough cold-weather driving still to come! Make the going smoother — get Marfak lubrication. Tough, longer last¬ ing Marfak clings to chassis points. It won’t jar out or squeeze out— resists wash- off when road water splashes. That’s why you get smooth, cushiony driving with Marfak for 1,000 miles or more! Get Marfak lubrication. See your Texaco Dealer, the best friend your car ever had. THE TEXAS COMPANY TEXACO DEALERS IN ALL 48 STATES Texaco Products are also distributed in Canada and in Latin America TUNE IN: Tuesday nights an television, the TEXACO STAR THEATER starring MUTON BERLE . . . METROPOLITAN OPERA radio broadcasts an Saturday afternaans. See newspaper for time and station.

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W ho stands in for a grea IN PARIS almost anything can happen to a young man — especially if he is imaginative, and most especially if he is an artist. What happened to Marcel Vertes in the 1920s is the basis of as curious a little tale as any ever written. It is worth knowing because, as you can see by the pictures on these pages, he has just made a major contribution to the new movie Moulin Rouge. But here is the story much as Vertes, now a famous illustrator in his middle fifties, tells it in his auto¬ biography Amandcs Vertes* (Green Almonds). About 30 years ago Vertes went to Paris from his native Budapest to study art. “Like all the other students,” he recalls, “1 amused myself by making paintings ‘in the manner of’ the great mas¬ ters. Since I warmly admired Toulouse-Lautrec, who at that time had already joined the immortals, 1 naturally became proficient at conveying his style in my own work. Perhaps 1 became too proficient. “There was one sketch — two horseback riders in a park, with a carriage and two young women in the background — which could have been done by Lautrcc. 1 put it in my portfolio along with my other sketches and water colors. “One day I was making a fruitless tour of the galleries. What devil possessed me to show that sketch, I’ll never know. The proprietor tried to conceal her excitement. ‘Where did you get that picture?’ she asked.” With elaborate calm, Vertes said, “Oh, it’s been around the house for quite a while.” Suddenly, though, he realized what was happening. There was no signature on the sketch, neither his nor Lautrcc’s. No name had been mentioned, but the dealer offered him 100 francs, saying, “We like horses. But if you find any others in this style — with nudes perhaps — we will take them, too.” Mr. Vertes accepted the 100 francs and left the matter with his conscience. Now he has a fine reputation of his own. He is an American citizen with a vast studio in mid-Manhattan and another in Paris. His gamin-eyed, slim-bodied nudes, bra¬ zen boitlevardiers and haphazard dogs and cats in book, magazine and advertising illustrations are •Copyright 1952 by "Adam", Publishers. Paris r \ ' v / I a Goiiliie. above, queen of cancan at fabled Paris music hall Moulin Rouge, and Mine. Eglantine's Girls, at left, chorus of black-stockiugcd cancan dancers, were re-created by artist Marcel \ ertes in spirit of the original Toulouse-Lautrec posters Artist designed sets and costumes for film, "played" Lautrcc's right hand in story of crippled genius. Vt right, the camera closes in on Vertes hand in Moulin Rouge scene in which the little painter sits making sketches on the tablecloth Collier's for February 21, 1953 30

Page 543

31 By SKY CIIYSSLKK rlist when they him his biograpln? Marcel \ crle> has llie hot aiNucr Vertes made series of water colors, like one abo\e, of gaslit cafes and innsic halls immortalized in Lantrec's lithographs. These pictures of backstreet Paris set mood for the film. In tour of Lau tree's haunts la>t spring, Vertes found atmosphere of eighties gone for good, though it had still lingered in his student days thirty years before. So lie fell hack on memory. Photograph of Jose Ferrer as Lautree, right, shows how closely film follows art, now on show at New York's Carstairs Callcry Collier’s for February 21, 1933

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CLOSE-UP OF THE WORLD'S BIGGEST PROVING GROUND! Every foot of the 225,000 miles of railroad line in America is available to try out, under test conditions, new ways of construction — new types of equipment — new methods of railroad operation. Take the track itself. In recent years, research and testing have added 50 percent to the service life of rail, more than doubled the life of crossties, made track stronger and smoother. But track improvement is just one result of the year-in, vear-out railroad research and testing which have brought about such modern marvels as centralized traffic control and push-button freight yards, better trains with more efficient locomotives to pull them and better brakes to control them, and the hundreds of other improvements which have made it possible for the average freight train, today, to do three times as much work in an hour, as it did 30 years a^o. And everybody benefits. For, although railroad wage rates, fuel and supply prices, and taxes have all more than doubled, the average amount shippers pay the railroads for hauling a ton of freight one mile is only slightly higher than it was in 1921, after the first World War. And the average amount that you pay for traveling one mile as a railroad passenger is actually lower than it was 30 years ago. Association of American Railroads WASHINGTON 6, D. C. You’ll enjoy THE RAILROAD HOUR every Monday evening on NBC .

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distinctively and unmistakably his own. And lie has become an authority on the works o! I auticc. Several months ago the ghost of the artist came back to haunt him. Voiles was asked to help design the sets and costumes for Moulin Rouge, the him biography ot Henri de I oulouse-1 .auti ec, directed by John Hus¬ ton and released last week by United Artists. 1 o cap the irony, he was asked to imitate tor the screen the works of the master himself. Before a single camera was set in motion, the mood ot the picture — the misty half-light of cob¬ bled alleyways, the gaslit gaieties of the Mont¬ martre music halls, even the Chaplincsquc outlines of the dwarfed Lautrcc (played by five-toot- cleven Jose 1 'error) was set down in a scries of casually correct water-color sketches by Marcel Vertes. When the camera swings to a forlorn fig¬ ure seated at a little cafe table in the finished movie, the face behind the black beard, the fingers reach¬ ing out for the cognac glass are those of 1 error. But the hand that makes swift, satiric sketches on the tablecloth belongs to Vertes. 1 he silent part¬ nership between Lautrcc’s alter ego and the great artist himself comes full circle. “It was a queer feeling,” Vertes says now. “I had not wondered what became of my 100-franc riders for many years. But suddenly in Paris, work¬ ing on the film. I got to talking about it again. Finally, in July, I had a telephone call from a stranger. He had read my autobiography. He was interested in my story of the imitation Lautrcc — and he knew where it was hanging now. It was in the collection of a wealthy American. I thanked him, but \vc agreed that since the collector was happy with his Lautrcc, wc would not spoil his pleasure.” The matter, however, did not end as easily as it sounds. Vertes is still bothered now and then with the haunting thought that something beyond real¬ ity guided his fust green attempt to imitate Lautrcc. Perhaps. Or the moral of the talc might be this: Vertes is his own reward. ^ ^ A In Moulin Kongo, frustrations of Toulouse-Lautrec*' -hurt, lonely life arc -vmholi/.cd hy Malterniy Marie C.liarlet, one of 1 1 is models above, and lovely fashion model Myriamme. being sketched by little dwarf in \ erle* drawing at left. Kear view of l antree. leaving restaurant, light, L copied often in the movie, as are other M*eue> reproduced here 33

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I’m tolling you." the old man said, “that as long as Buell's number is up, and he knows it, he*s going to get all three of us if lie can Showdown at Scuffletown flic throe men had to face together the danger that lav in the vallev. Two were young and hated each other. The third was old and — they thought — a coward By JOHN’ RANDOLPH PHILLIPS i JIVES TUCKER reached the sheriff's office at daylight that April morning in 1919 and found Page Viineev waiting with the sheriff. He should have known that Page would be there tii st. tor Page was restless and impatient, and very ambitious. \ ou never had to wait for Page; he was alw j\ s ahead ot time. Roes spoke respectful!) to Sheriff Julian Webb. To Page \ ance\ he gave a scarcely perceptible nod. and he received the same kind of nod in re¬ turn. 1 he\ looked at each other guarded!), he and Page, their enn it\ close to the surface, neither troubling to mask the host 1 1 1 1 \ in his eyes. I hen. shrugging in that contemptuous way he had. Page stepped past Rives and Hung open the door. In single tile. Page leading, the sheriff sec¬ ond and Roes hringmg up the rear, they went down the courthouse walk to the sheriff's Model T. Here they stood a moment, the three of them, the old man and the two \oung men, as if gathering 34 their strength against the danger that awaited them across the mountain. Beside his two tall deputies, Julian Webb seemed almost tiny, a thin old man beginning to wither, the fire faded from his blue eyes. In contrast Rives and Page looked especially young. Yet they were both twenty-seven, had served with the A.E.F. in France, and had been deputies before enlisting in the Army. They were good-looking young men, practically the same height, but Rives Tucker was a little broader. Page was more wiry. He had quick, im¬ patient black eyes, thick black hair, high cheek¬ bones and a rather small, thin-lipped mouth. Rives’s eyes w'ere gray and tranquil, his hair the color of ginger, his features relaxed and pleasant. None of the three was in uniform. Rives and Page both wore whipcord breeches and brow n felt hats. Rives had on a brown wool coat, and Page a jacket of dark corduroy. Each of them had a .38-caliber revolver at his hip and a cartridge belt. Sheriff Webb w'as dressed in a black business suit, heavy-soled high shoes, a hat of black felt, a white shirt and a narrow, black bow tie. It was his official costume and had been for forty-one years. He wore no gun at his hip, but carried it in the right side pocket of his coat. “Let me drive,” Page said. “If you like,” the sheriff said gently. They got under way with Page and the sheriff in front and Rives riding in the back. It was like Page, Rives thought, to want to drive, to take charge as much as the sheriff would permit him. That, however, was only one of the things about Page Yancey that Rives Tucker did not like. There were many others. As boys they had been jealous rivals in athletics. As deputies before the war, they had struggled to surpass each other, with Page always outshining Rives by virtue of a certain reckless but effective ILLUSTRATED BY SAUL TEPPER

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36 li i/ i c As >oung veterans after the w.j thuf je*t«ous\ htid developed into open host! i tv when both began court- mij the v, niL girl Julian Webb\ duugh- tei I i > 1 1 « n li tins contest Rives had. for once, been the wetoi Onlv a month ago the dientl hid announced the engagement ot his daughter to Rives I ucker. And lie i e\t morning Page had said to Rives, Auu innv think this sews up tic job ot sherd! toi vou when the old man retires But it doesn’t. !ou can’t marrv tl e job I m a better man than vo . are and vou know it, and the county knows it ” i M) that. Rives thought now, was J-\ p, ltia'lv tree. Page would make a better sheiiti Rives could dislike Page v.s intensely as he pleased, which was verv intensely. He had to admit that the man was tearless, It was this learless- r ess that would count with the voters if the contest ever came to an election. I he sheritr himselt would back Page. You m ght think, it you didn’t know v d Julian, that he would support the man who was going to be his son-in- law but th it was not the way Julian Webb did business, Because he was honest and he knew Page was better qualified tor the job. he would back Page. I he old man was sixty -nine now' , nd showed it Soon he would retire, and Page would step into his shoes. “I illian said to take care ol yourself today , hoy."' the sheriff called, above the noise of the Model 1. ' 1 aim to.’ Rives said, and thought ot Lillian s golden hair and the way it curled around her ears and of her blue eves that were not taded like her fa¬ ther’s but bright and alive. I hey rode west, along a hard road, tor three or tour miles, and then they turned onto a dirt road, rutted and nar¬ row Page drove fast. L lghteen miles Mom the county scat, they began to imb the mountain going around one h u pin curve after another, drawing a l w u v s closer to a notch between two pc ik ^ A oti sure he’s at Scutlletow n?“ Page .isked s idcleillv . Not a doubt m my mind,” the sheriff "ii id ‘Well there’s some in mine,” Page 'wild. "Why wouldn't he take to the v • mihiins ‘You can forget that. Page.” old J Lilian said, with a curious gentleness. I vv,is shciill’mg in this counts before vou were born, bov . 1 know them Shatters like I know my own family. I hey don’t run. i hey ‘re too mean to run And young Buell Shatter is the meanest ol them all. It ain’t a question ot escape with him now. anyhow. He knows that when he killed Harlow ves¬ ts- d„ v it was the end of the line for h m " Well, a ter all,” said Page, “he’s just one man just one, human, two-legged man "Hiiis so." the sheriff said. “How you iid ng. Rives*'* “Line ” ‘A on got some questions, too?” “No. Ml ‘A on '1st following me blind, then? I hat s a good way to fall in a trap, fol¬ lowing some o d loo' b'ind ” “1 ve alw.vs followed vou." Rives said halt unguis, “but 1 wouldn’t say 1 ever followed vou blind I’ve seen you in a better humor, though, lots of times.” I he Model T labored around an¬ other hairpin curve, and suddenly they were in the notch between the two peaks. Here the road ran level tor a quarter of a mile. When it began its descent of the western slope of the mountain. Sheriff Webb ordered a halt. I here was an open place at the west¬ ern end of the notch — a wide, clear space, bulwarked with boulders, from which you could look down into the vallev below. You could look hack to the east, too. and see smoke from the chimneys ol the county seat hanging like gray mist against the sheer blue of the morning sky. 1 he sheriff put one foot on a boulder and stared down into the valley below, where Seuffletown lay nestled among the Alleghenies. Seiilllctown was a set¬ tlement rather than a town, a settlement of half a dozen scattered houses, each house a caret ul distance from its neigh¬ bor, as if to discourage familiarity, but close enough for protection if the need arose. “I was raised in this end of the countv,” Julian Webb said. “My wife came from Hunter’s Hill, which ain’t more than ten miles down the valley. In them days, same as now, the good people of this valley stayed away from Seuffletown.” “1 know,” Rives said. “I’ve heard my' daddy tell how the horse thieves used to hang out at Seuffletown.” “You don't know anything,” the sheriff said, “except what somebody’s told you — you and Page both. But I know, i was here. In 1887 me and Tom Graham broke up that band of horse thieves, and Tom killed Henry Shatter. We caught old Buell red- handed and away from his gun, and we sent him to prison, where he died in 1893. Young Buell was twelve years old when his daddy died.” “What arc we waiting for?” Page asked. Rives wondered the same thing, though he resented Page’s impatience. “We’re waiting until I can make up my mind.” “About what?” Page asked. “What is there to decide? We’ve just got a job to do.” AND that was the truth, Rives thought, even though Page had voiced it. There was nothing complex about their problem, dangerous though it might be. They had simply to go down the mountain, enter the settlement, and arrest a man for murder. They were three against one; they would get this man even if they had to kill him. It was as simple as that. The danger was there, certainly, but it did not change the problem. “There was a time,” the sheriff said slowly, as if he had all day to dispose of whatever it was that troubled him, “when every one of them houses shel¬ tered a Shafter or Shaftcr kin. Now all the Shatters are gone except Buell. Trash lives in the other houses, trash that won’t interfere with us. They’re mean, blit not mean like the Shaftcrs. Low-down and common, but without the guts the Shafters had.” “The Shafters were pretty brave?” Rives asked in a loyal effort to humor the old man. “Mean brave. Crazy brave. That’s why they’d never run. That’s why they’re most all gone. Tom Graham shot Henry, old Buell died in prison, somebody picked Frank off with a rifle. Two of the younger ones went the same way. Another one w'as murdered at Three Chimneys in 1912. Couple of them were killed in the war. And that brings us down to young Buell.” “Lucky for us,” Page Yancey said. “Lucky vve got just young Buell to deal with. If all the other Shafters were living, I reckon they’d run us clear out of the woods.” THE old man looked at Page tiredly. “I am trying to tell you two young men how this thing is, and I aim to keep on trying, and in my* own w'ay, until I do. If you think we’re going down there and inform Buell that he’s under arrest, and have him agree and come along peaceable, you don’t know the first thing about this situation.” “Maybe he’ll get tired of waiting for us.” Page said. Old Julian ignored the remark. “You boys know what happened yesterday. Buell went across the mountain to Har¬ low’s. About six months ago he started hanging around Harlow’s sixteen-ycar- old daughter. Time and again Harlow warned him to stay away. Yesterday — ” “1 know,” Page said wearily. “1 was in your otlice last night when Mrs. Harlow and her daughter told the story.” “Yesterday,” the shcrifT continued imperturbably, “Harlow w'arned him again. Buell laughed at him. Then Harlow went at him with his fists, and Buell shot him dead in his tracks. He murdered Harlow. That’s why it’s the end of the line for him. In his time he’s got by with a lot of meanness, but even he knows he can’t get by with murder. He’ll make his stand in his own house, not go dodging through the mountains. Men don’t get any more desperate than Buell Shaftcr is right now. I am trying to tell you that as long as his number is up, and he knows it, he’s going to get ail three of us if he can.” They were silent then for a while, Page restless and on edge. Rives wait¬ ing with a disciplined patience, the sher¬ iff still standing with his foot on the bouider, leaning forward, his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his hand, his eyes busily scanning the valley. “I’d give my right arm to take him alive,” he said finally, “and I’m afraid it can’t be done.” “All right then, let’s take him dead!” “Wait,” the sheriff said. “Wait, Page.” Page turned away abruptly. His eyes were fixed on Rives Tucker. Rives stared back at Page, reading in Page’s eyes the same thing that Page read in his. It w'as strange, he thought, that the truth had come to them both at exactly the same moment, yet not so strange cither, because it had been there all the time, waiting for them to discover it. Rives felt sick at first, then his years of loyalty asserted themselves, and he felt not contempt for old Julian but pity. It w'as pity for a man who had stopped here and tried to win back his lost courage and had failed. Page Yan¬ cey was not troubled by pity. j “Look, Sheriff,” he said curtly, ’ “you’ve been at this game a long time. Too long maybe. Why don’t you wait here, you and Mr. Rives Tucker? I’ll go down the mountain by myself and get him.” Julian Webb stared at Page. “I talk myself blue in the face, and for all you understand, you might just as well be on your way to arrest a drunk or a chicken thief.” He took his foot otl the boulder and stood erect, and his eyes were suddenly brighter. “Here’s the way it will be: Rives and I will go to Sculllctovvn in the car. You, Page, will go down the mountain on foot, to the creek that runs north of Seuffletown. 1 here'll be plenty of cover along the creek. When you come to the mouth of the draw' that runs from back of Buell Shatter’s house down to the creek, stop and wait.” “All right,” Page said thoughtfully. “I still think he’ll run at the last min¬ ute. If he does, down the draw will be the quickest and surest way into the mountains for him — and he’ll meet me.” THE sheriff turned to Page and said, his voice rising for the first time that morning, “Wait at the mouth of the draw. You wait there, Page, until one of two things happens — until Buell comes down the draw, or I call for you. Do you understand. Page?” “Yes, sir,” Page said, impatient, ea¬ ger to be gone. The moment Page disappeared, a deep silence settled on the cleared place, and Rives Tucker was suddenly aware ot loneliness and a creeping anxi¬ ety. He was not afraid; that might or might not come later. But in a way he was alone. Unless Buell Shafter chose to go down the draw, the success of this j undertaking depended on Rives Tucker, for the sheriff had lost his nerve. Some time between this moment and the cap¬ ture of Buell Shafter, Rives knew he would have to push the sheriff aside and take charge. Collier’s for February 21, 1953 l L

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37 But he felt no resentment toward Julian Webb. Page was right. Old Julian had been at this game too long You had to look at it that way. You had to remember and honor the man the sheriff had once been. You had to do that and then, when the moment came, you had to take charge. “We’ll give Page a little time,” the sherifT said, and got out his pistol and checked it. Rives did the same. High overhead the sky was a warm blue, but a sudden chill wind blew through the notch — an odd, silent wind that you felt but did not hear. “Let’s go,” Julian Webb said at last. “You got that thing fully loaded? If you have to use it, take your time, but be quick, too. That’s simple, ain’t it?” Slowly, watchlully. they walked along the road until the last house but one lay behind them. 1 he last house- stood alone, a two-story li.nne building, with a small porch and two windows — open and uncurtained hut screened downstairs and two more upstaus. A ragged row ol boxwoods grew along the Iront and one side ol the house. At one point, the road, running between two high, brushy hanks, passed within sixty yards ol the house. 1 he sherilf and Rives 1 uckcr made their way to the shelter of the west bank ol the road without any sign of their being seen coming from the house. A windy little sigh escaped the sherilf as he peered through the sassafras bushes lining the bank. Rives peered too and saw nothing but the bleak and Go along with him. Rives told him¬ self. It’s too early to take charge. You have got to be careful how you do this. They walked back to the car and got in, the sheriff at the wheel. The road dropped swiftly, and Julian Webb drove with caution. Through the pines they sometimes caught glimpses of the val¬ ley below, and the gray, weathered houses of Scuffletown. “Page is a brave boy,” the sheriff said. “He’s braver than you, Rives.” “Then why didn’t you bring him with you and send me down the creek?” Rives demanded hotly. “On the other hand, you’ve got bet¬ ter judgment than Page.” This is going to be tough, Rives thought. He doesn't know, he hasn't realized yet, that he’s afraid. He thinks all that talk-talk of his really meant something. THE sheriff fed the car more gas, and then they coasted down the last in¬ cline and were in the bottom of the val¬ ley. A quarter of a mile aw^ay the houses began. SherifT Webb stopped at the first one, slid out of the Model T, told Rives to wait, and walked to the house. The door opened part way when he knocked, and the sherilT stepped in¬ side. Five minutes later he reappeared and returned to the car. “He’s up there, all right, in his own house, the last one to the north, with whisky and ammunition enough to last him a long time. We’ll go on loot from here.” Collier’s for February 21, 1953 lonely house, the blue mountains be¬ yond it, the blue sky above it. Suddenly, in a ringing voice, the sher¬ iff called Buell Shatter’s name. Receiv¬ ing no response, he shouted again and again. The house remained utterly still. “He’s pretending he ain’t home,” SherilT Webb told Rives. He stared at the house gloomily, a dull resignation in his eyes. “Whether he is or not is some¬ thing we’ve got to find out, and there’s just one way to do it.” “Make a break for the house?” Rives said quickly. “No, make a walk for it. We ll go side by side, but not real close together. You watch the windows on the left, I’ll watch the two on the right. If you see a sneaky movement back of either one of them windows, shoot and keep shooting — and run, run for the porch.” For a minute they both stared at the house, studying every detail, straining their eyes lor any movement, however slight, behind any one of the four win¬ dows. Then Rives gave his attention to the space lying between their shelter and the house. 1 he ground was flat and bare of grass and treeless, offering no protection whatever. He judged the distance to be more than fifty yards and less than sixty. Suddenly, however, the distance grew, and kept growing, until the house seemed to stand against the mountains a mile away. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. One moment he was standing in the roadway; the next he and the sherilT had scrambled up the bank and were walk- NO TONGUE-STING IN YELIO-BOLE PIPES Now, there’s no need to smoke a pipe that tortures your tongue! Light up a honey-lined Yello-Bole . . . and feel the soothing difference. Thanks to that pure honey lining . . . you can smoke your handsome Yello-Bole to your tongue's content. No “Break-In Blues!” No stung tongue or irritated throat from a Yello-Bole. So switch to a sweet-smoking, honey-lined Yello-Bole... today! $1.00 TO $2.50 WIDE VARIETY OF S H A P E S . . . 1 M P 0 R T E 0 BRIAR

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38 Give everyday meals the **part\ touch with DuBouchett Many, Blanc * r d j ( » si a* j Blackberry Flavored Brandy m >rr\r it straight f or in a Blackberry Flip JJ I 'fie. I teaspoon sugar, I jigger DuBouchett Blackberry /• laiured Brand.) . Shake uith cracked ice. strain and serve in cocktail glass uitli nutmeg on top. Do \ ourself proud tonight vsith DuBouchett ... the Him khm \ I' lav oivmI Brands with tin* truefruit flavor! It" one »f 2d liicomparahle DuBouchett Cordials... delightful "tiaight at dessert-time, delirious in mixed drinks! M \M I ' \Nt A to UuU.h . . U. Sun.- U.2.1. C>0 F fill \ vrii u«*. Wrk 1 . N X ing toward the house, not swiftly, not slowly, but at a steady, careful pace. Rives kept his eyes fixed on the two windows to the left. In his right hand his gun swung at his side, and he had to light himself to keep from gripping the butt so hard that he would freeze to it at the very moment he needed to he loose and fast. With each step the tension in Rives mounted. Sweat ran down his face, and he wiped it out of his eyes with his free hand. He dared not look at the sheriff, hut he could hear the old man’s hard breathing. Suddenly he knew that he and Page had been wrong, that never again would he question old man Webb's courage. rI^HEY were halfway to the house, JL they were two thirds of the way, they were better than three quarters. Then they broke step simultaneously and dashed lor the protection of the poreh. For a little while they leaned against the wall, sheltered from the up¬ stairs windows by the porch roof, pro¬ tected from the downstairs windows by their own watchfulness. “He’s not here," Rives said. “He — he did run.” “Wait,” the sheriff said. Gingerly he tried the knob of the door. When it turned easily, he gave the door a slight shove, and it opened inward. The sheriff drew back. “He's made it too convenient for us. This is a trap. One of us might have got away if he'd opened lire on us in the yard. But if we open this door, he makes sure of both of us.” Again they stood close to the wall, and for a while there was no sound ex¬ cept their breathing. Then the sheriff whispered, “When you've been in this business as long as I have, you can smell a trap. He's in there, all right, waiting beyond the door. 1 can feel him in there.” Suddenly he rapped the door with his gun muzzle. “Come out, Buell! Lay your gun down and come out with your hands up!” There was no answer. Again the sheriff whispered, “Suppose he leaves us waiting here, sneaks out the back way, and comes around the house on us?” “I’ll go to the back,” Rives said, his lips barely moving. 1 he sheriff nodded. Rives quietly left the poreh, ducked under the win¬ dow and. still staying close to the wall, made his way stealthily toward the rear of the house. Behind him the sheriff shouted Buell's name again and ordered him to come out. Alter he had negoti¬ ated the first corner of the house and was approaching the second. Rives heard the old man call again. Luck was with Rives, 'fuming the second corner, he found another box¬ wood. bushier than those at the front of the house; it stood directly in his path. He dropped to his knees behind it and fixed his eyes on the back door of Buell Shatter's house. He could not have picked a better place of concealment. The bo.wood was tall enough, wide enough and thick enough to hide him completely, yet he could sec through it. He heard the sheriff's voiee, calling on Buell to surrender and then pre¬ tending to address Rives. Old man Webb was kicking up quite a commo¬ tion at the front; he was putting on a good show. A man inside, if there were a man there, would never suspect that the sheriff and his deputy had divided forces. Rives waited. He was never after¬ ward able to estimate exactly how long. He waited until the gun in his hand became a burden, until his eyes ached under the strain, until his cramped legs hurt from hip to heel. He waited until at last it came to him that old man Webb had guessed wrong. There was no one in this bleak old house. Buell Shatter was gone. He shifted position carefully, pain¬ fully. From the eorner of his eye he eaught a movement, turned his head, and saw Page Yaneey emerge from the brush at the head of the draw, fifty yards away. His first impulse was to beckon Page on. But something warned him and, standing erect, he signaled for Page to drop. Page hesitated. Rives waved again frantically. At last, grudgingly. Page dropped from sight in the weeds and brush at the head of the draw. Once more Rives got down on his knees bc- l*W e'ro spending altogether glenn colliers too much money on bills** bernhardt Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 551

THRILLING NEW EUREKA ROTO MATIC OFFERS YOU hind the boxwood. He was acutely dis¬ turbed now. Page was not one to stay put long. If Page exposed himself again, and Shafter, provided he was in the house, opened the door and saw him, he’d slam the door shut, and they would be back at the beginning. Rives glanced quickly toward the draw. So far Page was keeping out of sight. Rives looked at the door again, and his heart began to pound. Ever so slowly, the door was swinging inward, and then it was wide open. For a little while the doorway was empty, then Buell Shafter appeared in it, a big man in his late thirties, with black hair and eyes, and a lean, haggard face. He had a pistol in his right hand and another jammed into the waistband of his khaki trousers. He looked directly at the boxwood and evidently saw nothing suspicious; he scanned the yard; he let his blood¬ shot eyes travel quickly over the head of the draw. Then, satisfied, he stepped from the doorsill to the yard. Rives waited. This was the important mo¬ ment. If Shafter turned to his left, fine. If he turned to his right. Rives would have to meet him face to face. He turned to his left, and Rives, ris¬ ing instantly, stepped around the box¬ wood, and called: “Buell!” Shafter did not whirl, as Rives had expected him to, but stopped dead in his tracks. Rives waited, his gun lev¬ eled, his finger loose, yet ready on the trigger. “You going to shoot me in the back?” “Yes,” Rives said, “unless you drop that gun.” THEY had a lot of friends when they got back to town, a lot of friends who’d known all along that Sheriff Webb would bring the murderer in alive. Good-naturedly the sheriff waved them aside. Then he nodded to Rives and led the way to his office. “Where's Page?” “I haven't seen him since we left the jail,” Rives said. “You made me proud of you today, son,” the old man said. “1 wanted to take Buell Shafter alive more than any other criminal I ever went after, and you took him for me. But if you'd shot him the minute he poked his nose out Collier’s for February 21, 1953 that door, 1 couldn’t have blamed you. Doing it the way you did is the differ¬ ence between being a good peace offi¬ cer and a topnotch peace officer.” They walked into the office and found Page waiting with characteristic impatience. “All right, so 1 disobeyed orders. Sheriff,” he said. “So I didn’t wait in the draw, and the way you and Rives sec it, I suppose you think I came awful close to spoiling your party.” “I didn’t intend to mention that, Page,” the sheriff said. “I’m mentioning it for you, because I know why you sent me down the draw. You wanted to get me out of the way so you and your future son-in-law could get all the — all the glory.” “Did you go to Scuffletown today, Page, looking for glory?” “You know what I mean.” “I know why I sent you to the draw, too. I was afraid of you. Afraid I couldn’t control you. You’re a brave man. Page, but there’s always a point where bravery leaves off and lack of judgment takes over.” “There’s a point, too, where I quit,” Page said. He unbuckled the gun belt and the gun and laid them on the sher¬ iff’s desk. “Wait,” Rives said. “Wait, Page.” “And play second fiddle to you? No! I’ve hated you too long for that, fella.” Wheeling, Page left the office. Rives and the sheriff watched him stride down the courthouse walk. By the time he had reached the street, he was swagger¬ ing. “I was never absolutely sure about him until today,” the sheriff said, “and I was never absolutely sure about you, either, until today. I'll be resigning in June, Rives. You can run for sheriff in the fall elections if you're interested. Being a topnotch peace officer gives a man a lot of satisfaction.” The telephone rang then. Sheriff Webb said, “Hello . . . Yes, we're both safe and sound. Yes, he's here with me now . . . Telephone for you, Rives. Some woman or other.” He winked. Lillian’s anxious voice came over the wire. “Are you sure you're all right, Rives? You didn’t get hurt? You’re all right?” “I'm okay,” Rives said. “I’m fine. I’m wonderful.” -wul cUaujeki ONLY $69 95 fj'fi- s your ong^a Please, g ve me a c ear er features I ve heard about ‘Swuel-top, no dust bag to emp t, suction so my rugs oo* fresr ' A cleaner extra qu e1 a-d y day ends without shattered - New and wonderfu Eureka Poto- wanted features, aid n ore Fo common sense, too. try TOOLS CLIP ON! Wonderful step- saver Attach-O-Matic tools always // / 9* * — cuidU uetc sai/e *2 o io * 30 UHtic. EUREKA Wh sper-et oasy s eeps neighbors Chat ne-.es stay se'ene GETS IT ALL! Not iust suction-super-powered suction Dust mt dog hair disappear instantly! CLEANS ALL OVER FROM ONE POSITION ADJUSTABLE SUCTION! Another e*|ra Suction reduces lor non-pull cleanmq ol draperies, scatter rugs r- 1 /.

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Teeth bared, startled fox dashes for cover as .22 hunter whirls to fire. Fox usually Is hunted on snowy ground. Animals in these photographs are live

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iiimiing 41 • in Your Own liaclii/a rri YOU AND A .22 Stop dreaming of expeditions to faraway pluees. ^ on ran find real Imntiug iid\entnre at the end of the bus line — at bargain priees. \\ bat s more* stalking small game >wth a .22 takes tin* finest woodland ^kill THE fog was thin and wispy. It lay upon the hillside like a giant's breath. There was no wind. The sun was up, but it hadn't yet pushed the fog away. From over the hillside came the sound of a de¬ liberate, businesslike step. The hunter, carrying a gun, eleared the ridge. As he moved slowly down the hillside, his eyes were wide with looking and his head was cocked to hear. Inside, he was atingle. He had keyed his senses to the fullest. He was, even as were the animals he hunted, aware, cautious, alert — seeing and hear¬ ing and smelling everything about him. He was, at that moment, as fully alive as a man ean be. In most respects he was much like the almost 14,000,000 hunters in this country who annually spend an estimated $3,500,000,000 to equip and transport themselves into the woods. He did, how¬ ever, differ in three ways: He was hunting out of season, when most other hunters were dreaming of the past or itehing for the future. His out-of-poeket expense for the day was a scant 50 cents — including transportation. He had stepped off a city bus 20 minutes earlier. In addition, he was notable in one other re¬ spect — he was unexcelled for skill and woodland know-how. But he was nothing more than you could be¬ come. Some of the greatest hunting in the world — requiring as much skill as the most elaborate safari into Africa — probably can be found within 60 min¬ utes of where you are at this moment — even if you are in a large city. You need only take the time to investigate your elose-to-home hunting possibilities. All you really need for your home-town safari may be tucked away in a corner of the hall closet or gather¬ ing dust under Junior’s bed. It is a .22-ealibcr rifle. If you would enjoy hunting, there is no need to buy a lot of expensive equipment or to travel long distances. In some places, you don’t even have to get a license to hunt with a .22. Closed seasons, for the most part, are no problem. If you approach him right, a farmer prohahly will welcome you, and you can make his land your personal hunting pre¬ serve. The conservationist will pat you on the back. You needn’t ever miss a meal at home. Indeed, after a day in the woods, you can often bring dinner home with you. Hunting with a .22 packs a chal¬ lenge virtually unsurpassed in outdoor recreation. The man who can hit a run¬ ning rabbit with a .22, or come off best in a game of wits with a nervous squir¬ rel, or coax the wily crow into position for a shot (and hit him) should envy no other hunter. He is qualified to take his place alongside the sportsmen whose trophy rooms are hung with heads of mountain sheep, moose and water buffalo. Actually, the animals who make IJ\ LEONARD A. STEY IONS their homes close by our biggest cities are the wari¬ est you can find. They have to he, or they couldn’t exist in proximity with man, their natural enemy. And the person who sets out to hunt small game with a .22 merits the title sportsman in the truest sense. He is meeting the animals he hunts on nearly equal terms. A .22 hunter on the trail of rabbits is roughly in the class with the person who would stalk a housefly with a peashooter. He isn't out just to kill. He has, in efTect, stacked the cards against himself just to make the game more diffi¬ cult, more sporting. With a .22, the joys of hunting at its very best are yours at about a penny a shot and virtually in your own backyard. Let me tell you how. Check with your conservation department and your local law-enforcement officials. Find out what you legally ean do and what you legally must not do. What is fair game in one state is forbidden in another. Regulations covering firearms are as strict as they are varied. So, know the law as it ap¬ plies to you. That accomplished, equip yourself with good materials. You can get .22s for $15 or less. But at that price the rifle will be only a single-shot, bolt- action model suitable for target practice or plinking away at hottles or tin cans. You'll do better in the field with a .22 that fires faster — a semiautomatic (if your state permits its use), or a model with a slide or lever action. Whatever weapon you choose, get some target practice. If you set off into the woods straight away, chances arc you'll return empty-handed and discouraged. Practicing with a .22 can be almost as much fun as hunting itself. Beginners should concentrate on moving targets. Roll a croquet or rubher ball along the ground, or skid a piece of coal across an ice-covered stream, and pop away at it. ( During the summer, vou can use that same stream by tiring at a hottle bohbing in the water. ) And always use your sights; don't just hlast awa> . Practice throwing the rifle to your shoulder. Never fire until the gun is against vour cheek. Get the sights in front of your eye until you become so fa¬ miliar with the sight picture that you wouldn't think of firing until you see it. But however you practice, always know where your bullet is going to stop. Use a rise of ground as a backdrop. And watch for ricochets. A .22 bullet packs a killing punch — for humans — up to a mile. Even deflected, it can be lethal. If you weary of practicing on inanimate targets, shift to live ones — and do your community a favor in the process. Go out to the city dump (if they permit hunting there), or get permission from a farmer to use his field, and shoot rats. Make it easy for yourself. Ammunition makers turn out a little-known .22 cartridge called the "long rifle shot," which looks like a tiny shotgun shell made of brass instead of paper. The cartridges are filled with minute, sand- grain-size No. 12 shot. They’re tiny, but they're deadly on rats up to a range of ahout 20 feet. Using them, you can get some wonderful practice in the technique of throwing your rifle up to your shoul¬ der and sharpshooting awa> — what the big-game hunters call "snap shooting." It's not a good idea to shoot too many of these cartridges because pro¬ longed use will injure the rifling on the inside of your gun barrel. But a hox or two of these car¬ tridges won’t do any harm. When you've finished the long-rifle-shot car¬ tridges, promote yourself to regulation bullets against the same targets. No need to waste money. Use “short" ammunition, the smallest .22 ammuni¬ tion in popular use. (BB caps, actu¬ ally the tiniest .22 cartridges made, will work, but shorts are preferred. ) A box of shorts costs less than 50 cents. After a couple of week ends, during which you fire regulation fixed ammunition, you should he ready to take to the woods. The game you go after will depend largely on where you live, the time of year and your personal tastes. In most locations you have a choice of about a dozen different animals, ranging from frogs to foxes. One of the most gen¬ uinely challenging little critters for the would-be .22 hunter an animal found throughout the country and in several different species— is the squirrel. (He also is a might) tasty dish, properly prepared. ) ! he squirrel hunter, however, in ad¬ dition to knowing how to handle his .22, must also know how to handle the squirrel. Peanuts will lure squirrels up close in a city park, but the coun¬ try cousin of the tame panhandler is PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY MARTIN 1GER

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Don't sell the little critter great deal of their time eating.) Squirrels go for acorns, butternuts, walnuts, beechnuts, hickory nuts and pecans. If squirrels have been in the area you plan to hunt, you’ll probably notice empty shells on the ground. Squirrels almost never clean up after they’ve eaten. But don’t concentrate on a nut diet, and don’t limit your hunting to the woods. Squirrels also are crazy about the farmer’s corn, and they like side dishes of all kinds of seeds. Occasionally, they eat the sap of trees; and in the spring some of their favorite foods arc the buds from blooming trees. There's a fairly sure-fire method of finding good squirrel-hunting ground: ask the local people. The rural mailman is a good bet, or the local feed-store operator. A co-operative farmer may tip you off to a choice location. But always ask before trespass¬ ing on privately owned land. Fascinating as it is, you may find that squirrel hunting begins to cloy after a while ( though 1 doubt it). So maybe you'd like to hunt some game that is really difficult to shoot with a .22. If so, set out after hasenpfeffer on the hoof — rabbits. Rabbits Seem Part of the Scenery The reason rabbit hunting with a .22 is difficult is that the rabbit is always on the move when you shoot him. Not that rabbits don't sit still. They’d like nothing better than to sleep all day (they feed at night). But rabbits look like where they live. Most of the time, rabbits blend in beautifully with the scenery. And they know it. Their first defense is camouflage. A sitting rabbit often will allow you to approach to within four or five feet before he resorts to his second means of defense — running. When a rabbit takes ofT at full tilt, he’s really mov¬ ing. Scientists have clocked Texas jack rabbits at as much as 45 miles an hour, a little less than the speed of an antelope. But occasionally the rabbit’s camouflage will work against him. A cottontail, for example, is brown like the earth, weeds and rocks where he makes his home. Comes a snowfall, though, and he's caught in the wrong suit. If you're after cot¬ tontails, hunt them in snowy weather. In northern areas, you can go after snowshoe rabbits. They have the part-time advantage of turning white during the winter, so don’t hunt them when there’s snow on the ground. Wait for a good thaw. The ground goes bare and the snow- shoe rabbit is caught in the wrong overcoat. Since most of your rabbit shooting will be at moving targets, you can borrow a trick from the field artillery to increase your chances of scoring a hit. It's called ‘'bracketing.” Shoot at the running rabbit, and, if you miss, note where the bullet kicks up the dirt or snow. With the next shot, try to correct your error. Keep shooting and correct¬ ing until you hit the rabbit or he gets out of sight. The difficulty of using a single-shot, bolt-action model should be obvious. For rabbits you need a repeating .22. However, there are some tricks you can use that may slow down the rabbit a bit. The instant the rabbit takes off, let out a sharp whistle. The noise may make him pause. You also can employ the sharp-whistle technique by going to the edge of a field and sitting quietly for about 15 minutes, then giving out with a short, sharp whistle. The rabbit may sit up from his hiding place. The rabbit hunter usually must keep on the move. A good place to look for rabbits is a corn¬ field near a clover patch. If there are rabbits around, there's an excellent chance they spent the night eating in one or the other. But it you arrive during the day, they'll be resting in weeds, grass and bushes. Rabbits really do love the brier patch. If you’re not familiar with the area, pick out a strip of brushy cover between two open areas, if possible. When a rabbit jumps, he may run into the open area where you can sec him. Be sure to walk slowly and inspect the cover thor¬ oughly. Kick at tufts of grass. Walk through gul- Collicr's for February 21, 19.>3 Fite v»il\ ei abandon* caution to attack his archenemy, the owl, unaware that wi*e old bird i* decoy placed on tree limb clone to hunter's blind. System is popular for attracting crows mighty fussy about the hand that feeds him. You'll do best to pick a good spot, somewhere along a squirrel rumv.tv, then take up your stand with your r,flc leads to tire— and remain still. Squirrels travel along regular paths. like the tops of teiKes or stone walls, and along the trunks of t alien trees. Find a hkclv -looking spot and go into business Son should arrive on the scene before davlight, tor squirrels eat breakfast early. I r\ to be in position ahead ot time by a tree or stump in his diniiq* room. But. above all, keep quiet and don’t move. 1 he slightest noise, the smallest move¬ ment. . nd the squm el takes oil. Sooner or later, if the circumstances are light and if you have any sort ot luck at all, a squirrel will come >uur way. W hen he does, fire, and lire last. VrniiMiis the Squirrel'.* Curiosity Fven in squirrel hunting, though, there comes a tune to abandon the sittm’-and-wuitin' swem. Most tiequeith that time comes when you hear hits ol nuts tal mg to the ground or an unseen squi re chomping his tood m a tree. 1 hat’s the time to go to work on his curiosity; maybe you can coa\ him into view. 1 r\ rubbing two stacks together. If that strata¬ gem doesn't work, try pursing your lips to make a sucking noise, or cluck your tongue ag, inst the gum behind your upper teeth ^ ou might lure him into the open bv shuffling your foot slightly in the leave*, or clicking a coin or cartridge against the metal of vour .22. Probably the most exciting moment of all comes when you move up on a squirrel which refuses to come into range regardless of what you do. The instant you move, the squirrel will flatten himself on the tree trunk or limb — and always on the oppo¬ site side from where you’re standing. If you think you can outrun him around the tree, forget it. His revolutions per minute will be exactly half a tree ahead of you. But don’t give up. Maybe you can outwit him. Throw a stick or stone to the far side of the tree. There's a chance you’ll startle him around to your side of the trunk. But have your rifle at your shoulder, aim fast and fire. There's little likelihood you’ll get a second chance. That's the time you'll be thanklul for your snap¬ shooting practice at the city dump. There arc other systems. One hunter I know' who frequently goes after squirrels uses a decoy. He removes his hat and coat and hangs them on a hush near where he takes up his watch in the woods. If a squirrel gets on the wrong side of the tree, the hunter cautiously moves toward the far side. If the squirrel thinks the hat and coat are an¬ other man, the hunter sometimes is able to get to the other side of the tree while the squirrel is still there. It the hat and coat don't do the job by them¬ selves, the hunter throws a stick or pebble to make a noise and make the clothing move. Remember that in squirrel hunting — as in all types of hunting — you must he where the animals are or you'll come home empty-handed. One way to find out where game will be is to learn what the animal you’re after likes to eat. (Animals spend a

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43 to rt. Animals are smart , oik/ when yon use a .22. you meet them on their own terms lies. Make noise around refuse piles. Jump on brush piles. Look in tree crotches close to the ground. Throw stones in culverts. Remember, you’re hunting an animal who will let you walk right up to him without tipping you to his presence. After learning how to hunt squirrels and rabbits, you may want to try your hand in what, for the .22, is the big-game department. If so, go after foxes. You’ll probably have to journey farther from home, and you can expect to be bone-tired at the end of a day in the woods — but it’s worth it. Some Southern states make great cflorts to preserve the old English sport of fox hunting with hounds. In those states, foxes enjoy the protection of laws which even, in some cases, prohibit trapping. But Northern states generally do not have a paternalistic approach to foxes. Some Northern states occasionally pay boun¬ ties to fox killers (the fox is a carrier of rabies). For the hunter with a strong back and a sockful of determination, fox hunting is a sport that can hardly be topped. Snowy weather is preferred, because you must trail the fox. Check with your state conservation department for a good locale, and when you arrive, team up with some local hunter if possible. A great many hunters use dogs to track fox. But although a dog is a handy item on a fox hunt, he is by no means a necessity. The doglcss hunter, by behaving as foxily as the fox, can come home with a potential fox fur mu(T. Your fox, if and when you catch up with him, probably will be asleep. Foxes usually feed at dusk and sleep all day. Red foxes prefer to snooze right out in the open, most often on a rock or some rise of ground. Gray foxes are partial to holes or crev¬ ices under logs or tree stumps. Your shot — and chances are you’ll get only one — will be fired when you startle the fox from his nap. Pick up a fresh fox trail when you get to your selected hunting grounds. If it was made the night before while the fox himself was hunting, it prob¬ ably will be a zigzag trail, punctuated by little “nosings” where the fox shoved his snout into the snow to search out mice or rabbits. Follow the trail as stealthily as if the fox were going to jump out at you. Look to each side. Stop frequently and survey every foot of ground within your range of vision. Sooner or later, perseverance will pay ofT. Up he’ll jump — and zing ! You’ve got him. Crows Are Disliked — But Not Dumb For real excitement close to home, 1 think crow hunting with a .22 tops everything. Crows are al¬ most universally disliked. They destroy duck eggs and they have been known to bankrupt farmers by devouring entire crops. But however you feel about the crow, you have to respect his IQ. If you want to shoot crows, you have to think faster than they do, and don't get the idea that’s easy. When you go after them with a .22, the best — and safest — method is to entice them down on the ground. You'll need decoys. Position your decoy crows like a flock of the black marauders eating lunch in a field — say a cut- over cornfield. At the edge of the area, build your¬ self a blind from tree branches and leaves placed around a rectangle of trees. Once you’ve learned how, you can make a good one in an hour or less. Do a little investigating before you build your blind, though, by observing crow aeronautics. Crows travel along llyways, just as ducks do. For real success, erect your blind in a fly way. You can locate flyways by riding around in your car late in the afternoon and watching flights of crows return¬ ing to their sleeping grounds. The prevailing wind should blow from back of your blind. Crows land into the wind, and you don’t want them coming in over your blind where they can look down and sec you waiting for them. Only one additional piece of equipment is needed: a crow call (cost: $1.25 to $3). You can learn to use it by practicing with a phonograph rec¬ ord made for the purpose. Or an experienced caller can teach you. If you’re tmng to lure crows in to land at your open-field feeding station, it’s best to stick to the common conversational “caw, caw,” and its variations of “ah, ah,” or “gnaw, gnaw.” With luck, one or two crows will spot the decoys or hear you calling and decide to stop tor a bite. The chances arc they’ll give out with a few “caws” ot their ow n to tell the rest of the flock that they’ve found a free meal. “Dou’ts*’ for n Hunter Lying in W ait During this period, keep perfectly still in your blind. Stare at the decoys. Don’t look up. Don’t smoke. Don’t move your hands. You want the crows to land on the ground, and if you move, they're practically certain to sec you. Even as they come in, crows invariably will post a sentinel in a high tree. If he spots you, he'll give the crow call of alarm, “caw, ca-a-a-a-w,’’ and the flock will speed off. If the crows land among your decoys, then slowly, ever so slowly, bring your rifle up, aim, and fire. One crow is considered par; two makes you a semipro. After the crows have gone, remove the dead crow, return to your blind and start all over again. In really open country, in places where you can safely shoot into the air without fear of hitting any¬ thing or anybody (never, never lire into the air in populated areas), you can hunt crows by stalking them and spotting them from afar. You then get under some natural cover and call as if you were a crow in trouble. If you’re expert enough, the crows will rush to the rescue of their troubled friend and land in trees nearby. The best crow hunting is done with an owl de¬ coy. Crows and owls just naturally hate each other. The owls give the crows all sorts of trouble during the night, and the crows love to reciprocate in day¬ light. When a crow spots an owl asleep during the day, he goes berserk with rage and summons every other crow' within hearing distance to the attack. An owl decoy made of papier-mache costs about $3. Place your decoy owl on a pole or the limb of a tree, near other large limbs where the crows can land when they come in. If you happen to have a dead crow, hang him near the owl. His live rela¬ tives will think he’s been murdered by the owl. Your next move is to retire to your blind and begin setting up a terrible noise with your crow call, as if you were a crow' being attacked. First thing you know, the crows in the area will pick up the distress call and rush to the scene, spreading the alarm as they come. They’ll dive and scold the owl. If you’ve placed your decoy cor¬ rectly, one or two crows will land on a limb and begin berating the owl from there. That’s where you enter the picture — with your .22. Scratch one crow. But unlike the cautious feeding crows, the at¬ tacking flock, its anger aroused, very likely will ignore the fact that a comrade has fallen and con¬ tinue to worry the owl. That’s the time to knock off a second one, if you can. Some hunters have been known to thin out a flock considerably before the one or two remaining birds have looked around and noticed how lonely they were. So, whether it’s crows, rabbits or squirrels, frogs, foxes or woodchucks, you and a .22 can find real hunting pleasure very near home. With practice, you may even get as good as the farmer who walked into Frank Vogt's sporting- goods store in Fflingham, Illinois, not long ago. He threw open the door and stood there. His jaw quiv¬ ered with rage. “That .22 rifle you sold me don’t shoot straight, young fella!” the farmer roared. “Oh?” said Frank, cautiously. “You’re dang tootin’,” the farmer snapped. “When I miss two hummingbirds out of three, I say the rifle don't shoot straight.” It just takes practice, I guess. Jk.Jk.Jk. Rats provide good practice at firing quickly. Barnyard rodent here darts off as hunter throws gun to shoulder Squirrels prefer to put tree between them and hunter. Pursuit is useless, but woodland tricks sometimes help Zip! Rabbit, making good 33 inph, streaks from brier patch. Fnst-mox ing bunnies require top shooting skill PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY MARTIN IGER

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44 Pick if with a 6V> on ou go? Anyway, you know how they’re all open at the top and you can hear anything anyone is saying around you? Well, I was getting dressed, and in the one ne.\t to ours there was Sally Dodge and some friend, and they were giggling and talking about their parents. And 1 heard Sally say, ‘Every night, every single night without excep¬ tion, my dear, they sit and play Russian bank, and at exactly a quarter to ten they have om highball, and at exactly ten thirty they go to bed. Isn’t it env falf " Mi. I! II is looked down at the cards lying spread out on the table in Iront of them, then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, that's Walter and Sarah Dodge. I hat isn’t us we. And of couise Walter Dodge is one of the hugest stalled shirts in existence. Vice- President- in -( harge-ot-'I rust-Depart- ment' M\ God* He lighted a cigarette, then olleied the pack to Mrs I Ills. She sh ek her head. “Besides.” he said, “we don't play Russian bank every night.” “Wei. c,> Hasta.” she said, “and be¬ fore th.it, gin lummy. But. Howard, we alw a \ s do have j List one drink and then go to bed. I mean it’s a tendency vve ought to watch.” “What a i e we supposed to do?” he asked, ins voice rising slightly. “Get plastered every night ’ When I have to get up at a quarter to seven? 1 don't see that drinking to excess is necessarily . ny indication of —well, I don't know — emancipation. Or something.” “I wish you wouldn’t always get so arg > ” Mrs. Ellis said. “I ike at Ted b'ow mg his hoi n.” Mr. Ellis got up and began pacing up and down the room. Presently he stopped and stood tor some time with his head loweied. storing intently down at a large, smoothly rounded green stone that they had picked up on the beach and which now' served as a door¬ stop. Finally he turned around and, speaking very slowly and calmly, said, “I’m sorry I gave the impression of being angry. 1 assure you I wasn’t. I was just — just being emphatic.” They stood facing each other without speaking. Then at the same moment they both laughed. “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Ellis said. ‘‘It all sounds so familiar. Doesn’t it? Remem¬ ber hbw we used to fight?” He nodded, smiling. “You were al¬ ways so dramatic,” he said. ‘7 was dramatic? I like that. Why — ” He took a step forward and laid his hand on her arm. “After all,” she said, “it was you, not I, who used to be so keen on the little theater. Howard Ellis, the Matinee Idol. The Stranger in The Passing of the Third Floor Back. With a beard, no less. All I did was help with the costumes.” “Please,” Mr. Ellis said, “don’t bring that up.” “As a matter of fact,” she said, “you were darned good. That beard was quite becoming. And your voice sounded beautiful. So spiritual.” He laughed and said, “You used to say it sounded sexy.” “Well, that too,” she said, “H’mmm,” he said. “Quite a remark¬ able combination.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “It really is,” she said. They stood there a little longer, both smiling, then he stepped back from her and, rubbing his hands briskly together, said, “Well, what do you propose? To get out of this rut. Shall we get drunk? Roll up the rugs and do the Charleston? Make fudge? What?” “No, no, no,” she said, laughing. “But — ” She looked at the clock over the fireplace. “Well, vve might go to the square dance. For instance.” “Oh!” Mr. Ellis said. “Oh, no! Please!” “See!” Mrs. Ellis said. “As soon as I suggest anything — ” "Caper around and . . .” he said, shak¬ ing his head. “Anyway, I don’t know how to square-dance. The last dance 1 learned was the black bottom.” "You don’t have to know how'. All you do is what the caller . . . uh, calls.” “Please,” Mr. Ellis said, but after a time, listening to her, he began to nod his head in a resigned way, and while she went upstairs to get a coat, he got up and made two highballs. When she came back they drank them rather quickly, sitting a little forward on the edge of the couch. As they w'ere about to leave, Mr. Ellis said, “Maybe we ought to take that bottle along. Just in case. Don’t you think?” Cars were parked for some distance down the road from the Quohansett Town Hall, where the square dances were held. As they walked toward the brightly lighted building, the soft night air became strident with the sawing of a fiddle and the thin, high, reedy notes of an accordion playing Turkey in the Straw. “Remember,” Mr. Ellis said, “I’m not capering around any. Til sit and beam benevolently, but that’s all.” THOUGH most of the dancers were young, other people of the Ellises’ age or older were also on the dance floor, and others sat along the wall. They were divided almost equally into three groups: the villagers, the city people, like themselves, and the art¬ ists who, during the summer, formed a small but truculent colony of their own. It was a simple matter to tell which was which. The villagers — the women in print dresses and the men in dark suits with stiff collars — looked like city peo¬ ple. The city people, in plaid shirts and blue jeans, looked like stage versions of country folk. The artists, in paint- stained trousers, turtle-neck sweaters or soiled T-shirts, looked defiantly artistic. Mr. and Mrs. Kl I is went in and sat down on folding chairs that had been arranged along the wall. “There!” Mrs. Ellis said, her face lighting up. “There’s Nancy. Doesn’t she dance well?” Mr. Ellis saw Nancy whirling in the CollierN for February 21, 1953

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No Oth&i Whiskey,... ON LY HEISCHMANNS GIVES YOU THE BLENDED WHISKEY . 90 PROOF . 65% GRAIN NEUTRAL SPIRITS THE FLEISCHMANN DISTILLING CORPORATION. PEEKSKILL, N. Y. Fleisch mann’s Superb Straight Whiskies Blended With Fine Grain Neutral Spirits Sc Every drop 90 PROOF rich, robust, deli ciou s ! So WINNING PRICE America’s Greatest Whiskey Value! 0. CHOICE QUALITY i center of the floor with a very tall, dark young man who looked somewhat older than the others, especially by contrast with his daughter’s slender and — it sud¬ denly seemed to him— frighteningly fragile, young grace. He turned with a frown and asked, “Who’s the big lug she’s with?” “The iceman,” Mrs. Ellis said dream¬ ily. When she saw his startled look she added, “Oh, it's perfectly all right. He’s working his way through Rhode Island State.” SOMEONE sitting along the opposite wall waved at them. Mrs. Ellis waved back and started across the room. Mr. Ellis, following her, recog¬ nized the Dodges, Sarah and Walter, the parents of Sally, the people who played Russian bank and had just one highball every night. Sarah Dodge was small and slender, and in spite of the narrow streak of gray in her dark hair looked very young and pretty — much too young and pretty, he thought, to be the wife of a pompous ass like Walter Dodge. He sat down beside her. As he was starting to speak, Walter Dodge and Mrs. Ellis got up, and Wal¬ ter, in the same tone of matured deci¬ sion in which he might have said, “We shall invest the proceeds in U.S. Treas¬ ury two and a quarter,” announced that they were going to dance. Mr. Ellis looked nervously at Sarah Dodge. She shook her head and, as the others left them, half yarned and said, “I can’t imagine anything more utterly boring.” Mr. Ellis offered her a cigarette and sat back with a sensation of profound relief. She inhaled deeply and said, “God, 1 wish I had a drink!” Mr. Ellis gave her a quick look out of the corner of his eye. Then he looked toward the dance floor, where Mrs. Ellis was happily dancing in a ring with half a dozen other people who had joined hands. He hesitated; then, rais¬ ing his voice to be heard above the music, the clapping hands and the stamping feet, he said, “Well, why not?” She turned to him quickly, then got to her feet and started for the door. He followed her. When they came to the shadow beyond the lighted doorway, she took his arm. “You have no idea what this means to me,” she said as they walked down the dark road. “I think those affairs are just too deadly.” “Why do you go?” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It's better than just sitting around.” When they came to the car and got into the back seat, he handed her the bottle. She took a long drink, then gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. He glanced out the window. Some people were walking along the road, coming in their direction. Drawing back into the corner of the car, Ellis took a quick drink. The whisky felt hot and harsh against his throat, and he choked a little on it. Sarah Dodge laughed, and he said, “Gosh, I guess I’m not used to this 1 any more. It's been years.” “Remember how we used to drink in cars?” She turned and smiled at him. “At proms? I remember one prom where there were northern lights all over the sky when we came out, and everybody was seared to death because they thought they’d gotten some bad liquor and were going blind.” He laughed and said, “I was there. But I’d forgotten all about it.” “I know,” she said. “It was a long time ago. My God, I was young! Only sixteen. But not too young to get loop¬ ing on bootleg gin. We really were pretty w ild, weren’t we?” “Yes, I guess we were.” “But it was fun,” she said. She shook her head. “Most of the time nowadays I feel about a million years old.” “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I thought you looked particularly young ? tonight. That dress is very becoming." SARAH turned to look at him, and it seemed, although he could not be absolutely certain, that she moved slightly toward him. “Why, Howard!” she said. “How nice! That’s the first compliment I've had in years.” “Is it?” he said, feeling as he said it that he should have said something else, although just what he wasn’t sure. “Why, I'll bet you get all sorts of com¬ pliments, Sarah. All the time.” She gave a short laugh. “Who from?” she said. “Walter?” “Well, I know,” Mr. Ellis said. “Men aren’t always very good at that sort of thing. But that doesn’t mean they don’t think so.” Collier’9 for February 21, 1953

Page 559

47 “Oh, well, you and Jo," Sarah said, “that's something else. You’re so con¬ genial." “Oh, we fight too,’’ Mr. Ellis said, “Sometimes.’’ “Fight! I wish we did. At least if you fight you’re alive. You’re not in a rut** “Well . . Mr. Ellis began. “She’s so pretty," Sarah said. “She looks so young. Even though," she added reflectively, “she’s actually older than 1 am." MR. ELLIS suddenly realized she was leaning against him, with her head almost resting on his shoulder. He started to sit up straight; hut just then the headlights from a ear coming down the road flashed in the back win¬ dow, and he slumped down in the scat and lowered his head. Her hair lightly touched his cheek. For the first time he was aware of a heavy but agreeable perfume. Sarah’s hand moved a little, and he felt his heart beating faster. He remembered Mrs. Ellis saying some¬ thing about being young in spirit, and he leaned a little toward Sarah. Although they both stayed perfectly motionless, he had the slightly dizzy sensation of starting slowly to slide down a long in¬ cline. It was almost as if he could feel the beginning rush of a dark wind. He half closed his eyes. At that moment, from outside the car, he heard the sound of footsteps crunching on the graveled road, fol¬ lowed a moment later by laughter. It was a clear, high, young-girl laugh. It sounded just like Nancy’s, and he turned to look out the window. He saw a slender figure, dressed in blue jeans with a man’s shirt flapping outside; but even though her face was partly turned toward the ear it was too dark to see it. When she had gone past she stopped. She faced the tall boy she was with and, imitating the nasal voice of the square-dance caller, said, “ ‘Honor your partner!’ ” The boy bowed gravely from the waist and said, “ ‘Now stamp on his feet and pull his hair, go and kiss him if you dare.’ " There was a brief confused struggle between them, then she broke away, laughing, and called, “ ‘Now leave her Collier’s for February 21, 1953 alone and run back home, and every¬ body swing your own.’ ’’ The young man seized her, and they began whirling round and round, mov¬ ing swiftly down the road until they were lost in the shadows of the tall trees beyond. Mr. Ellis watched them until they disappeared. He heard the echo of her laughter. But at the same time, unex¬ pected and disturbing, there came the sudden vivid picture of Nancy sitting in the back of one of the cars that was parked down there in the darkness. He reached for the handle of the door, then paused. He looked back at Sarah. “Well," he said, “I guess we’d better get back." When they got back to the hall, the dance had just ended. People stood on the dance floor, applauding and cheer¬ ing, but the players were putting away their instruments. Mrs. Ellis and Wal¬ ter Dodge came toward them, both look¬ ing flushed and rather breathless. “It was such fun," Mrs. Ellis said. “Did you see us?" They stood there together for a few minutes, talking. When they went out Nancy was standing in the crowd that was gathered by the door, and as they passed her, Mrs. Ellis called, “Oh, Nancy, be sure and come home right away now. Don’t go anywhere else." Nancy looked at her over her shoul¬ der with an expression of long-sutTering patience. “Okay, Mother. Okay ." IT WAS only a short drive home. As they got out of the ear, another car came up close behind them. Shading his eyes against the headlights. Mr. Ellis stared at it. then said slowly, “What's the ice truck doing here? At this hour of the night.’’ He walked back to it. He heard Nancy’s giggle from the front seat, and when he looked in the cab. he recog¬ nized the tall, dark young man with whom she had been dancing when he first saw her. “Good evening, sir," the young man greeted him. Mr. Ellis said, “What’s the idea, Nancy? Where’s Ted?" They both laughed, and Nancy said, “Ted got sore and lelt. So Gilbert" — her voice dropped in w'hat seemed to Hollywood night lif • Polos Verdes Light Polomor Observatory Aloes blooming by the seo Devil Postpile Son Gorgonio Pais, March 4 -\ Pocific shoreline, winter Mt. Whitney (14,496 ft.) Grass links, desert oosis ii«. BIG VACVIIOY These pictures are just samples of the contrasts and variety that make a Southern California vacation such a thrilling change for you, such a big experience. Eleven of the thirteen scenes shown here are actually within a half -day's drive of downtown Los Angeles! You can see a lot even in a few days, using public transpor¬ tation. But three months wouldn’t exhaust the sights, thrills and fun waiting for youl All four seasons are good vacation times here. Accommoda¬ tions ample; costs well m line. You’ve dreamed of seeing South¬ ern California. Why not take the big vacation this year? ALL YEAR ClUB OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, LTD This advertisement sponsored by the Los Angeles County Board of S up< reisers for the citizens of Glendale, Hollywood, high wood. Long Beach. Los Angeles, Pasadena, Pomona, Santa Monica and 182 other communities Its all waiting for you in SOITII i: II X (Al l I’Olt.V IA America's 4-Season Vacationland Don't IVoif-Come This Year! FREE— Special Color Folder on Los Angeles County and all Southern California. Complete information: what to see and do, where things are, costs, what to bring. Mail coupon today! For vocation odvice: All-Yeor Club Free Visitor*' Bureau, 517 West 6th St., L.A. All-Year Club of Southern California, Dept. 2-E 629 So. Hill St., Los Angeles 14, California Please send me your free color folder, “planning VOIR SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA VACATION !*

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48 Mr. Ellis a fatuously caressing manner ‘‘Gilbert brought me home.” “Oh,” Mr Ellis said. “Well, you’d better come in now. It’s late.” In the house Mrs Ellis was standing by the card table, smiling down at the cards that were scattered on it, and humming 1 urkey in the Straw. “They had a hght or something.” Mr. Ellis said “Nanc> and led. So she came home with the iceman. Jo, 1 think you really ought to talk to Nancy.” Just then the door opened, and Nancy came in. “Well!” her father said. “That was pretty fast.” ’V^ANCY smfled and walked past him xi with her eyes lowered. Then she stopped, swung around abruptly, and said, “When Em told the instant 1 ar¬ rive that it’s time to come in, that it’s late and little Nancy has to be in bed, what do you expect me to do? If 1 didn’t rush in immediately you’d probably start peering out through the screen and calling to me. Jeepers, why, we’d hardly gotten here before you — ” “All right, all right,” Mr. Ellis said. “But there’s one thing I'd like to know, and that is why led Albee got mad and you had to come home with the iceman.” “He isn’t an /reman. He’s a junior at Rhode Island State. He’s working his way through. In any event, 1 don’t see why you have to be such a snob.” “Em not a snob. And 1 don’t, care where he goes to college. Rhode Island State or — or Oxford. I just asked you why Ted Albee — ” “That drip! Gilbert and 1 just took a little walk down the road and — ” “And sat in the ice truck?” Nancy looked at him for several sec¬ onds before answering, then she said slowly, "Well, yes, we did, as a matter of fact.” “Eve told you,” Mr. Ellis said, “that I don’t want you sitting in parked cars with perfect strangers.” Nancy laughed mockingly. “What about yourself >” she asked. “Myself?" Mr. Ellis said, and Mrs. Ellis turned to look at him curiously. Nancy nodded and said, “I saw you. Sitting in our car. With some woman. I kept talking my head ofT so Gilbert wouldn’t notice you. Ot course it may not have been you, and in any event, 1 wasn’t going to mention it but — ” “Why, Howard1” Mrs. Hllis said and broke into a rippling laugh. “Well, as a matter of tact,” Mr. Ellis said, “it vs as. 1 was sitting there with Sarah — with Mrs. Dodge. She wasn’t feeling well and said she wanted some air, so 1 took her out. Neither of us was dancing.” “In any event ” Nancy began. “I wish you’d stop using that expres¬ sion,” Mr. Ellis said. “Em sick of it.” Nancy sighed and said. “All right, in any case, then. 1 mean, betides, I don’t see why you have to sp\ on me.” Mr. Ellis looked bewildered. “Spy on you?” “Oh, not onlv you.” She turned to her mother. “Following me to the dance and watching my everv move. Telling me again and again 1 have to come home the second the dance is over. Before the music has hardly stopped. And inci¬ dentally'. Mother, it’s sometimes a good idea to learn how to do a dance before you try it. 1 saw you at one point, simply- standing out in the middle of the floor with that . . . with Mr. Dodge, just standing there. You have no idea how humiliating it was.” Mr. Ellis looked at his wife with what he knew was an annoy ngly elfish grin, then said to Nancy, “Your mother felt that by not going out occasionally we were perhaps in danger of getting into a rut. We want to avoid that.” “Well, of course that’s fine,” Nancy said, “but it would help if the old ... if people knew what the things the caller calls meant. If they didn’t just stand there and foul things up. Eike that old Mr. Bremer. Why, poor Judy Bremer can hardly face going to the dances. I mean, it’s so utterly undignified.” Mrs. Ellis nodded toward the clock on the mantel and said, “It’s time for you to go to bed, Nancy.” “Oh, all right,” Nancy said. She raised her eyes to the ceiling with a stricken look. “Would it be all right if 1 got a glass of milk first?” Mr. and Mrs. Ellis waited, without speaking, while Nancy went to the kitchen. When she came back she had a glass of milk in one hand and a large piece of chocolate cake on a plate in the other. She passed them with heavy- lidded eyes and a bitterly ironic twist to her mouth, on which there was also a smudge of chocolate icing. When she had gone upstairs, closing the door to her room behind her with elaborate quietness, Mr. Ellis said, “Well, that was a success.” Mrs. Ellis, who had begun emptying ash trays and straightening pillows, smiled and said, “Apparently it was. For you.” “Look,” Mr. Ellis said. “You don’t really think I was out there sitting in that car necking, do you?” Mrs. Ellis gave a tinkling, artificial¬ sounding laugh. “Well, do you?” he said. She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s what Sarah Dodge usually goes out and sits in cars for. It’s well known,” she said and smiled. “Any man at all.” “Oh,” Mr. Ellis said. He watched Mrs. Ellis as she moved busily around the room, humming to herself. Presently he said, “She’s really a very unhappy woman.” Mrs. Ellis laughed and said, “And I “Here's the dinner I’ve planned for us this evening — somewhere” JEFFERSON MACHAMER COLLIER'S l _ suppose her husband doesn’t under¬ stand her.” “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Jo!” Mr. El¬ lis said. “Stop acting so childish.” “Childish! If anyone has been acting childish, it’s you. Sitting out in a car like some college boy. Even if you don’t care about me, I think you might have given some consideration to the effect that such a performance might have on Nancy.” “Frankly,” Mr. Ellis said, “I don’t think she was half as humiliated by me as she was by you. Capering around there with — ” “Can’t you find any other word than caper?” Mrs. Ellis said. “It expresses my meaning,” Mr. Ellis answered, with some dignity. Mrs. Ellis took a deep breath and said, “I wish we didn’t always have to fight so.” “I know,” he said. “But at least there’s one thing: it shows we’re alive.” Mrs. Ellis paused in the act of empty¬ ing the contents of one ash tray into another. Then a slow smile came over her face. “Why, I guess it does, really, doesn’t it?” she said. “Yes, because if we were really — in a rut, why, we just wouldn’t care. As it is . . he said, raising one hand, then letting it drop to his side. “Well, never a dull moment.” “Sometimes,” Mrs. Ellis said, looking at him admiringly, “you really have very original ideas, Howard.” “Oh, well,” Mr. Ellis said. “No, you really do.” “For that matter,” he said, “so do you. Like going to the square dance.” “Please!” “Well,” he said, “it was a noble ex¬ periment.” She laughed and said, “They wouldn’t even know what that meant. Those kids. Nancy.” “Oh, hell, they don’t know what any¬ thing means.” “It takes so long,” Mrs. Ellis said. “Doesn’t it?” HE NODDED, smiling at her. She took a step forward and stood by his side. He put his arm around her. “What did she say?” she asked. “Who?” “Sarah. Sarah Dodge.” “Oh! Why, she said she thought we were very congenial. And that you were very pretty. And very young-looking.” Mrs. Ellis gave a short, skeptical laugh and said, “Was that all?” “Just about. I gave her a drink. Then we went back.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. Presently she said, “They don’t really know anything. Except,” she added, yawning a little, “except the things the caller calls.” He raised his eyes and looked over her head toward the window. It was dark, but far out beyond the shore a beacon flashed on and off at regular intervals. Seeing it he thought again of the northern lights, and he remem¬ bered how the whole sky, from the horizon to the zenith, had been filled with flowing bands and curtains of light, shot through with swinging rays and hung with patches that shivered like the surface of still water swept by gusts of wind. Sometimes in the late summer they saw them up here, and he wondered if now, above their heads, the sky was quivering and flashing. He leaned forward a little. All he could see, low above the pine trees to one side of their house, was the moon. It was a waning moon, and more than half of it was gone, but it cast a warm and steady golden light. ^ ^ ^ Collier’s for February 21, 1953

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49 Vbu're on the sate. side when you — Isn’t It comforting to know that whenever you travel — alone or with the family — you’re as safe in a Pullman as you are in your own home? COMFORTABLE, CONVENIENT AND SAFE Go Pullman CorratOHT i*«j. Tmc HitAWA* cohpamt

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50 FROGMEN IN I* rogincn, training for their underwater net-cutting alignment, paiee to re^t on rocks off Korean coast OPERATION FISHNET was a job that had to bo done by hand. The men who per- formed it had to work in the numbing wa¬ ters of the Sea of Japan, They had to operate Behind the Communist lines literally in the shadow of the embattled North Korean hills. The success of the operation depended entirely on stealth. It was a job only the U.S. Navy’s frogmen could do. Their only weapons were knives; their only ar¬ mor, rubber suits. I heir enemies were the tides and the surf and the reefs — and the Communists. So secret was the undertaking that the Navy only recently released the details and allowed the photographs taken during the daylight phases of the operation to be published. The first phase of Operation Fishnet got under way late last July, when frogmen of Underwater Demolition Team Five boarded the high-speed transport USS Diachenko. At a rendezvous point ofT Wonsan on Korea’s east coast, they collected the latest intelligence reports, then headed for their target area farther north. 1 heir task was to locate and destroy the nets the North Korean Commu¬ nists were using to eateh fish for their troops. Fish is the second most important item (next to riee) on the North Korean menu; the Communists were catching more than a million tons a year. And though the United Nations naval blockade had cut ofT food supplies coming by sea, the Communists were doing very well indeed on the fish they caught in the nets. Operation Fishnet, therefore, had only one pur¬ pose — to knock out that supply of food, too. Our strategists figured that if we were successful, we could take fish oft' the North Korean diet for six months or more. Operating from the Diachenko, UDT Five struck three times. '1 wice they were unmolested. But during the third strike the enemy garrison ashore cut loose with machine guns while the frog¬ men were in the water. It took the combined fire¬ power of the Diachenko, the landing boats and a Vi:ed, im*diu\<*n North Korean fisherman, captured prior to strike, undergoes interrogation by UN intelligence team about location of net*. Reds employed civilians to eateh fish for their forces KOREA Korean PT boat rushed to the scene to get the swimmers out safely. They made it all right, but as of that moment Operation Fishnet was no longer a secret. Two months passed, The weather got colder. Then it was Underwater Demolition Team Three's turn — only this time the Communists knew we were after their nets. Raid Starts in Cold of Early Morn It was one o’clock in the morning, and it was cold. The sea around the ship was a nervous, oily blackness, rolling restively. Manchuria was 15 miles to the north. The men had coffee, and then the order was passed, “Lower boats three and five.” The en¬ gines of the high-speed transport were suddenly quiet and the ship lost headway as it slid gently through the water. The lieutenant mustered his men for one last briefing. “We’re going to have to gojn close,” he said. “We’ll split up. Two platoons will work the north end of the cove, and two will work the south. Air Intelligence reports there's a garrison of 600 troops on the beach. They've got machine guns and how¬ itzers. That's a slug of trouble if they get on to us. Good luck — but be careful,” Then: “Over the side!” The men went down the cargo nets into the landing boats. They cast oft from the mother ship and raced over the uneasy ocean toward the beach. Almost immediately, the ship astern faded into the darkness and the boats became tiny bouncing ob¬ jects alone in the cold vastness. But the solitude was unreal. The men weren't alone and they knew it. Communist Korea lay a third of a mile ahead. They could hear the surf against the shore line. By radio, the skipper on the mother ship or¬ dered the boats to search for the objective. The lead boat veered to the right. Its engines were A few nets were returned to ship, though most were sunk on spot. Here section is linng to dry

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The Navy named it Operation Fishnet . It had to he carried out nithin pot-shot rijle range of Communist positions far behind the front lines . Only the frogmen could do it. I hey did tin* job 51 throttled down to dead slow. The sound of the surf was much louder. Communist sentries marched back and forth somewhere there in the inky empti¬ ness. In the landing boats, it seemed as if the men could almost hear the sentries’ boots crunching on the rocky beach. The men in the boats were within pot-shot rifle range. They edged slowly along, looking for the net. Each pass took them closer to the beach. Then someone caught the scent of burning wood. A mo¬ ment later they slipped into a tiny cove. A fire was blazing on the beach. It was less than 100 yards away — probably a sentry warming himself. And there was the net — dead ahead. Nobody moved except the radioman. He flicked a switch. “We have found Key West.” He spoke softly, using the code word for the net. The frogmen slipped their black rubber boats over the side. They climbed aboard and paddled toward the line of floats supporting the net. It extended at least 300 feet. The floats were clearly visible in the light from the fire on the beach. The party split up. One moved noiselessly ahead toward the beach, seeking out the anchor ' line. The other took off after the floats. They slashed and hacked the net loose from its supports — 50-gallon drums, logs and clusters of glass balls about as big as grapefruit. The net was much too big to haul away. Instead, the frogmen chopped it into sections about 40 feet long. One by one, the sections slipped beneath the surface. Spotted by Communists on the Beach The operation was going along right on schedule when a frogman exclaimed hoarsely, “Look!” Work on the net stopped. Goggled heads poked up. The tiny figures around the fire on the beach were signaling to another group farther along the shore. The Communists knew they had company. “Damn!” The word ran along the nets, and the goggled heads dipped down again. There would be no pulling out until the job was done. Closer to the beach, the second half of the dem¬ olition team had seen the signal fires, too.. But they had other problems at the moment. They had found the anchor line. It seemed to be made of Manila rope, but the covering was a disguise. The anchor line itself was steel — a massive cable wrapped in hemp. Their knives were useless. They I had to send back to the landing boat for bolt cut- | ters. Long minutes passed. Finally the cutters ar¬ rived, but against the steel cable they were about as effective as a pair of pinking shears. The anchor line would have to be blown apart. The order went back again — demolition charges — and again, the long wait. When the explosives arrived, quick, anxious hands rigged them along the net and prepared to set them off. But just as everything was ready, three rifle shots spat into the water. The men shouted for the landing craft. All par¬ ties broke off their operations, climbed into boats and roared back toward the mother ship. Nobody spoke. They all watched astern for the explosions. The fires on the beach grew smaller. No explosion. There were muttered oaths about clumsy work. There were muttered oaths of denial. Then — | whoomph! . . . whoomph / — two dull thuds. And I two columns of phosphorescent sea water shot into the air. Smiling, the men turned to face one another. “Scratch one fishing net,” the lieutenant said. J There’d be that much less fish on the North Ko¬ rean menu for a while. U. S. NAVY PHOTOS Clothed in rubber suits to protect them front numbing waters off North Korean coast, frogmen paddle their rubber boats toward objective. Demolition teams struck 15 miles from Manchuria A flipper-footed frogman, armed only with knife, rolls overside front a speeding boat while another swimmer adjusts goggles before entering water. Operation requires split-seeond timing

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52 *0 V J The BANCROFTS, By Half a Length We'd got real happy , me and rny brood. Then the neighbor's grass began to look greener Bv HARRIET FRANK, Jr. IT’S been so long ago that I'm not quite sure of my facts, but 1 think one year 1 must have paid an excess-profits tax. I must have, or I wouldn't have let Ruthie talk me into buying a house in Connecticut. “You've got the children to think of,” she began. “You can’t expect to give them a good start in life in New York.” I’ve noticed that whenever Ruthie is bucking for something, the kids are right away all mine, like I got them by cellular divi¬ sion. “What’s the matter with little old New York?” 1 said hotly. “It’s not Connecticut,” Ruthie said, “and I’ve already found the house.” “I know,” I said grimly. “Built before the Revolution, and two miles through open country to the privy.” “It has a little creek,” she said dreamily. “I've spent most of my life up the creek.” "Very tunny.” “I’m laughing with tears in my eyes,” I told her. “I like it here.” “1 understand,” she said honestly. “It’s an exciting place. But for the kids’ sake I think we ought to try to get back to the basics.” “Can I make them chop wood?” “I’m serious, Sy. It’ll be good for all of us. The way it is now, the girls think trees are something that block the view of the Chrysler Building. Living in the city is doing bad things to them. The other day I caught Ginny sending the elevator boy out for comic books. She said her daddy would make it worth his while. Their sense of values is all cockeyed. And so is ours. In the coun¬ try you don’t have to compete with the birds or envy the bees. We can find out who we are and where we’re going.” “Can’t you covet Tn the country?” “There’s less chance. Life will be so simple, and so good for us. We need it, Sy.” “Then I guess it’s back to the land for us,” I agreed, “if that’s ILLUSTRATED BY PRUETT CARTER Pointing, Patty maid, “Mummy ha* it on non." Untliie came out on the porch. Sin* looked nice, except *he had a look like nhe doe* when hhe goe* to the dentist

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53

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54 WITH PLEASANT SOOTHING LIQUID MEDICINE LIQWID CENTER COUGH DROPS QUICK DOUBLE A C T I O N COUGH RELIEF ilQU'V tou « U itfhs «' to simple l Is lit>;m luffay w th this m w / Uftatit handy ir« at merit Med /cimTto ? (filed candy shell* f » I «-t UK the enliven lenc e of i outfh /f - > )04 drop* with llic- / ^ w «-tfe itn- pc'rt.iPt * ' t - sv ,i -a- n any fulka surfer nagging l ’ . —ft im . k- c. Lh.n t n* . 1 >' 1 * :• \ v if these cendit - ns bother y» ; i * »' u, > i' - , rm ,| cffiMie l*-ed successfully : • • s » ■« v ’« wars. It '-amaz¬ ing how mu’ s * • c .♦ I at y rel ef ft. :n these discomt : - c " m t ki iney tubes and filters flusi. cut yy.i-- i.« t 1 an s Fids today! FLORIDA... Nice hoim-M'.'s S-'h .r * \ N. « vi- \ • I >p- nient adjoining tVia N. >t ’?.>-• • v • >», i.unt*ng Folcjer free W.i : • » L «"ii J the wa\ you want it.” And Ruthie said, "You tell the girls.” "Where are they?” “ I hey went out to play.” “Probably shooting craps. I’ll find them,” I said. I rode down in the elevator. The boy gave me a big hello, and when I stepped into the foyer there was a breath of warm and perfumed air. Outside, the beat ot the city caught me like the tingle of a cold shower. Right then and there I could have joined the chamber of com¬ merce; the country was for bumpkins. Give me I ever House and Rockefeller ( enter. Bird watching might be all right for hayseeds, but, oh, the girls in their pretty winter dresses! IT WAS then I spotted my own womenfolk. They were pitching pen¬ nies with the doorman. “Hey, Donder, hey, Blitzen,” I called to them, “come say good morning to your old man.” “Just a minute, Daddy. We’re play¬ ing,” Ginn> said. I waited on their childish pleasures. When they’d finished they sauntered over, pocketing the loot. “We broke him.” said Patty, sweetly. “I’ll list you with Dun and Bradstreet. Let’s take a walk,” I said, "Haven't you got money for a cab?” demanded Ginny. “What's this cab routine?” I said firmly. “Shanks’ mare lor you, my girl,” Ginny sighed. “Walking depreciates me,” she said loftily. Patt\ nodded in agreement. “Yes,” she said, "it makes my nose turn blue.” “I isten, >ou two,” I said, “as long as you're on the green side of twelve, >ou’ll walk.” They fell in alongside of me, “Where to?” they said in chorus, dismally, “The Metropolitan Museum.” “And then Schrafft's?” asked Patty, a light of hope beginning to dawn. “First Monet,” I said, “and then malteds.” The expedition to the museum was for m\ own edification. I was going to prove to myscll that my kids, born and bred in the city, were already impressed by its culture. livery Saturday tor the last year they had gone to a children’s art class. At least they knew' an abstract Irom a hole in the ground. Eagerly I led them through a gallery in the south wing. “I here’s some Greek sculpture,” I said, pointing it out. “It s a wounded Amazon.” “ I here's a good movie on at the Mu¬ sic Hall,” they said, quick as a flash. "Note that Van Dyck,” I persisted. This was several galleries later. "I have to go to the bathroom,” said Patty. Ginny led her away, and I sat down in I rent ol a Rembrandt and had a long think. When they came out again, they were beaming. “Ginny’s got a lot of ground-up soap tied up in her hand¬ kerchief” Patty said, chortling. “She took it from the washroom.” "Clever,” I said coldly. “And what other tricks do you little gamins know?” "It you jiggle the receiver in a pay booth a lot of times, sometimes you get vour dime back.” They looked at me, w aiting to be lauded. I lowered the boom. “Your mother’s right.” I said gloomily. “You’re public enemies.” I herded them before me to a se¬ cluded corner and parked them side by side. Then I walked hack and forth in front of them. "We’re moving to the country,” I said, “and you're going to ditch this hood act and he Daddy's own sweet, unspoiled cherubs — or else.” “W hat have we done?” they wailed. “All the facts are not known to me,” 1 said darkly, “and I’d rather leave it that way.” “I’ll get allergic,” threatened Patty, who had a tendency toward asthma. “I’m always allergic, even in upper New York State where I go to camp in the summer when you can afford it.” All this was said in one long, languishing breath. “This is God’s country,” I said; “you’ll feel fine,” “Will we have maid service?” Ginny asked. “Child labor — you and your sister,” I threatened. They digested this in gloomy silence. Then they came up with the answer. “Mother must be mad at you.” “She has nothing to reproach me with,” I said loftily. “Nothing at all.” “Then why do we have to move?” “Because you two are in a rut,” I said. “It’s just penny pitching and petty lar¬ ceny day in and day out. From now on it’s early to bed and early to rise.” “What about our television pro¬ grams?” “Sermons in stones, books in running brooks,” I said, “and that’s final.” THE first week in August, I took my vacation and we moved, Ruthie had a system. It was based on the numbers racket: numbered boxes, corresponding numbered lists. Some system! I went to get iodine when I cut myself with some wire and found twenty-seven vol¬ umes of the Book of Knowledge. We needed Kleenex. We went to the num¬ bered box and got ant paste and rancid peanut butter. By the second week in August I was back to Nature — in spades, I got so I could miss the commuters’ train by two minutes instead of three. 1 don’t know why I grouse. Missing the train was bet¬ ter than catching it, because there’s nothing like the scent of smoldering cigars and your fellow passenger's apo¬ plectic dissatisfaction with Walter Lipp- mann to set you up for the day. By the third week in August I began signing my letters Sy Bancroft, Esq. Ruthie started running around the place in shorts, and we put up a hammock. I shaved every orher day, and we let the grass grow up high and sweet in the front yard. I thought about building a field-stone wall. I didn’t do it; I just thought about it. Ruthie put on a little weight, and she no longer went to bed at night looking like she’d been man handled by an auto-da-fe. Even the kids began to act like kids. Some wasps built a nest under the roof, and we had a trout in our brook. We got very happy. ABOUT this time there was a big res¬ toration kick on in the neighbor¬ hood. Everyone was tearing down walls and peeling ofT paper and finding that there was a 1670 wall behind the 1777 wall, and behind that was the remains of a log cabin. Our house was a Victo¬ rian job with Herbert Hoover overtones, and we just left it that way. We walked around without our shoes on, and w'e hollered at one another when we wanted anything. It was probably a little Lower Slobbovia, but as Ruthie said, “We’re getting the gloss off of us; we’re find¬ ing ourselves.” We’d just about gotten down to bedrock when the house next door was sold. I was taking my ease under the trees when the girls came up and began to brief me. “We’ve got new neighbors,” said Patty, “with a Cadillac.” “Do tell,” I said, yawning. “They’re gorgeous,” said Ginny. With Ginny, everything that isn’t dis¬ gusting is gorgeous. “If there’s anything we need around here,” I said, “it’s a few gorgeous people,” “The man is about your age. Daddy,” Ginny went on breathlessly, “but he looks a whole lot younger.” “You’re too kind,” I said, swatting at her. “How do you know how old he is?” “We asked his child which is a girl as } old as me,” Patty said. “We only just met them,” Ginny said. “Their name is Jones,” Patty said. “Enough,” I commanded. “Kindly remember you’re not Sam Spade and confine your activities to this side of the fence.” “They’re putting in a swimming pool,” Patty protested, “and we’re al¬ ready invited in it.” “I see,” I said, faintly troubled. “A swimming pool, eh?” “And a bar and a tennis court and a croquet field,” Patty sighed. “I bet they have all the maraschino cherries they can eat.” “Doubtless,” I said. “But just remem¬ ber your father is a peasant, and don’t live too high olf the hog,” I waited till they had scampered out of sight, and then I walked to our fence and cast a cold eye. The place was in 1

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II \ I kirnl of human bein'; v»ill travel through space? How will we conquer that strange of hlood-lioiling low pressures, scorch¬ ing ultraviolet ra> bnllet-1 ;et mrti-oritr*, complete w eight lessncss? \ team of top scientists — including manv of the authorities who contributed to previous (.oilier*** mpoHune on space— paintings and photogtaphs — among them tin* first pictures of a sensational new device, now undergoing actual tests, which solves moM of the problems confronting man ;i- lie moves toward the newest frontier I lie I)i>lin"ui>}icd Scirnli^ls W lio Conlrilmle r Hr. \\i»rnln*r urn llrniin V. M ■ I s : >r> , Rcd- v ' . H . \ iimuu Willy lev ! i. >foir Jci V Ri . • . S v cl> i ol. Don I lieUiuger. >I,H. I * l S \ l s *\ i r h • i ' . L , i . d, llr. I In* in «inn J. Muller N. n- ■! Pn/c \\ r-cr. Physiology .md MeJ- k •>. Piotcssot of /oology. Indiana Lf-I'.c MtV 111’. 1 1 ii lie* rliis Slrnghohl IL c. IX- etmunt of Space Medicine. L S \1 s Sc* -el ol Aviation Medicine, R • c I ; > * i I k d. 1 ex.ts (apt James Ik Sullivan l SNR. DkJv'i. \uhoine I qiupment Dvimoi. Vi*> Bureau of Aeronautics Hr. Ileiu/ llnlier f . . 1' .■ C Hr. Hounld W. Il;is( iugs N l S \ I '* \ \\ P'W . * M s^h. ♦ ihe Med- Hr. James V. \ .in \||cn IL d IX> ... y,-. 1. versitv ot loss.: Hr. I rit/ llnber Hep. m tnt of Space Medicine. LSAPs S^i. ' c: \\i.ition Medicine, Randolph I eld . 1 c x.is Hr. James I*. Ilenrx i \e o Medical Lahoiatorv. ISM s VV t An Development Center, L).iv:e' Ohio III ustvutetl btj: Cliesh'v Honestell I retl Freeman and Itolf Klep Starts Xext Week in Cottier's a ferment. Moving vans were disgorg¬ ing some very free- form lurniture w hile the Iront lawn was being earclully torn up. Scaffolding was already climbing up the fronl of the house, and television antennas were sprouting up like mush¬ rooms. I ignored Ruthie's injunction against covetousness and was enjoying all this with slack-mouthed awe when the front door opened and a woman came out onto the porch. Let me state, unequivocally, that I am, first, last and always a monogamist. However, it was plain to see that this was. without doubt, a dish. She w'as wearing some kind ol tight-fitting black pants that ended below the knee. For no reason at all that I could think of, she turned and waved at me. “Hello, there!” she called. I turned to sec if there was anyone behind me. “Me?” I asked. I jabbed my chest with my thumb. SHE came down off the porch and ap¬ proached the fence. “You're Mr. Bancroft, aren’t you? We're your new’ neighbors. I'm Paula Jones, and skulk¬ ing about somewhere arc my husband and offspring. You haven’t seen them, have you?” Her voice was like the cen¬ ter of a chocolate cream. “Not hide nor hair,” I said pleas¬ antly. “Say, you're certainly working the old place over.” “Mmmm. I think it will be sweet. When we re tidied up I'd love to have you and Mrs. Bancroft help us warm it up.” “Very kind of you,” I murmured. “We'll bring bread and salt.” “What a quaint idea,” she said. “Is that local lore?” “1 read it somewhere,” I explained sheepishly. “You're New Yorkers, aren't you?” Queasily, I realized that the fruit of my loins had been talking. “Yes,” I said cautiously. “I'm simply fascinated by your job,” she said. “I suppose it's very top secret.” “No matter what my children tell you," I said, trying to he debonair about it, “1 manufacture foundation garments.” “Oh, I see,” she murmured with an amused smile. “Just for the record,” I asked her, “what line of work did they have me in?” “The Federal Bureau of Investiga¬ tion," she said. “Narcotics Division?” “They didn't say.” ' Sometimes it's Narcotics, and some¬ times it's plain old Secret Service.” I was about to tell her all about my- selt when her husband appeared. I haven’t been to a movie since the Gold Diggers of 1935, but this man bore a striking resemblance to Ronald Colman, it I remember correctly. All he needed w as a patch over one eye and he could have posed for shirt ads. His opening gambit was. “Hello, neighbor. Fin Merle Jones,” followed by a grip of steel. Instantly 1 realized that I should never have given up handball, but I managed not to wince. “Bancroft,” I gasped, “Sy.” "Delighted. I wonder if I could ask v on a great tavor?” “Sure.” I said, trying to sound like old landed gentry, “name it." “Well, we're on the torn-up side, and we haven’t gotten our drinkables out. I wonder if I could borrow a Martini?” Paula smiled ingratiatingly. “We're such creatures of habit," she said. Hurriedly I ran over our liquor sup¬ ply in my mind. Cherry cough medi¬ cine, cooking sherry that went down like sandpaper, vanilla, and maybe some ! gin. “I'll just whip up a batch,” I said. “Say fifteen minutes?” “You're a brick, old man.” Sullenly I watched his athletic fig¬ ure retreating; then I dashed into the house. I found Ruthic in the kitchen making an apple pie. “How do you like the Joneses?” she asked. “I sec you’ve had the pleasure.” “Yes. 1 gave him a lift up from the village.” “Very toney-type people,” I said. “He's quite charming,” she said ab¬ sent-mindedly. “I haven't met her.” “You will. They're coming here for drinks.” “Sy. you didn't! We haven’t got a drop of anything stronger than ho¬ mogenized milk.” “Yes, we have. I put something aside for snake bite.” Frantically I rum¬ maged in a dark corner, “Here we are.” “Bui I can’t have a cocktail party now. My hair needs washing, and the house is a mess. The girls have been putting on a play in the living room.” “Streetcar Named Desire?” I was mixing with wild abandon. “Don’t tease. Is Mrs. Jones awfully svelte?” “Awfully.” “And look at me!” she wailed. “ Hans - frau rampant.” “You look fine.” “You’re only saying that.” I gave her a warm buss. “You are practically perfect.” “What was she wearing?” “Something sort of bullfightish.” “Chic! I knew it. And my good slacks are at the cleaners.” “Wear your had ones.” She hurried past me to the icebox. “We were just going to have vegetable soup and egg sandwiches. Do you sup¬ pose they’re nibblcrs?” “What’s the matter with a neighborly nibbler?” “We’re out of everything. We’ve just got olives and that smelly cheese. Well, it'll have to do. I'm going upstairs to take a shower, and you'd better change that T shirt. It's got a hole right over your navel." “Air conditioning,” I told her, “and besides. I’m a country mouse.” “Change!” she shouted over her shoulder, and she was gone. I WAS sampling my brew when the girls showed up. “It smells medicine in here." said Patty. “Are you sick?” “Not vet.” “Those are drinks, silly,” said Ginny, in a superior tone. “I wouldn't drink it," Patty said. “So young and so wise,” I said, pat¬ ting her. “Why don’t you girls go wading?'* “We want to stay and watch you.” “You haven't got the price of adiriis- j sion.” I said. “Run out and play, and it you see the Joneses coming let me know.” After a few minutes a shrill cry rang out. “They’re coming. Daddy, they're coming!” They made it sound like a cavalry charge. Wiping my hands on my T shirt. I went out to greet them. I should have stood in the kitchen. Merle had changed into a white jacket, and Mrs. Jones was wearing something yellow and blowy. I patted my hands nervously on my jeans and decided to give them the old Bancroft aplomb. “Didn't have a thing to wear,” I said, guffawing heartily. “Have some fire¬ water?” They were good-natured enough to accept a double dose. I motioned them Collier's for February 21. 1953

Page 569

into chairs, only then becoming aware of the lived stares ot my children “Shoo,” I hissed. They stayed in the yaid, close to the porch, regarding us thought! ully . “Why don’t you go ‘he’ somebody*>” 1 suggested cheerfully “How about Clark Cable and Marilyn Monroe?" I hey didn't make a move. “Or Maitm and Lewis?” I here was no i espouse. I turned to my guests. “Great little actresses,” 1 said. “ I hey eat up the theater.” “Charming,” murmured Paula. “Our little girl is so bookish. She reads French.” {THOUGHT of the thumbed comie books in the girls’ room, and smiled weakly. “They come from a long line of extroverts,” 1 said. “Very imaginative kids.” I leaned over the balustrade. “Go imagine something, why don't you?” “We’re waiting for Mummy,” said Patty, “We want to see what she’s got on.” “Yes,” said Ginny, “she was putting on her girdle.” “She has it on now, too,” said Patty, pointing. Ruthie came out on the porch. I guess she looked nice, all right, ex¬ cept she was wearing something sort of dark and she had a look on her face which she only gets when she goes to the dentist. I he girls took one dis¬ gruntled look and left. “ I his is certainly a pleasure,” Ruthie said, and groped around the table for a glass. Rulhie's not given to drink, but she tossed her Martini off like an old China hand. I figured it was Paula, in all that organdy. Ruthie gets intimi¬ dated around powerhouse women. 1 be¬ gan to wish we kept a vicious dog around the house; 1 was running low on insouciance myself. Ruthie's gaze started to stray around the porch. 1 here was a lot of litter from the kids, only it seemed a little more colorful than usual. They’d dragged out a bottle ol cherries, an old typewriter, some paper dolls and a copy of a lurid best seller, handsomely illustrated. “We’re just camping,” said Ruthie, groping for the hook. She picked it up, blushing. “I don’t know where they found this.” Her remark dropped into a well. “How do you like living in the country?” she said — in Paula’s direction. “Which one?” Paula said sweetly. 1 laughed weakly. Nobody joined me. Merle’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly at his wife. “Paula’s here under pro¬ test.” he said. “We were going to sum¬ mer in the Bahamas, hut 1 voted lor the simple life.” Ruthie’s gaze brightened. “So did I,” she said enthusiastically. "We were going to summer in Man¬ hattan” I added sourly, “and 1 voted for Manhattan.” Ruthie joined forces with Merle by sitting next to him on the swing. The kids jump on it all the time so they sort of slid together in the middle. Ruthie loves an ally. “Won’t you have some cheese?” she asked warmly. He smiled at her. “Thanks, it’s* aw¬ fully good.” He munched happily. “It's rat cheese,” I said loudly. “I don’t touch it myself.” Paula laughed. It was low down and clTcetive. I walked over to her. “May I buoy up that olive?” 1 said, taking her glass from her. “You’re a dear.” she said. After I had joined her in several more drinks, we were in total agree¬ ment. 1 was a dear. “Say,” I said loudly, “why don’t all four of us amble over to the club for 57 dinner? All lour ol us could have a 111 tie ill ink. and then all tom ol us could have a little dance 1 think.” said Ruthie Iiehilv. that one ot us has two sheets in the w mil ” “Who?” I said looking around “Whoie Ruthie came over and put her hind on my arm. ‘Aou didn’t have much lunch, dailnm,” she said smoothly “Olives .ire veiv nourishing,” I said huffily. “Now what about mv plan''” “Wonder! ul,” said Merle "You two conic as our guests.” “ I hat’s awtully nice ol you,” said Ruthie, “hut it’s too late to get a baby sitter. Another time ” Merle took her hand. “Is that a prom¬ ise?” Ruthie nodded. Paula rose languidly. “It’s been fun,” she said, and trailed down the steps. Merle crushed my hand and followed her. I heir voices floated back at us through the gathering dusk. I hen they were gone. 1 circled for a landing in the porch swing. Ruthie began to brush up the crumbs. “Better leave something lor the birds,” I said. “ I his whole episode was for the birds,” said Ruthie. “C oming over here in that yellow organdy job.” l,How about him? He looked like a Good Humor man.” “She probably made him wear it.” “I islen.’ 1 said in a knowing tone, “I’ve seen guys like him helore. I hey do push-ups all the time and have their pajamas tailor-made.” "What’s the matter with exercise?” Ruthie demanded. “It’s better than go¬ ing around holding your breath all the time, like you do.” “When do I hold my breath?” 1 said holly. ’Tvc seen you. In the morning when you look at yourself sideways in the mirror. You’re only deluding yourself, that’s all.” “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” I said cuttingly. “From now on I'm go¬ ing to emulate your friend Mr. Jones. I'll get my tailor to knock out a white jacket, and I'll sashay around the neigh¬ borhood borrowing Martinis.” “Just because a man tries to live graciously,” Ruthie said coldly. “First we've got to live in the coun¬ try,” I said warmly, “and then we’ve got to live graciously in the country. Swell.” r>UTHlE began breathing hard, and \ 1 could see things shaping up lor a spat. I rose with what 1 considered great dignity. “Where are you going?” she asked. “To dress lor dinner.” “Sy Bancrolt,” she said angrily, “don’t you dare!” “To dress for dinner,” I persisted, “ including a maroon cummerbund.” I should never have started it. That night, when 1 came down alter my shower, some changes had been made. There was a table set out on the front porch, and there were candles on it. Alter a moment the distalf side ap¬ peared en masse in the doorway, all dressed in their Sunday-school clothes. The girls seemed a little bewildered, but they’ll always go along with a gag. “Good evening. Father,” they said to¬ gether, demurely. My children had never gieeted me with gentility in all their lives. “It's me,” I said. “Daddy,” “We know. Father.” “Father.” 1 said it aloud. It was sort of Clarence Day and fifty thousand shares* of A. I AT. 1 like it. I pulled out Ruthie’s chair and then took my YOU SHAVE CLEANER IN V2THE TIME ! 1 “Get it over with” fast with Schick Injector, world’s only razor specially engineered to give you “Twice Over” smoothness with “Once Over” Shaving! This famous razor is engineered by ex¬ perts. It has no movable parts that get out of adjustment, no detachable parts that can be dropped or misplaced. And you'll find Schick Injector Razor is specially- designed to “fit” your face — under nose, around lips, along jaw, on neck, and all hard-to-get-at places — features that mean faster, cleaner shaves. Today get your complete razor kit: ★ Gold-Plated Razor ★ 12 Scalpel-sharp Blades ★ Handy Travel Case Big $1.75 Value. 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58 Better Than Beer? © B. C. A A very different brew you’ll want to try! At Carling’s we brew both beer and ale — and each is mighty popular But more and more people are tell¬ ing us Carling’s Red Cap Ale gives them more pleasure than any beer they ever tasted. They say it’s light and dry as the smoothest beer, yet with that extra flavor — that “heart” which only a fine ale can provide. They call it the “light-hearted” ale. Tonight, why not make a point to try it yourself? See whether you are one of those who find Carling’s Red Cap Ale tastes even better than beer! BETTER THAN BEER? TRY CARLING’S RED CAP ALE AND SEE! own. “Say,” I said, “maybe there’s something to this.” Ruthie smiled. “I got the baby sitter in to serve dinner,” sTie said, “and I told her I’d ring for what we want, so don’t holler.” Our baby sitter is a large, open-faced girl of sixteen. She came in and thrust the platter of chops under my nose. “Here,” she said, “dive in.” From across the way we heard the tinkle of glass and china. “Get a load of the Joneses,” I said. The household effects seemed to have got straightened out in jig time over there. Their terrace was alive with can¬ dlelight, and we saw a glass table set with silver and flowers. A butler was doihg the honors, and after a moment Merle rose, glass in hand, and lifted it in our direction. “Should I make a speech?” I asked Ruthie. “Oh, sit down.” ALL through dinner, the kids kept . swiveling in their chairs to take a gander at what was going on. Finally Patty couldn’t stand it any more. “Look,” she said, “what they're eating is on fire.” There was a note of dis¬ appointment in her voice. “Eat your nice tapioca,” Ruthie said, “and never mind.” “But it’s burning like anything /’ Ginny said. “So did Rome,” I commented. “Fin¬ ish your dessert.” “I don’t care for it, thank you.” They both pushed their plates away and sighed. “Daddy,” Patty said suddenly, “can we go to school in Switzerland?” “What’s the matter with the school here?” I asked politely. “Melanie Jones is going to Switzer¬ land,” Patty said. “Yes. She can order ice cream in French. Any flavor,” Ginny said. “Accomplished child,” I said coldly. “Well, can we go to school in Switz¬ erland?” “You can clear the dishes,” Ruthie said, “right now.” Unhappily they loaded up. “Mela¬ nie’s butler does the buttling over there,” said Ginny. She made it sound like the promised land. “This is ‘over here,’ ” Ruthie said, “and I’m not going to tell you twice.” They went out, burdened. “Alone at last,” I said in a friendly voice. “That’s a pretty dress.” Ruthie eyed it with dissatisfaction. “I need something pastel,” she said dreamily, “something pastel and sort of blowy.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Paula’s draperies stirring in the breeze. “I know I’m not the type,” Ruthie said flatly. “I’m small and pudgy. It’s just that all of a sudden I’m sick of being small and pudgy.” She turned critical eyes on me. “Sy,” she said, “why don’t you grow a mustache?” Merle Jones, I recalled, sported a small, dark mustache. Ruthie went on: “I think you'd look distinguished.” “ I ired of plain, unadorned me?” I asked lightly. There was the sound of voices being raised across the way. Then Merle came down the steps within hailing dis¬ tance. “Hello, you two,” he called, “come join us for coffee?” “Let's,” Ruthie said eagerly. She took the lead. Paula’s face brightened as we came up the steps. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad you came over. Merle and I can only stand each other through the main course.” Ruthie looked at me and then at her shoe tops. Merle smiled stiffly. “Company man¬ ners, darling,” he said icily. “Don’t mind us,” I muttered. “Brandy?” He went over to the ta¬ ble and filled four snifters. “This is really old stuff,” he said. “My father put it down.” Paula’s laugh tinkled unpleasantly. “He certainly did. In fact, he died of it.” Merle’s mouth got thin. “He died of heart failure.” “Very well, pet. Heart failure.” She turned to Ruthie. “What do you do with yourself all day in this forsaken place? I know I’m just going to lose my mind.” “None of us will miss it,” Merle said. “Clever,” Paula snapped. “Say,” I said weakly, “how about a rubber of bridge?” “We don’t play. Paula persists in trumping my ace.” I tried again. “What kind of televi¬ sion reception do you get?” “Melanie’s watching it now. She doesn’t like to be disturbed.” As she spoke, a child appeared in the doorway. That is, I think it w'as a child. ore. Rooi Z5VZZ collier s “I guess you didn't expect me to win, hull?” bill harrison Collier’s for February 21, 1953

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59 She looked more like a cut-down adult. “ Mon pere” she said imperiously, “ doucement , s’il vous plait. Je suis oc- I cupee” ’ “What’s on her mind?” Merle de¬ manded crossly. “And why can’t that kid speak English?” “ Chacun a son gout, Papa,” she said haughtily. “ Les gens du monde parlent jrangais” “Is she insulting me?” Merle said hotly. Ruthie looked uncomfortable. “I studied Spanish in school,” she said. “I never went to school,” said Paula languidly, as she turned to me. “So that leaves you.” “Pig Latin,” I choked. Merle stormed across the terrace. “What’s going on? — that’s what I want to know.” He turned on me with an al¬ most helpless expression on his face. “My own kid could be eating me out, and I’d never know it.” “I was only asking you to be quiet because I’m busy,” Melanie said in a strident voice. “I’m watching the Con¬ tinental!” With that she turned and marched back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Merle turned on Paula. “You had ' to send her to finishing school.” “She reads a menu beautifully,” Paula said, and she yawned. I SHUFFLED my shoes and looked imploringly at Ruthie. She had a dazed look on her face. “Well,” I trumpeted loudly, “early to bed, early to rise.” “You’re not going already?” Merle asked urgently. “We have to say good night to the girls,” Ruthie said quickly. “It’s been very nice. You come to us next time.” Merle looked at us despairingly. Wc have a projection room,” he said hope¬ fully. “We could show you a double feature. We have them flown in from New York.” “Just like the Roxy,” said Paula. “Merle runs the popcorn concession.” I inched out of my chair. “We’ll take a rain check.” I grabbed Ruthie and hustled her to¬ ward the steps. They started in again as we reached the bottom. Merle’s voice Collier’s for February 21, 1953 rose irritably. “It is not Rin Tin Tin. It’s a musical!” Wc bolted. A few minutes later we drew up, winded, on our own sagging front porch and collapsed on the top step. The window on the second story was raised, and Patty hung out of it. “Did they give you something fiery to eat?” she asked avidly. “They gave us both barrels,” I said, “and why aren’t you in bed?” “I’ve been playing lost in the desert, and I have to keep going to the bath¬ room for water.” “Well, tank up and turn out the light,” I ordered. “Come tuck us in.” RUTHIE and I went up together. Ginny had a sun helmet on and a thermos bottle tied on to her pajamas. Patty had a carafe and two bottles of Coca-Cola. “We’ve joined the French Foreign Legion,” they explained. I gathered up all the liquid refresh¬ ment and herded them into bed. “Daddy,” said Patty, sleepily. “Do they speak French in the French Le¬ gion?” “Cherchez hi femme,” I said, turning out the light. “And that’s an order.” Ruthie kissed them and joined me in the hall. We went into our own room. Across the way the crystal chandeliers sparkled in the Jones manse. Ruthie went to the mirror and looked at herself critically. “She’s thinner than I am and more sophisticated, and he’s in better shape than you arc.” She came over and put her arms around me. “But they’re too fancy,” she said, “and they fight all the time, and they have an awful, bilingual child. It’s the very thing we were running away from in the city.” We walked to the window and stood side by side, watching the glitter. I put my arm around Ruthie’s shoulder. “Honey,” I said, “plain or fancy, town or country — to thine own self be true.” “Yes,” said Ruthie snuggling up. “Let’s not try to keep up with the Joneses.” “Keep up with them?” I said loftily. “In the human race, it’s the Bancrofts, by half a length.” AAA )oa /day - and all t/iat music means is yours llluslrotod obove fhc Homo V&oc Horrrr&^a Pr ce cn resjt-,'. You play, and from the Hammond Organ flow the myriad voices of music. Here is sunlight, here is peace, here is memory. Music to match each mood — to sweep away each care as casually as a cobweb. This is truly music’s most glorious voice— a voice so versatile that thousands have found it a guide to new musical fulfillment. You can play in a few weeks, even if you have never played before. And, like thousands of others, you will be surprised and pleased at how beau¬ tiful even simple music is on the Hammond Organ. And those who play other instruments will glory in the vastly greater resources and ma¬ jestic tones of the Hammond Organ. Your family life’s a lot more fun with a Hammond Organ. You enjoy a closer companionship with your children. They, too, can quickly learn to play without previous musical training, and this can be the beginning of an engrossing hobby or career. With music like this, their friends and yours come to listen — to play, to take part in the fun. The Hammond Organ offers you a choice of models that fit easily into your home, meet your every musical need. Generous terms bring pay¬ ments comfortably within your means. Hammond Organ prices start at $1285* (for the Spinet Model) including tone equipment and bench. For a lifetime of musical pleasure for you and your family, see your Hammond Organ dealer now. Hammond Ojigan MUSIC'S MOST GLORIOUS VOICE I - MAIL COUPON FOR FULL INFORMATION - j I Hammond Instrument Company 1 4207 W Diverse} Ave., Chicago 30. Illinois I Without obligation, please send me information on the following I I Hammond Organ models: □ Spinet Model □ Church Model □ Home Model □ Conceit Model I Name . | Street . I City P. O. Zone State j i ©1953. HAMMOND INSTRUMENT CO M RAN T X j I - - - 1 CHURCH MODEL - Hammond Organs are used in some 27,000 churches. Concert Model has 32 -note pedal keyboard built to AGO specifications, and an addi¬ tional Pedal Solo Unit, tun¬ able to preference by the organist. *F.O.B. Chicago.

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TWOOB- LATEST beaches, the dead wood may look like junk. But shoppers know tlia plant in Florida, tests a twisted trunk for solidity and potential eye appeal during a driftwood expedition to Key Largo OF THE many objects yielded up by the seas around us — broken shells, an occasional bottle or empty can, knotted snarls of sea¬ weed — none is seemingly of more doubtful value than driftwood. Few cabinetmakers or carpenters would dignify with the name of wood these twisted, battered branches, eroded into skeletal shapes by lashing salt water and sand, perforated and infested by thousands of unseen tiny marine creatures. Yet by a curious circumstance, driftwood is today one of the sea’s richest gifts, convertible into hard cash of the realm. Within the last three years, furniture and dec¬ orative pieces made of driftwood have suddenly become a trend. Its fantastic shapes, picturesque textures and romantic sea-and-sun aura have caught the fancy of homemakers everywhere. Women who wouldn’t dream of letting Junior bring rocks or rusty pipes into the house are eagerly paying hundreds of dollars for objects made of gnarled old hunks of rubbish. Previously the plaything of a few fancy-Dan decorators, driftwood tables, lamps, mirror frames and assorted knickknacks are being peddled in shops and department stores across the land. The lobbies of swank hotels feature driftwood sea sculptures, haberdashers’ windows display thou¬ sands of men’s neckties hanging from driftwood limbs, and uncounted housemaids have quit their jobs rather than try to dust the convolutions of driftwood decor. The traffic in driftwood is so relatively new that official furniture sources have no solid statistics on its scope. Informally, however, they estimate that sales of driftwood objects total more than a mil¬ lion dollars a year. For similar reasons they lack accurate figures on the number of driftwood furni¬ ture makers. Because it is an easily available raw material, a great many driftwood hobbyists have gone into the business on a small scale. In addi- Plant worker Leonardo Falcao threads a wire through driftwood lamp base. W ood has been acid-treated to preserve finish and kill insects Collier’s for February 21, 1953 //>

Page 573

61 rREASURE or rin i iftivood ( (in tool; rlriianl and cost /drill y. Tlirrr's a reason By MOUTON M. ill M lion, there are live sizable firms: Driftwood Origi¬ nals, and 1 ropical Drill wood Originals, both in Miami; House ol Driftwood. Natural C'i cations, and Driltwood C reations, all centered in New York. In the trade, the man regarded as responsible for a goodly part ol driftwood's spreading pop¬ ularity is the head ol Driltwood Creations, I dward Freedman, a short, soft-spoken bachelor of lorly- five. Freedman's firm, which produces about half the driltwood furniture made, not only earns him a tidy income but has been a major force in con¬ verting a rarity into a vogue. Nobody is more surprised at all ihis than Freed¬ man himself, who tried to retire, hut was trapped hack into activity by a stubbed toe and a half- buried piece of weather-beaten buttonwood. A few years ago Freedman was a prosperous Wall Street broker whose doctor persuaded him to give up a hectic existence lor reasons of health, lie moved to Miami Beach. Alter hall a year of the vegetahle life, he could again sleep soundly and he felt line. One day Freedman drove down to the Florida Keys. He was top-fishing for mullet, a tame lorm of the sport in which you east a net over running schools of fish while standing on the beach. A large, sun-bleached hunk of driftwood stuck out of the sand at the water’s edge. He perched on it to get a better throw of the net. The wood was awkwardly shaped and Freedman fell off; painfully stuhbing his toe. He glared at the wood, but simultaneously noted its beauty. Aware that a few Florida hobbyists were fashioning useful objects from driftwood, he decided he would try to make a lamp of it. He yanked the wood loose and toted it to his car, feel¬ ing a bit foolish, hut determined. It seemed a pleasant enough project for a man in forced re¬ tirement. Back in his hotel room, Freedman, with the aid ol pcnkmlc, sandpaper and a bottle opener, grad¬ ual!} sei aped his new acquisition tree ol barnacles and seaweed A lew days later he bought a small saw and cut the wood, trying to accent its most interesting lines. Next, using a borrowed drill, he wired the piece, then gave it a surface limsh. 1 inally he bought a shade, and the protect was complete. I he ex Wall Streeter was a little abashed to learn that he had strong artistic feelings about the lamp, and more than a little pleased when the hotel owner's wife admired it. He presented it to her in a glow of good feeling, and tackled another project. ‘Inside of a month,” be recalls, “I was making a dozen lamps, putting in sixteen hours a day, and loving ev ery minute ol it, I was working again, and this time it was great.” When first he lugged one of his lamps to a Miami decorator’s shop and hesitantly offered it for $25, the owner snapped it up. I hat sale de¬ cisively ended Freedman's retirement. In three years he has built up a business with a yearly gross about which he is reticent, hut which is estimated at a quarter of a million dollars. When a Dealer Bought 1 1 is First Lamp Freedman no longer nostalgically turned to the stock-market page. Instead he began to read weather and tide reports and wander along the iso¬ lated shores of the Keys hunting out sandy, half- rotten. bug-infested wood, hauling it hack in his car, and making a shamhles of his hotel room. One day, with 19 finished lamps in his car, he headed North for the first real test ol his new¬ found talent — -the reaction of New York decora¬ tors and lamp-store owners. Some thought his idea preposterous. “Who wants something you drug up on the hcach?” one skeptic asked. But when Freedman tallied the results of his calls, he knew th.it dritiwoi>d un * m « •• „t, • ' was in the cards, all Ins l.m, r. J > ■ B .I r 1 loi id i he sped. Since then, he has set lit n p a New > ork showroom, adve Us_d natiouallv. displayed it .it the N.m. r 11 Furnishings Show, arranged 1 » • r do ' throughout the country — -and att eted \ \ r, c competition. Beachcombing on foot for wood M>on p: »%-•: inadequate. One ol 1 rcedman’s u*ipVvees w. assigned to cruise over the Keys nd 1 rid . - coral reels in a rented biplane and spot heavy driltwood accumulations Irom the .nr. f he r O:- est ol all, he found, vvas one sever. r-sc u.ire-miN area on Key Fargo its exact location, undci- standablv. kept a trade secret. F reedman employ¬ ees scour the area about once a week bunging hack a ton or two ol driltwood each time. Not long ago. I went on a driftwood search with Freedman. The hunt begun at 4:00 \. \i one warm Tlorida dawn in a car with a large trailer hitched behind. With us were Boh Astruc, a young French¬ man recently here from Noith Africa; Bobs elderly mother: and several other employees of F3riftwood Creations. By daybreak wc hud reached Key Largo, parked the car, pushed through a jungle oi hushes, and come out into a flat open area about halt a mile inland from the beach. “We find far more driltwood in here than on the beach,” Freedman explained. “ I he ocean takes hack a lot ol what it casts up. But when a big storm or hurricane conies up. the wood and up¬ rooted trees are washed in this far, and here they stay. We're the only people in Miami who are reallv happv when there's a hurricane.” The search area was desolate. I he ground under¬ foot was perforated, jagged eoral. Beneath it could he seen the sea water which daily floods through the eoral mass. Spotted amid a scrubby under¬ growth of mangrove were pools of water covering Philippe Asti ue and sou Boh fit shade to a finished lamp Base to study the total effect. Lamps are most popular item in their line, sell for $50 to $150 in stores throughout the country. Aslrucs’ other driftwood products range from tiny wall hangings to dining tables Kd Freed Ur startei now gros PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY ARDEAN MILLER

Page 574

62 Best for every lighter! Super Sparks! Handy Five F inter Instant Lights! 1 Last longer because they are longer! -L v-/ I'HHTl THIS sum FIR€ TEAM MADE BY _ _ MAKERS OF THE WORLOS GREATEST LIGHTER The fast-acting aid in preventing and relieving Travel Sickness. jot Adv*lt\ & L'hildrcn ww a a r 9 ^ vr. d-CON w OUARANTCCD to destroy the end Mice on your property or YOUR MONCY BACK! At Drug, Hirdw*re Feed. Grocery. Dept. Store**, and Mail Order Houses R ELIEVED IN A JIFFY or monoy back V «. i y ' rsi -..so ot mk >th liquid l).|).l). Pre¬ scription positiw-’y relieves raw red itch — caused by ecrerru i ashes, sc.ilp irritation. c' tHn^— other itch trou¬ bles t»rcasc‘Iess, st. nbss 4o Kick \sk dru^ist tor 0. 0. D. PRESCRIPTION. ;J0liy TIME POPCORN POPS LIKE MAO 1C ! Drifticood can be lihe diamonds: one bud move in cutting, and pft!~~ quicksand. Sticking up or lying scat¬ tered all around were branches and trunks of driftwood buttonwood, ma¬ hogany, red mangrove. Countless tides and rains had washed over these broken branches: thousands of suns had bleached and baked them. Their bark was long since gone. The softer parts of the wood had rotted away, leaving a deeply veined surface. White and gaunt, the driftwood thrust up from the green undergrowth like mementos of some forgotten tragedy. Our party spread out and began to select choice pieces. Hallucinations seemed to overtake them. “Look!” cried Freedman. “Look at that terrific coffee table!" He pointed to a half- embedded dead stump that, at the mo¬ ment, no one would have wanted within a hundred miles of his living room. “Voila!" shouted Bob Astruc. “Here’s a lamp of real distinction.” He held up an arthritic lump of muddy button- wood. Bob’s gray-haired mother, in floppy straw hat, old dress and wading boots, scrambled over the jagged sur¬ face and waved aloft a long twisted shaft. “Rob-air!” she called. “ Regarde a ! Quest-ce que tu en pense pour un lampadaire ?** Bob, FYeedman’s chief aide, does his wood hunting armed with a loaded 20-gauge shotgun because poisonous snakes thrive in the coral wastes. Thus far no one has been bitten, although many an interesting find has wriggled when touched. Often the searchers have to use a pickax to uproot some particularly choice bit of wood. I wondered how7 driltw'ood could be rooted in the coral, and was told that the word is really somewhat of a misnomer. Only a small amount of the driftwood sold today has done much drifting; some of the best pieces are standing right where they died during a hurricane. Wind-twisted Rocky Mountain shrubs, desert wood grotesquely shaped by sandstorms, swamp woods distorted by tides, out¬ cropping roots that thrust across rock — all these arc called drittwood by vari¬ ous makers and sellers. Trees That Grow in Coral Freedman scorns all these woods, holding out lor the coral-island man¬ grove, buttonwood and mahogany. Some has traveled across the sea from Haiti and Honduras, but the native Florida mangrove that has drifted only a few miles, or perhaps not at all, fur¬ nishes the bulk of his stock in trade. The reason lies in the way this wood grows on coral. A live mangrove shrub seems to be reaching desperately for better ground nearby. A tendril — half branch and hall root thrusts out sideways from the trunk: it crawls like a starving man, hopefully working its way through every jagged contour of the coral, doubling back when it finds itself in a blind alley. Eventually it may put down new roots, or send up green shoots into the blazing sun. Years pass and it thickens into a branch, still true to its tortured shape. A hurricane comes and uproots and kills the entire mangrove tree. For years it alternately soaks in salt tides, bakes in the Fierce sun, and weathers away. Eventually, it is as truly a piece of driftwood as the plank washed up from a mid-Atlantic shipwreck, al¬ though it may be only a stone’s throw from its point of origin. Key Largo’s coral margins supoly most of Freedman’s wood. A smaller but important source is the Everglades, where similarly interesting and unusual driftwood shapes can be found wedged amid the mangrove thickets. His help¬ ers, working from a rowboat, and clad in dungarees and face netting to ward off the mosquitoes, paddle slowly along between dense clumps of swamp bush. The place where Freedman trans¬ forms his driftwood into salable articles is a cinder-block shed back of the Astruc home in Hollywood, 15 miles north of Miami. It is manned by the Astruc family. Bob, his wife Suzanne, his matnun, and Papa Philippe Astruc, as well as by a French-speaking Portu¬ guese named Leonardo Falcao. The workshop atmosphere is, in con¬ sequence, more like that of a cluttered kitchen in which the whole family is trying to cook dinner than that of a modern furniture plant, except that the utensils are tangled piles of driftwood, old paint cans, power tools, crates and sawdust. Despite this, the Astrucs and Falcao get a great deal done. Before World War II, Bob Astruc was a furni¬ ture finisher in Algeria; he know's how to handle wood, and is plant boss and chief designer. The toughest part of the process is making the basic cuts in the crude drift¬ wood. This procedure has some kin¬ ship to diamond cutting, for a wrong cut may mean the loss of a valuable piece of wood that might have become a $150 lamp or a $300 table. The trick is to cut out just the right segment, visualizing in advance what the best end result will be for any one of six or eight different kinds of finished prod¬ uct. His forehead wrinkled, his eyes squinting, a cigarette dangling from the center of his mouth, Bob studies the piece carefully. Finally he grunts, and Maman bustles over to hold the piece while he saws. Hers is a key job in the plant, for no vise can grip the tangled stuff as well as human hands can. Next Bob lops off the excess boughs and ends, leveling them so that the piece stands perfectly on all feet at the same time. “I do it by the eye,” he says. He disdains spirit levels and pantographs. “Designing and cutting is what I best enjoy. Every piece makes the new challenge.” Secret Acid Preserves Wood After he strips off extraneous twigs, simplifying and stylizing the piece, he sends it on to Leonardo or Maman for chemical treatment. They wash it again and again in a large vat full of an ex¬ pensive secret acid developed by chem¬ ists as a wood preserver and anti-insect agent. As the acid sinks in, scorpions and all sorts of bugs scurry out of the depths of the driftwood, dying almost immediately in the chemical, which, » meanwhile, soaks through the porous wood, solidifying and hardening it per¬ manently. When the piece is dry, Maman or Leonardo w7orks on it with an electrically driven wire brush or by hand, scrubbing the surface clean of discoloration and encrustations. If it is a lamp Astruc is fashioning, I he then w'ires it. First he drills a pas¬ sage along the sinuous contours of the wood. “How on earth do you drill a hole around those curves?” a decorator once asked Bob. “It is simple,” Astruc smiled confi¬ dentially. “I’ave a trained termite; I tie the electric wire to his leg and turn him loose.” To another inquirer, he declared that he used a rubber bit in his drill. Actually, he drills a series of straight lines which enter and emerge across segments of the w'ood curve; Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 575

63 HUTCH “Boy — was I ever glad T hear that police siren! That last problem in collier’s long division was too much for me" larry Reynolds MAKE EXTRA INCOME in your own business — by telephone and mail! No experience is necessary to operate a profitable magazine subscription business from your own home. Make a substantial income just as hundreds of other men and women are doing. Use the telephone, mail or personal calls to take care of new and re¬ newal subscriptions for COLLIER’S, THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE, WOMAN’S HOME COMPANION and all popular magazines. Make calls on friends, neighbors, relatives, fellow workers. We send everything you need to start making money at once. No experience or capital required. Your Earnings Start on Your First Order! This profitable plan has helped many men and women meet the high cost of living. Now you can balance your budget and still have money to spare. Your earnings start on your first order. There is an opening in your com¬ munity — right in your own circle of friends. Join the men and women from almost every walk of life who use this profitable subscription-selling plan. Accept this cordial invitation from the publishers of Collier’s to try this attractive money-making plan. For money-making supplies, without cost or obligation, mail a postal card or send the coupon now! Independent Agency Division, Desk C -66 THE CROWELL-COLLIER PUBLISHING CO. 640 Fifth Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. | Without obligation, send me your subscription- selling EXTRA INCOME PLAN. NAME . (Pleato Print) STREET . CITY . Zone No . STATE . after feeding the wire through, he plugs up and hides the holes with a secret mixture that exactly matches the drift¬ wood surface. Suzanne and Papa Astruc do the final finishing, applying a fine furniture wax, and slowly polishing the wood until every weathered line and every ridge of grain has a soft walnut-hued glow. They put felt pads on the bottom and pack the piece for shipment to New York, there to be fitted with a shade. It is then sent off to a store, eventually to set some homemaker back $50 to $150. Special items like mirror frames, cof¬ fee tables, buffet and dining tables, are constructed of anywhere up to six or eight large pieces of driftwood. Astruc selects pieces that will simulate a single tangled natural mass and at the same time flow into reasonable places as legs and supports for a plate-glass top. He joins these pieces with concealed fir dowels, and levels off all the legs with uncanny skill. Manuin periodically falls in love with these compositions, and smuggles them into her house; just as periodically, Freedman goes through the house, cleans them all out and sends them to New York, amid much moan¬ ing and supplication. The workshop produces nearly a thousand finished pieces a month, rang¬ ing from tiny wall hangings or table decorations which sell for a few dollars to dining-room tables at $600. (One recent special dining-room table to seat 12 people cost $1,500.) Eddie Freedman, who three and a half years ago faced the prospect of premature retirement, is today an ob¬ viously happy man. In New York he busily promotes, advertises and sells his product; when he wants a change he dashes South, gathers choice pieces of driftwood under the broiling Florida sun, and designs some items himself. His product goes to hundreds of dec¬ orators and to such stores as G. Fox in Hartford, Wanamaker’s in Philadelphia and New York, Rich’s in Atlanta, and retailers in Cleveland, Los Angeles and elsewhere. Freedman is all for having the am¬ ateur enthusiast try his own hand at making driftwood objects. The more of the stuff around, the more it w'ill win national favor, he reasons, and the more handsome will be his own profits. ‘’But don’t pick out a piece of drift¬ wood just because it looks great on the beach,” he cautions. “First study the form and texture, and try to visualize how the driftwood will look with excess twigs broken away and sawed to proper size. “Look it over for wildlife and bounce it around a few’ times. When you get it home, sun-dry it for a couple of weeks, or kiln-dry it; either w^ay, it will be an uncomfortable place for anything crawling around inside. Don’t use any chemical on it which has an oily base, or you’ll leave discolorations. “After making your cuts, clean the surface by lightly rubbing it with a big wood file — and what a job that will be! After hours of that, you can start smoothing out the file marks and restor¬ ing the grain with a small hand wire brush — something a little coarser than a suede brush. “If you’re making a driftwood lamp — and that's a good thing for you to start oft" with — drill and wire the drift¬ wood with regular lamp-mounting parts. Use a clear furniture wax and a soft clean shoebrush for the polishing. Then pick out a shade, set it up in your living room — then get ready for your friends’ wisecracks.” Freedman’s business is onlv a tiny part of the massive $2,()()(X000,000 American furniture manufacturing in¬ dustry, but it's something he has per¬ sonally created, and in an impressively short time. And it’s the only part of the industry whose product can lay unique claim to being made in equal parts of art, hard work and rubbish. ^ ^ ^ ALICE had ACID INDIGESTION T/hl Alka-Seltzer “for ACID INDIGESTION HEARTBURN / SOUR STOMACH UPSET STOMACH from | HEADACHE COLD DISCOMFORT MUSCULAR ACHES MILES LABORATORIES, INC., ELKHART, IND Prove it yourself no matter bow long yoa have suffered or w bat you have tr ri. Beautiful book on p*ortm i*i« end Oermoll with • muring, true photo. ‘(« pri-yf of resit U •ent FREE. Write for it Oon't mistake rct«nu for the stubborn, ugly embarrassing scaly skin disease Psoriasis. Appiy non-staining Oermoll. Thousands do for acaly spot* on body or eealp. Grateful uifru often after year* of Buffering, report the scale* have gone, the red petches gradually dis¬ appeared and they enjoyed the thrill of a clear skin again. Dermoii Is used by many doctors and is backed by a posit give definite benefit In 2 weeks or money i« return, cd out question Send 10c (stamp* or coin < for generou* trial bottle to make our fsmoui "One Spot Test ' Test it your¬ self. Results may surprise you. Write today for your teat I bottle. Caution: Use only as directed Print name plainly. Don't delay. Sold by Liggett and Walgreen Drug Stores and other leading Druggists. LAKE LABORATORIES. Box 3925 Strathmoor Stanno Dent 2823. Detroit 27. Mich. flaked deans Are Better wtth- — the dash that makes the dish Ask for A.l. when dining out. too. Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 576

Ku-ell N\pc. tin* popular young n ight-clnh enter miner who achieved -turdoni in tin* hit pla\, Call Me Madam. is oil the thin side. But. in hi- formal attire. \\ pe looks a- well groomed as a more hefty mail Herman Hickman, former Yale grid coach turned INBC-TY personality, is a real heavyweight. But he finds that most good clothing stores offer selections which can give a stout man a neat, smart appearance Bud Palmer, once a Princeton and pro basketball star and now sports routine ntator for WPI\-T\ in New \ ork, towers o\er the Rangers* Wally Hrrge-heiirier. \\ it li ‘’extra Ions*" a\ ailahle. Bud has no problem Red Buttons, star of his own CBS-TN comedy show, is smartly dressed as he spoofs with actress Judy Sinclair during rehearsal. He‘s short, but Red wears clothes as well as the man who takes a perfect size 40

Page 577

65 All Sizes , All Shapes By BERT BACIIARACH Your (liinensious arc no excuse for being poorly dressed. If you’re five foot five or six foot six — whether you tip the scales at too much or not enough — men’s stores today are catering to you 1CAN never find a suit to fit me.” How many of you 46-longs and 35-extra-shorts have sung that plaintive refrain? Well, weep no more. The men’s clothing industry has come to your rescue in fine style. Today, whether you’re tall or short, thin or stout, you can walk into a clothing store almost anywhere and pick a well-fitted suit off the rack. One manufacturer, for example, is now making suits in 253 shapes and sizes. Obviously, no one store carries them all — but most shops will take a special order, in the material you want, if they can’t fit you. The chart below will show you what to ask for. Hats and shoes? Practically all shops carry them in practically all sizes. Shirts and other ac¬ cessories are catching up with the trend, too. Nowadays, no matter how you may be built, when it eomes to buying your elothes you’re in good shape. YOUR HEIGHT YOUR WAIST SUIT MODEL 5714" TO 510" 5" TO 7" LESS THAN CHEST REGULAR 5 10 V2" TO 61" 5" TO 7" LESS THAN CHEST MEDIUM LONG 6'1" TO 6 3" 5" TO 7" LESS THAN CHEST LONG 6'3" TO 6 5" 5" TO 7" LESS THAN CHEST EXTRA LONG 5 5" TO 57" 5" TO 6" LESS THAN CHEST SHORT 5 7" TO 5 9" SAME AS CHEST STOUT 5714" TO 570" 3" LESS THAN CHEST PORTLY PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER'S BY PETER DIMITRI Needs no tuning strips, no converter — receives all 82 UHF and VHF channels on one knob l Three out of every four new tv stations will be UHF. So your new tv should be able to receive uhf. But there’s a vast differ¬ ence in how various makes of tv provide for uhf. Some simply substitute UHF tun¬ ing strips for one or more vhf channels. You can never receive more than 12 channels altogether with this type of tv. Strips usu¬ ally cost $13.95 each and if you move to another locality, you have to replace them. Others use a converter, either in¬ side or outside the cabinet, to con¬ vert the uhf signal down to a vhf frequency. You have to tune both the UHF converter and the vhf tuner. Arvin TV is the first set engineered and produced with all-channel tuning built in. With Arvin All- Channel TV, you receive every new uhf or VHF station within range as soon as it comes on the air — wherever you live, where- ever you may move. Arvin All-Channel TV gives you television at its finest — today and for years ahead. Arvin Industries, Inc., Columbus, Indiana. Arvin offers 16 models with 27 , 21 or 17-inch screens ali-channel tuning and all-channel antenna built in in fine- furniture cabinets of period or mod¬ ern design , ranging £ ylQQC from $699.95 to. (Prices include federal tax and warranty — slightly higher in extreme South and West. )

Page 578

PAIN CHART The chart shows severity of various types of pain . It is based on the results of tests with pain-measuring dolorimeter . A dol is unit of measurement on the machine dols Paiu threshold some labor pains during childbirth momentary pains from sudden injury passing of some kidney stones a burning cigarette held against the skin some heart attacks some burns some shortdived muscle cramps occasional migraine headaches some headaches from hemorrhages, infec¬ tions and tumors inside the head average man seldom gets beyond here all his life most migraine headaches many abdominal pains many heart attacks some cancer pains some backaches some neuralgias most toothaches many postoperative wounds most cancer pains most backaches arthritis most neuralgias nearly all abdominal pains most skin abrasions How Muct Throe research scientists — one of theiM OFF the coast of Africa recently a fisherman caught a fish supposed to have been extinct for 75,000,000 years. The discovery excited scientists, but it was not nearly so important a sci¬ entific find as one that was made by Army physi¬ cians during World War II — a man supposed never to have existed at all. From the time he was born, this man — an Air Force cook — could not remember ever having felt a pain. Sore throat, raw chest, crick in the neck: all these were mysteries to him, although he was twenty-five years old. The closest approach he had to a headache was “a drawing sensation, as if my eyes were being pulled together.” Insect bites never itched, even when they raised big welts on his skin. He sneezed only if he inhaled pepper. The dentist’s drill caused him no discomfort whatever. Inoculations against tetanus and ty¬ phoid, painful enough to disable many soldiers, reddened his arms and swelled his flesh, but gave him no sensation. He often cut his fingers with knives, and once hacked his right shin to the bone with an ax; the only symptom he recognized was the blood he saw. The doctors wouldn’t believe this man’s story without proof. So they jabbed the recruit in the eye with a twist of cotton. They stuck him with pins. They pushed a metal rod up his nose until tears rolled down his cheeks. They got him to swallow a balloon and, while it hung in his esopha¬ gus, blew it up to five times the air pressure a nor¬ mal person could stand. They plunged his hands into ice water. They blistered his forehead with heat. They injected into his veins enough hista¬ mine phosphate to produce a thunderous headache in anyone else. And throughout the ordeal he neither winced, perspired, trembled nor said ouch. The doctors were balfled by his complete immu¬ nity to pain. Their best guess at the reason for it was some rare undetectable anomaly in his brain. That was only a guess, however, and they let him stay in the Air Force, although one observed: “He ought to be in a museum!” The painless man is not to be envied. Instead we should think ourselves lucky that we feci pain in some form every day. It may save our lives; it certainly can save us from serious injury. Pain helps protect us from burning, from freezing, from impaling ourselves on sharp points, from being cut to bits by a buzz saw. Yet the painless man, having grown safely to manhood, was living proof that pain is not essential to a happy existence. He may be nature's reminder to us all that pain is a good thing only so long as we don’t rely on it as a perma¬ nent crutch. We need the reminder. Scientific experiments have piled up overwhelming evidence that we habitually exaggerate our pains. They cause us far less harm than the worrying vve do about them. The sharpest pain a human can suffer is the agony of childbirth. Millions of women endure it every year, welcome it, seek it, and even by choice undergo it without the aid of drugs. By contrast the pains of cancer are regarded with horror be¬ cause cancer itself is such a dreaded disease. Yet endless suffering could be avoided if cancer pain were recognized for what science now knows it to be: generally (not always; there are exceptions to all rules) a low-grade, dull sensation. Pain of any kind would be easier to bear if we Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 579

67 *ain Can You Stand? nan — hudlv hurt llirmselvrs finding out. Tltrir conrlusioit: mo>l of our |Kiiit> uroii t m arl\ a- H'\nr a^ tin \ htiii Bn joiin u;vk could bring ourselves to accept the tact that it has a limit. There is a point beyond which it just can’t hurt any worse. How can we be sure that this is true? Because three courageous scientists, two men and a woman, deliberately burned and blistered themselves with ravs of heat to prove it. T his trio — Dr. James D. Hardy, Dr. Harold G. Wolf! and Miss Helen Goodell — subjected their own arms to temperatures three times as hot as those which hun¬ dreds of patients later reported to be the point of their greatest suffering. The three couldn't distin¬ guish the slightest increase in pain after the heat went above this established ceiling, although their arms still bear the scars that resulted from the addi¬ tional physical punishment. These three research workers at The New York Hospital-Cornell Medical Center were the first to find an accurate method of measuring pain. The inspiration that led to their success was born on a railroad train between New York and Chicago. Dr. Hardy, a physiologist who had spent many years observing the phenomenon of heat, was traveling to a scientific society meeting with Dr. Wolff, who had spent most of his life studying pain. Although both men were on the staff of The New York Hos¬ pital-Cornell Medical Center, for some reason they had never got together on the subject of pain meas¬ urement until they went into the dining car on this trip. Over the dinner table, they talked about pain and heat and decided it should be possible to meas¬ ure pain with heat. After they returned to New York, Hardy built a one-eyed mechanical mammoth on top of one of his laboratory tables. The eye was a 1,000-watt light bulb, set behind a magnifying lens that might have come from an early motorcar headlight. Be¬ tween the bulb and the lens he hung a pendulum, geared to swing once every three seconds. Then he aimed the magnifying glass at a small hole in an upright board near the table’s edge. On the other side of the board. Hardy, Wolff and Wolff’s research assistant, Miss Goodell, took turns exposing their foreheads to the light that came through the hole. They soon established that they all felt pain with a similar amount of heat. Then they took turns swallowing aspirin tablets before exposing their foreheads to the light. They found that within an hour after they swallowed the aspirin, it took more heat than before to make them feel pain. After that, they drank a mixture of alcohol and water, scientifically measured but equivalent to a hearty slug of whisky. Within a half hour, they ex¬ posed their foreheads to the light again. This time they did not feel pain until the heat was still greater. That was enough to prove that they could meas¬ ure not only pain, but the eflects of medication on pain. They christened their monster a dolorimeter (from dolor, Latin for pain). The dolorimeter has been refined and prettified since then, but its fundamental principle remains unchanged. The light beam, its intensity regulated by a rheostat, is focused on one centimeter of ink-blackened skin on the forehead (the fore¬ head because it maintains a constant temperature throughout the ordinary range of indoor climate; the ink because it absorbs all the heat), and the pain the patient reports is measured in units of heat delivered within three seconds. Pain measurements on any individual begin only Collier’s for February 21, 1953 after his pain threshold — the point at which he first feels pain — is established. Under similar circum¬ stances, all of us have approximately the same threshold — 1 1 1 degrees F. And if we pay close at¬ tention, we all can distinguish 21 barely perceptible steps in the rising intensity ol pam until vve hit the pain ceiling. For convenience’ sake, the dolorimeter scale brackets two of these barely perceptible steps into one unit of measurement — a dol. The scale runs from zero to 10’ 2 dols. Beyond IOV2 dols, none of us can tell any difference, no matter how hot it gets. The procedure seems simple enough for pain on the skin. But suppose you have a pain in the belly. How does the dolorimeter measure it? Simply by raising the temperature on the tiny spot on your MAXWELL IREDERIC COPLAN Dr. Harold Wolff and aide, Helen Goodell, demonstrate the pain-measuring dolorimeter forehead until the spot hurts as much as your belly does. I can give you an idea what a dolorimeter test feels like because Miss Goodell, Dr. Wolff's brainy and patient aide, put me through a mild test in the laboratory the doctor maintains as professor of medicine (neurology) at Cornell University Medical College. When the light came on, the ink patch on my forehead felt cozily warm. It grew warmer. It started to tingle. Suddenly it was hot. Swiftly, then, it drew together like a tiny volcano about to erupt. Zing! The pain came just as the light went off. “That's your pain threshold,” Miss Goodell said, flicking off the dolorimeter switch with one hand while she lifted a jangling telephone with the other. She spoke a few words into the phone and hung up. “We'll have to stop now,” she said gently. “Some¬ one’s .coming in with a headache. Isn’t that won¬ derful?” That laboratory is one of the few places I have ever been where a headache is con idered gvH tune. Doctors and nurses on the huge ho-q t.j s stall troop through its doors dav alter da\ to Jl their experiences to the accumulating hisu.jv ol pain's behavior. Pain, the researchers have found is a sensation all its own. entirelv separate and distinct from touch, the perception of heat and cold, sight, smell, hearing or taste. I here are specific points at which impact, heat, cold, light or sound can and do pro¬ duce pain, but definite distinctions can be made be¬ tween cause and effect. The normal temperature ol the forehead is about 94 degrees P., for instance, but pain from heat is not felt until the skin temperature hits 1 13 degrees F., and pain from cold is not felt until the skin temperature falls to 64 degrees 1 Pain actually begins to be felt only after the forces of destruction, which are constantly strug¬ gling against the lorces of healing in our bodies, get the upper hand to such an extent that cells ot body tissue will die it the domination continues un¬ abated. The pain worsens as the speed of cell deaths accelerates, whether the damage is limited to a small area or spread over a large one. When the damage stops growing, the pain stops. Cessation of pain, however, does not mean that the damage already inflicted has been repaired. You can have a large bruise which looks ugl> and yet doesn’t hurt unless you bump it or touch it. the bump and the touch disturb healthy cells, cause or threaten to cause newr damage, and so provoke new pa’ii. There are very few parts of the body which never Ieel pain. The interior of the brain is one, and another is the inner lining of the mouth op¬ posite the second molar. Wherever pain does appear, it always has one or more of three qualities: pricking, burning or aching. Clicking and burning pains originate on the surface of the body, and the body’s reaction invariably is either ' Let’s get away from that!’’ or “Let s drive that away!” Science calls this the fight- or-flight reaction, and it dates back to the earliest days when man was constantly being threatened by natural enemies. Aching pains arise within the body and stimulate an entirelv different but equal lv logical and sensible response — “Let's take it easv . Let's rest.’’ Pain impulses travel through the bodv over a communications network similar to a radiotele¬ phone hookup. I here are cables ol all sizes m it. Sometimes they follow nerve paths; sometimes they hook onto blood vessels. Maps ol the lines that report deep-seated pain are still being filled in, but pain from the skin is known to have a choice of two routes: a high-speed line lor urgent mes¬ sages and a low-speed line. Regardless of their origin, the pain impulses go first to the spinal cord. 1 here thev set oil an alarm which is immediately picked up bv the motor nerves controlling the muscles in the region whence the pain impulses came. 1 he motors move at once. Suppose you have stepped on a tack. The loot with the tack in it lifts off the floor automatical!) , yes, but in answer to a motor message. Meanwhile, the pain impulses are going up the spinal cord to the thalamus at the base ol the brain. The thalamus is chief engineer of the motor nerves. To it the pain sounds another alarm, and the thala¬ mus orders a lot of motor nerves elsewhere in your body to help out. The muscles in your other leg

Page 580

68 l v f h J\ shilb isWL'jht m that VOU c. i ■ ( , -i I • ikc »'i. \«tiM I'MimuicJ loot, and ■ \ • n i\cs down u hr ■ iIk loot with the t A ■- ■ [u u i ii the p an impul-vs h. ve re idled the , 1 i ot the hi .ah the co i tc\. and have t.r,. tlVi'i! . L in. I he eoiux is e\eenn\e seere- t . e-tUi ol thinking . nd also keeps the ! . , hL It i emeiiihetN how \ou got rid ol the i»:l - ; tunc \ oil stepped on a tack. ^ our one ' . >’ ’•[„ id h( di t tnc loot with the tack m it. y , , t . r h iiui now ic. dies down and leels lor . l d It In Mt tes a skeentillionth o 1 a second e the pain i rpu scs Hash on to the frontal lobe i i|k hiam wIkk indjiiKiits aie passed. W 1 1 n aie we _'i it.’ to do about this'" the pain . . Nes ask the 1 1 i . I l d as soon vis \ou lilted your loot. I Ik null \elo.K tiv'iismission system used by poo impulses to piouvt us can he interrupted at ■ n'. lie ol loin relax points, or synapses. I hese k n.ioivixopk spaces between the cable endings tlk q -i mo. I cold the thalamus, the cortex and the ti u 1 lobe 1 he pain impulses must jump across the in m ide ntKvillv the same way thvit radio mes- a aes i|i»p across the oceans. A particular pain - 1 1 1 1 st scud out vi eel tviin number ol impulses hclore n e a|i M vn these gvips. And even a strong set of in |vi\^ e a ii be di owned out. or jammed, by a ■Hi igcr set. pieusek vis a powerful radio trans¬ mitter silences a weaker one. Brain ( an Order Bain to Be Ignored lheie are sevci.il reasons why this arrangement is excellent. 1 o he ‘in with, the brain is a very busy \ee ut v e viiid e. n t he bothered with tulles. 1 hen, too. it wi uMn'i do lor a small, relatively ummpor- *.mt pvim to take up the body s attention ii there a c i e vi bigcei. moie serious pain to be got rid ol. 1 st. viiul iiiusi vitvtl. there viie times when sell- picsei v vition or higher requirements ot the human spirit demand that the brain Older pain to be lg- '. o ed I et us s,i\. tor example, that instCvid ot stepping • m a tviek .e cidc ii tv 11 \ , you must cross a roomtul *t t vie k s ti * save the life ot a helpless person. 1 he tfitit.il lobe ol tie brain takes command. It in¬ stincts the motor nerves to expect a lot ot pain lm- pulscs but tii i ‘.*11010 them, 'i ou run across the t eks .is Ii idutootedlv vis vou can. C bailees are you I eel nothin e pa ntul at all until the crisis is past and yon Ml down to gasp ’ Bov vvliat a job!" N i ni ik n t have to he heioic to undergo such an expel iciiec When vou eo ti) the iKieloi next time om a tivpodermie mteeiion ot some soil, notice 'iow little vou mu d Ins labbme vou with the needle and then think how tar you’d jump it someone stuck von with a po«nt that si /e as you walked ilow ii tnc sheet1 Mon.1 with tts gicvit vdv viitages. the human m i i s .ibifiiv to soil pain impulses into intricate I -.tte ns oi he Ii . v ioi also has Us di aw hue ks. Memo- I I - -hd eniotio is ^,in plav hoh with realities. We metiiiies lespiuul ti) iti exits ol pain vis though ihav aetikiliy weie pain itselt. And we even go ni. , ond that viiul icxiei ti) mete symbols ot threats. I I . sm ]| bov is t it on the aim with a stick, the irm vv thdi >vvs. and its mate makes musculai prep- at.it on ti) di> likewise ll the stick seems about to h t the st uk aim vigvim, the arm will withdraw even tnoi g i the stick stops shi)rt ot it. 1 ater, the mete appcai.mee i>l a stkk m. v cause the muscles ot thvit aim ti> pieparo toi vi blow. When this dud grows up. he asks himselt whether his detensive reaction ti) the appearance ot the stick in many What he reallv wants to know is vvhcthei his tellow men expect him to re¬ act this wav. It the answer is negative, a guilt com¬ plex may turthcr dstort the situation surrounding his perception ot pain New questions — "How much do 1 have to put up with.*** or perhaps, "Am 1 vi slicker to take this.’ *— rise to complicate his mental torture. And. unless he either ( a ) conforms to the pressure around him because his acceptance by others is worth it or {bj follows his own eon-" vietions, knowing and accepting the loneliness or ridicule that course can involve, he may. in time actually (e) adopt some torm ol pain as an escape trom meeting the real or imagined standards of those around him. Diabetics have been known to go into coma because ol a conscious or unconscious threat to tlv'ir well-being. It isn't a Hull. Their blood sugar actually rises. Somewhere along the line a defen¬ sive mechanism to physical pain gets crossed up with an emotional reaction to such a powerful de¬ gree that the metabolism ol the entire body goes hay vv ire. 1 motional disturbances also may lead to pain¬ ful stomach ulcers. An angry, harassed employee may say ol his boss. *‘l want to strangle him." Al¬ though he doesn't attack the boss, the angry man's body goes through the same reactions it would have experienced it he had been a primitive man about to kill and eat his victim. The employee thus un¬ consciously rouses his stomach for a meal that doesn't materialize; then digestive acids corrode a weak spot in the lining ol his innards. Results: an ulcer. Painful skin rashes have been shown to occur on less aggressive people who can see no outlet lor emotional thrashings they receive. Their doctors elicit remarks like, “1 was taking a beating." "My mother was hammering on me," "The boss cracked a whip over me." 'My fiancee knocked me down and walked all over me, but what could 1 do?" Fascinating correlations have been worked out, with experimental support, between certain body reactions and paint ul emotional dilemmas. Asthma, for example, is associated with a desire to disown a problem— have nothing to do with it. People who want to get rid of a troublesome situ¬ ation often develop diarrhea. Constipation fre¬ quently occurs in those who feel they've got to hang on to a problem even though they can't see a solution. Nausea tends to reflect a wish that something never happened. Low back pains rise trom an inhibited desire to act with the whole body — "1 wanted to walk right out ol the house." Nine out of ten headaches arc caused by fear of making a mistake, or striving too hard lor perfec¬ tion. Unlike other pains, which warn that some¬ thing is physically wrong, headaches generally mean only that our direction or our pace is wrong, 1 his conclusion is fairly easy to demonstrate, be¬ cause one type of headache— migraine — is called bv many different names depending on who has it. lo one person it is known as a “washday head¬ ache," to another ‘'cleaning-day headache," and to still others, “Sunday headache,” “week-end head¬ ache," “menstrual headache" or “constipation headache.’ Migraines, backaches, neuralgias, rheumatisms, arthritis and other paint ul results of emotional tensions are pernicious in the sense that, as pro¬ tective adaptations, they long outlast the circum¬ stances which cause them to be adopted originally. Tendencies are passed on from one generation to another; thus sinuses or colons of members of the same family may come to participate in emotional disturbances in a stock pattern just as a retriever sense is developed through generations ol dogs, running gaits through generations of horses and sham death through generations of opossum. “Now we begin to know what price we pay for a way of life," Wolff has written. "There are many things more important than comfort and a few even more important than health. But man should appreciate what his actions and goals arc costing him. 1 hen, if he chooses, he may pay for them in pain and disease. Oltcn he will decide that his values are poor, and that he has been confused, and therefore change his direction and pace." \\ here a Doctor's Biggest Task Lies Since few of us are prepared to undertake such a reappraisal alone, our personal physicians must help us. II they are willing to take the time to un¬ derstand our complications, their reassurance alone can change our reaction to pain and so re¬ lieve our suffering. In fact, the gist of a new book (Pain Sensations and Reactions) by Hardy, Wolff and Miss Goodcll is that the doctor’s biggest task lies in this realm — the easing of emotional involve¬ ments- rather than in the banishment of pain as a phenomenon. Aren't the doctors stretching a point? Not at all. There still exist on the earth primitive peoples who simply do not recognize pain. Unlike the Air Force cook who was physically incapable of feeling pain, these people perceive pain but re¬ gard it as socially unacceptable and refuse to ad¬ mit even to themselves that they feel it. Then, too, there are certain highly civilized peoples who can withstand pain easier than others. Scientists have found that the Irish and Scandinavians, for ex¬ ample. do not respond to pain as much as the Latin races. Apparently Nature never intended pain to cause as much concern as it does today. She took eare to make it a warning only, did not allow it to immo¬ bilize the body completely, and provided few pow¬ erful antidotes, the most familiar being the poppy. Even the poppy's derivatives, opium and morphine, do not actually kill pain; they merely depress the brain’s judgment centers to stop the sufferer's worry. Man has relused to be bound by Nature's sug¬ gestions, however. Skillfully employing his labo¬ ratory tools, he has created a whole new family of morphine relatives. The commonest is the cough- sirup ingredient codeine, and the newest^ — less likely to cause drug addiction or nausea than1 mor¬ phine — is metopon. He has invented his own syn¬ thetic substitutes for morphine, from the common aspirin tablet to a new and powerful drug known only as 1. isomer of isomethadone. He has learned to disconnect the brain’s frontal lobe and so remove concern about pain without interrupting percep¬ tion of pain. And, proceeding from there, he has developed operations to cut the pain transmission cables at the spinal cord, thus halting the actual perception of pain. Although merciful in extreme suffering, the op¬ erations are not recommended for pain that can be relieved by less drastic means. The conscientious ph\ sician keeps his patients from the knife and even Irom palliative drugs as long as he can. His first preference always is to reach the cause of the pain directly by using splints or easts, applyjng heat or cold, or giving local medication: ertot derivatives for headaches, cortisone for rheuma¬ toid arthritis, atropine for digestive spasm, nitro¬ glycerin pills lor heart pain. But his greatest curative agent is his understanding, his reassur¬ ance, his use of the power of suggestion to lift the threshold of pain. You can help your doctor the next time you are in pain by remembering that it isn’t the pain itself that gets you. It's your attitude toward the pain. Pain is rarely fatal. It simply can't hurt worse than a certain amount, and millions of people have liv ed through that limit. If you make up your mind you can take it, you'll be surprised how much bet¬ ter you feel. Collier’s for February 21, 1953

Page 581

69 " Stemwash That (Jijve, Scrudd 1 A gripping sea saga half wrillcn bv a 5 b.p. outboard motorman f THE luckiest thing I ever did was read a recent story of the sea which was laid almost en¬ tirely in the engine room of a great ship. Ninety-nine per cent of the technical details were Greek to me, and yet I loved their authoritative ring, and was held spellbound by the yarn. Now it occurred to me that if I am like that, so must be thousands of other men. Therelore, if I could just get technical enough I should be able to write stories which would please them, and do it strictly on my own terms. Technical terms, that is to say. Of course, I haven’t really polished this one up yet, but see what you think of it as far as I've gone. * * * Mark Fairfield looked up from the binch chart as the door of the gyving room opened and Scrudd came in. Scrudd was his assistant, a veteran gyve- fitter, and Mark knew he had yet to win Scrudd’s confidence and respect in their important engine- room annex. Scrudd considered him fiaybait, even a capstan-drainer, and so he was, admittedly green and untried as yet. But his trial would come soon enough, if the merkelmeter was to be believed. “Spline the fenly connections, Scrudd,” said Mark. “We ought to be almost out of the harbor.” Scrudd nodded shortly and walked down the long, narrow room past the sturber gauges, tap¬ ping the bollard chamber cam with a practiced finger as he went by. These things were second na¬ ture with Scrudd. He stopped finally before the merkelmeter and whistled softly. The merkel- meter, modern wind velocity indicator, named after Merkel, inventor of modern wind. “Seventy-six fifty point three,” grunted Scrudd. “We’re in for a blow, right enough.” Mark thought about the men up there on the bridge of the mighty Plinkington, peering anx¬ iously out into the darkness. At least they could see the waves and feel the wind that was begin¬ ning to lash the great ship. It was hard, sometimes, being deep in the bowels of the great ship, buried in the gyving room, with only gauges and indica¬ tors to tell him what was happening. So much de¬ pended on him, down there in his tiny nerve center. Bv SCOTT CORBETT and yet if disaster struck he would know it only when the shock of the great ship’s smashing against rocks threw him to the floor and water poured in through a gaping hole . . . His eyes darted back to the binch chart, quickly consulted the trembling stinguard ol the Fcnbough reckoner, and checked the milser gauge that warned of belgrazing backlash in the keelson tubes. It was up. “We must be approaching the Lesser Reef,” he said. “Sternwash the gyving engines, Scrudd.” “But—” “Sternwashthegyvingengines!” he roared. Their eyes warred for a moment, then Scrudd turned. “Yes, sir,” he said woodenly, and burred the en¬ gines up to 7,000. Mark held his breath. If they Plimsolled now, after he had insisted . . . ! But a minute passed without a tremor. The backthwart lever held steady, and the red light on the milser gauge continued its slow blinking. He was care¬ ful not to look at Scrudd. Suddenly, as though to cover the awkward moment, the merkelmeter nee¬ dle jumped violently. Both men stared almost in disbelief. “Thirteen hundred twenty point zero!” mur¬ mured Mark, and thought about the men up there on the bridge, peering anxiously out into the dark¬ ness. A wind like that was enough to — No. It was best not to think of that. “Shall 1 set the tlink?” asked Scrudd. Mark hes¬ itated. Setting the (link now meant . . . And yet. if they didn’t, the big white-hot sturhers straining in their sheldrakes might — “No!” said Mark, slowly closing his fist on the flat top of the studding case. It was the new croxs- binnaclcd type, so diflerent from the old A- 1 4s of his training days. “No, let's risk it,” he said. Better to be unflinked than ungyved when the milser gauge began to rise again. Mark glanced at Scrudd then, and saw that he concurred. Slowly Mark edged forward the calibar arm of the gyve compressor. “Look. The milser's holding steady,” said Scrudd. His voice was flat and calm, but beads ot sweat stood out on his low forehead, and Mark knew they shared a common terror. Mark thought again about the men up there on the bridge, peer¬ ing anxiously out into the darkness. All those jerks seemed to do was peer. “It’s still steady.” Scrudd's voice rose a little. Mark’s hands trembled as he picked up the binch chart and studied it. “Then it’s stuck,” he snapped. “We’re almost to the Great Reel.” “Do we still gyve?” “We have to. It’s our only chance.” The next six hours were a nightmare of splining the fenleys, fighting deadly belgraving backlash, and sternwashing desperately. And always with that terrible thought in the back ot their minds, that four thousand lives were staked on their every move. They worked together silently, surely, a team at last. Then suddenly the milser gauge dropped. Then the merkelmeter eased off. Finally the backthwart lever came up, and it was over. They had won. 1 he grim battle ot man and ship against wind and wave was over. “Nice going. Chief,” said Scrudd. Despite his bone-aching, utter weariness Mark felt a warm tingle course through him. That laconic tribute from a veteran gyvefitter like Scrudd meant more to him than any medals or rewards or line speeches from the shipowners he mieht receive. What was it Scrudd had called him? Chief? . . . The door opened and Berdiev came in. “Some blow, huh, boys? W ind hit eighty-four miles an hour.” he said. Miles an hour! Berdley was an incorrigible landlubber, even though he was fourth mate. Too weary to lift his head oil his arms, Mark Fairfield asked the question that was ever on his mind as he plunged blindly through the sea in the narrow confines of the gyving room. “How' far out are we now?” “Why,” said Berdiev, surprised at the question, “the skipper saw this coming and decided to lay knv. W'c never left the pier.” * ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE PRICE

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( nlli(*r's Editorials Prelude to Disaster IN mr. EARLIEST DAYS of the Nazi move¬ ment one of Adolf Hitler's chief targets was the Jewish Communists who had infiltrated the Ger¬ man labor forces and were exerting a consider- al le nilkiencc in the chaotic years following the Kaiser’s surrender. Later, of course, when the Na/is took o\er the government, all things Jew¬ ish were the objects of Hitler’s fanatical pro¬ scription But at the beginning he seemed to regard Communism and Jewish origin as almost inseparable companions. And he used them in¬ separably to inflame the hatred that ultimately led to his destruction. Remembering this, it is bitterly ironical to read that today the few remaining Jews in East Germany who survived the Nazi concentration camps are again being hounded and terrorized this time by the leaders of world Communism. 1 hev are charged with being Zionist spies. I his is only one of several signs that anti- Semitism has become an official instrument of Kremlin policy. I he recent Prague trial, with its ensuing executions, was an unmistakable sign So was the arrest of nine Russian doctors, including six Jews vs ho had been numbered among the ablest and most distinguished mem¬ bers ot the Sov iet medical profession, on the fan¬ tastic charge of murdering two top figures in the Communist hierarchy. They were charged with the general crime of being capitalist agents, cos¬ mopolitans and bourgeois-nationalists, as well as with the specific crime of homicide. There is no longer any attempt to disguise the Kremlin’s anti-Semitism. And anyone at all familiar with the technique of Soviet purges cannot hope that this campaign will stop with the liquidation of the few Jews already seized. Stalin's approach to anti-Semitism is different from Hitler's. It was quite typical that Hitler, a man of shallow, unstable mind and small learn¬ ing, should have chosen the emotional and unsupportable thesis of racial inferiority as his excuse for persecution. Stalin, a man of calcu¬ lated intellectual cruelty, has launched his terror¬ ism w ith charges of divided loyalty. He appears to consider any Jew, Zionist or not, as a potential harborcr of sympathies for other regimes. And even an inkling of feeling other than hatred for the non-Communist world is something that Stalin does not tolerate in his subjects. There has been a lot of speculation about the reasons behind this new Sov iet purge. But what¬ ever the motives, the purge shows a contempt for world opinion and a disdain for logic that are remarkable even in the Soviets. It must tax to the utmost the mental flexibility of those out¬ side the Communist world who strive to follow the party line. For example, at the very moment that Moscow announced the arrest of the Jewish doctors for committing murder under orders of the United States government, Communists in the Western World were asking clemency for Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, convicted traitors to the United States, on the grounds that they were victims of anti-Semitic persecution. Probably the present Jewish persecution is only a part of the general persecution which the Kremlin has ruthlessly practiced since the time of the revolution. In either case, innocent lives are sacrificed, not only in the dramatic purge trials, but in the quiet, secret terrorism of the secret police which goes on constantly. But somehow it is particularly appalling to see Stalin opening the ugly wound of anti-Semitism, which the world hoped had been healed with the down¬ fall of the Third Reich. Yet the world is wiser today than it was when Hitler was in power. Stalin’s new policy may win him some new friends on the lunatic fringe. But we feel sure that the general revulsion against it will extend into non-Communist na¬ tions where the Kremlin has counted on gaining and keeping both sympathy and assistance. By resorting to the crime of anti-Semitism, Stalin has confessed to the world that his Com¬ munist Utopia is neither successful nor secure, and that even after a generation of Communist ‘"education” he has not destroyed the will to re¬ sist or the yearning for independent thought and action. Hitler’s attempt to exterminate the Jews, though it cost millions of lives, helped to solidify the free world’s opinion and action against him. If Stalin embarks on the same course we do not think that the world’s revulsion will be any less, or his chance of final triumph any greater, than that of the other dictator whom he first helped to destroy and now seeks to emulate. f Hoaxters All WHITE WE ARE ON the subject of the simi¬ larity of right- and left-wing dictatorships, we’d like to recommend that you be on the lookout for a documentary film called The Hoaxters, which is now making the rounds of the country’s movie houses. Its theme is one that Hollywood has treated before in piecemeal fashion and in various ways, from satire to tragedy. But this half-hour-long picture is different in that it is made up almost entirely of newsreel shots. His¬ tory supplies the plot and the continuity. And it seems to us that the story emerges all the more vividly for its lack of fictional trimmings. Its brief, striking sequences reveal that the aims and methods of Fascism, Nazism, Japanese imperialism and Russian Communism fall into j one basic pattern. We listen again to the ha¬ rangues of Hitler, Mussolini and Tojo in their days of strength and triumph. We see their sur¬ viving counterpart, Stalin, selling the same kind of phony magic. We observe the workings of the one-partv political systems and their courts of “justice.” We see the suppression of religion, the concentration camps, the absorption of the satel¬ lites. We are reminded of the similarity between the almost-forgotten Bundists and the present- day Communists in America. The Hoaxters, by showing the events of the I past 35 years in this perspective, helps us to real¬ ize with fresh understanding that the totalitari¬ anisms of the twentieth century are all alike, I whatever their labels. And it brings the hope¬ ful reminder that dictatorships do perish, from their inner weaknesses as well as from the reso¬ lution, sacrifice and bloodshed of men and na¬ tions who refuse to be idle spectators at the sacrifice of freedom. We believe that Dore Schary, who conceived ; and produced the film for M-G-M, and his asso- | ciates have performed a useful service by giving j us this concise work of pictorial history. Collier's for February 21, 1933 70

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, nere must be a reason why More People Smoke Camels than any other cigarette ! a T3 \ u A “WHEN I TRIED CAMELS FOR 30 DAYS, I KNEW CAMELS WERE FOR ME. THEY’RE DELIGHTFULLY MILD AND I LOVE THEIR TASTE EVERY TIME I LIGHT UP !” LOVELY STAR OF THE METROPOLITAN OPERA There’s a simple and enjoyable way to find out the reason why Camels are far and away America’s most popular cigarette. Make your own 30-day Camel mildness test. Smoke only Camels for 30 days and see how much you enjoy your first Camel — and how you keep on enjoying Camels! Camel’s exclusive blend gives you a flavor no other cigarette has, a flavor that doesn’t tire your taste. And, pack after pack, you’ll find Camels cool, mild and delightful! Find the reason for yourself — test Camels for 30 days

Page 585

Collier’s FEBRUARY 28,. 1953 FIFTEEN CENTS EXCLUSIVE WORLD’S FIRST SPACE SUIT How and Where We’ll Use It

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3 Nearly 1,500 people die each year in railroad crossing accidents. Don't be one of them. Give any train the right of way! How much do reckless drivers add to your auto insurance bill ? Year after year, approximately 15 per cent of all motorists on the road have approxi¬ mately 85 per cent of all accidents. Obviously, an automobile insurance company which avoids the “careless 15” and concentrates on the “ careful 85” can afford to charge low rates for automobile insurance. That's what State Farm Mutual does. It can charge low rates, while offering maximum service and protection, because State Farm aims to insure only careful drivers. If you drive carefully, you are entitled to State Farm’s low-cost “careful driver” insurance. Phone your local State Farm agent. He’s listed under “State Farm Insurance” in your classified phone book. Other benefits of State Farm membership 1. Semi-annual premium payments. Wouldn't it be easier on your budget to pay for your automobile insurance in two small payments each year, rather than in one lump sum? Advanced State Farm bill¬ ing and bookkeeping practices make this possible for State Farm members— at no increase in cost. 2. Mutual benefits . State Farm is a mutual com¬ pany. Savings from low claim costs and high oper¬ ating efficiency are passed on to members, who actually own the company, in the form of low insurance rates. On the other hand, State Farm policies are non -assessable. You never pay more than the established rate for any period. 3. Fast , fair claim settlement . More than 6,500 State Farm agents and claim representatives stand ready, day or night, to come to your aid in case of accident. State Farm cuts red tape— pays an aver¬ age of one claim every 10 seconds, every working day. 4. Established leadership. State Farm now writes more full-coverage automobile insurance than any other company, with more than 2,400,000 members in the auto company alone. And new applications for State Farm insurance are averaging 2,000 every' working day! Look to State Farm for Life and Fire Insurance , too . See your agent! State Farm Insurance Companies State Farm Mutual Automobile Insurance Company State Farm Life Insurance Company State Farm Fire and Casualty Company Home office: Bloomington, Illinois • Branch offices: Berkeley, California • St. Paul, Minnesota • Lincoln, Nebraska • Marshall, Michigan • Dallas, Texas • Charlottesville, Virginia • Toronto. Ontario • Field claim offices in more than 280 principal cities. Hear "Cecil Brown News Commentaries Saturdays and Sundays over Mutual Broadcasting System stations. Check local radio listings.

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4 f* Suave their hair SUAVE- the hairdressing created for the one man in four who'd rather pay a little more to get a lot more in grooming satis¬ faction. The kind of hairdressing you’ve always wanted, but never found before. The only hairdressing in the world with secret-formula Curt isol -insures perfect hair grooming naturally. To look suave, use Suave daily. FOR MEN The Luxury Hairdressing In illigator-crained plastic squeeze flask £ 1 Travel size 60c X ALBERT E. WINCER CLARENCE E. STOUCH Chairman of the Board President Collier's EDWARD ANTHONY, Publisher ROGER DAKIN, Editor RICHARD CHAPLLN, Assistant Publisher GORDON MANNING, Managing Editor DA\ ID MAJNESS, Assistant Managing Editor MACLENNAN FARRELL, Fiction Editor WILLIAM O. CHESSMAN, Art Director ALLEN CLFATO.N, Senior Associate Editor GLKNEY WILLIAMS, Cartoon Editor JAMES THRASHER, Editorials JAMES A. QLlGNEY, Photo Editor Associate Editors • JFROME BEATTY, JR. • WARREN BROWN • GERTRUDE BECKMAN JEAN B. CAMPBELL SEY CIIASSLER • HOWARD COHN • WALTER DWENPORT BILL DAMDsON • HELEN WORDEN F.RSK1NE • EVELYN HARVEY • DIANA 111RSH IIOMER JENKS • CHARLOTTE KNIGIIT • JERRY KORN • ALFRED M, LANSING JOHN LEAR • FRANKLIN C. LORA.NGER • TOM ME ANY • BUCKL1N MOON JOHN C. PELLEW • ROGER PIPPETT • ELEANOR PORTER • CORNELIUS RYAN JANET SIIFPS • FRANCIS WALLACE • WILLIAM WEAVER MARTHA WEINMAN • ELIZABETH WOODY Editorial Research ' ROSANNE McVaY, Chief ■ M ADEL1N ALK • DOROTHY D. BENNETT DIANE DOWNS • ALAN M. LEYENSOILN JANICE MOSES • JOHN NEW HOUSE Bureaus WASHINGTON: JAMES C DLRIEUX, Chief ; TODD WRIGHT WEST COAST (Los Angeles ): THEODORE STRAUSS, Chief; ROBERT CAllN, JOHN FLOREA MIDWEST (Chicago): BILL FAY EUROPE (Paris): SEYMOUR FRElDIN, WILLIAM RICHARDSON FAR EAST (Tokyo): PETER KAI.13CIIER February 28, 1953 ARTICLES Docs Your Family Have a Neurosis? . MORTON M. HUNT 13 1953 Baseball Preview . TOM MEANY 16 Snowbound . 26 '’Cod Is Between the Earth and the Sky ” . 32 MAYS SURVIVAL IN SPACE ... . 40 Eat a Bigger Breakfast — And Be Thin. . .FREDRICK J. STARE, M.D. AND JULIA A. SHEA, M.S. 52 How to Watch a Chorus Girl . collier’s color camera 62 l ip's a V . I . P . 64 Lobb's of London — W here the Shoes Choose You. .noel barber 66 FICTION Flight of tha Golden Plover . SALLY CARRICHAR The Silly Season . MILLARD II. TEMPLE The Whale in M-3 . eloise barrancon ( hie short short story) Less than a Man . J. M. BARAK Gun Job . THOMAS THOMPSON 20 22 30 34 56 48 States of Mind . WALTER DAVENPORT lion to burn On a Fuuict . GURNEY WILLIAMS Editorials . Cover . RALPH ROYLE 8 10 70 The characters in all stories and serials in this magazine are purely imaginary . Ao reference or allusion ta any living person is intended. Subscription Deparlmenl, 204 W. High Slreel, Springfield, Ohio Editorial and Executive Offices, 640 Fiflh Avenue, New York 19, N. Y. COLLIER S The N aiosn. Wjtrui Vnl 131 No. 9 PUBLISHED WEEKLY by Thv »lli r Pub- lioluiiK I'm i m> Spr nish> 1.1 Ohi" l S A . I’uli ^Itt’rn of ( .. .t - W ■ i mi * I! m ■ f ‘lupiuiiod Thi- Aiui Tu.m Mux- MX II I \.n ,r,.| 1 ■! *r ih! OftiO-l CIO E if » 1. . NrW ^ Ai i r ; 1 Uinii.r ( Lmnn.m ot lli. Bonn! ( i imri' V Mini. b. Pi • but ]•.. A Miiri.n, Kt-vutiv* . . Pro . tit 1 L. B iMly. P. fi r J. Drnn. rl. m. l..luard A. tin. i i 1 }» mmID • R.i pit (• Sn itli. I >l.n \\ Me- P* r'lii \\ • A .** t f i,c V 'ri.-Pri-mi.-ntn I it'Oif O'^iillivnD, > .r li»r> (Hi 2 y i*.i m $" 00. 2lv year? C 1 30 iv*u«0 50.00; 3 yearn 510.00: 4 yearn $12.00. Pan- American eouutrien iu the Postal l tuon. 1 year $o OO All other countries*. I year SO. 00. Payment* frotn fori.iun eouotrnw. ov . pt (.annd.i. n»u.'t Ik- in Piute.] Suite* fun.i* tin.I iwlilrr**-«1 to The Crotvcll-CoUier PubLi.nhina C’oiiipany. Spriu^firbl, Ohio, ENTERED a » orcetni^loM matter at the Post Office. Spniurtiobi. Ohio, uii ! r Act of March 3. 1870. Authorinxi as mvon'I-ela** mini. Punt Office Di'partmrut, Ottn« u. Cnua>la. MANUSCRIPTS art mi limit toil to Collier’s, The National W eekly. *liouhl 1m* accompanied by addressed envelope* and return pwtage. The Publisher assume** no responsibility for return of utmolicjtod manuscripts or art. k CHANGES OF ADDRESS should reoch us ftve weeks in odvonce ^ * of the next issue dote Give both the old ond new oddresses. " COPYRIGHT, 1 Q.*:*. BY Till-: CROW LLL-GOLLIFR PUBLISHING COMPANY (All riphts reserved) Publishers of Collier’s. The American Magazine, Woman's llomo Companion The Cover The first man to enter space will wear an outfit like the Navy pressure suit on this week’s cover. In fact, he could wear that one: it’s a real space suit, fully equipped for rocket travel. The cover picture, and the two others made for this issue of Colliers by photogra¬ pher Ralph Royle, are the first ever permitted of the new space uniform. For the story of the suit — and of all the related problems of Man’s Survival in Space — read Picking the Men, page 42. Week’s Mail Stalking the Runrk Editor: The Wild Animals Athletic Association of Africa is planning a trip to the Manhattan, Flatbush and Grand Central areas of your great country where we hope to get in a little hunt¬ ing and shooting. There comes a time in the life of us wild animals when the urge to hunt man is so strong that it can no longer be ignored. I suppose it is an atavistic memory of our daddies who used to chase human beings all over the veldt in the old days while our mamas cheered. As a philosophic wildebeest friend of mine has said: ‘There is nothing in our experience that equals a man charging us; he comes with only 15 boys, a guide, three eases of beer and 19 guns of vari¬ ous sizes. And although the odds are thus hopelessly against him,” the wilde¬ beest said, “man often wins the contest.” On our trip to New York, we wild animals hope to capture a columnist or two, preferably a ruark, a remarkable specimen with a mustache. To keep our safari on a sporting level, there will be no shooting from taxicabs at passers-by, and we are bringing only high- and low- velocity guns, with a small howitzer for finishing off the quarry if taken in such dangerous surroundings as a night club. A young hyena suggests a publisher may be interested in our trip if it is successful. But an old boar said, depre- eatingly, “If the lust to kill possesses you, satisfy it. But why write a book about it?” Peter Brennan, Ancon, Canal Zone If the Wild Animals Aililetic Associa¬ tion of Africa is seriously bent on bag¬ ging a mark, they'd do well to stay on llieir uaiivc veldt and save money. For Robert C. Ruark (African Safari, Col¬ lier’s, Jan. 3d-10th-17th) is back on the W. A. A. A. A.’s home grounds. Deep in the Heart of N.M. Editor: In A Serenade to the Donkey i (January 17th), John O’Reilly wrote: I “. . . at Philmont, Arizona, their 127,- ■ 000-aere national camp, the Boy Scouts have several hundred donkeys.” And later: “Cookie . . . has strange tastes. She got into the living room one day and ate a Japanese print.” Philmont camp's in New Mexico , A location O'Reilly of course would know If his atlas (as I venture to hint) Had not gone the way of his Japanese print. Avis B. Rigg, Eau Claire, Wis. Not trusting O’Reilly’s atlas, Collier’s researeh department cheeked with Boy

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NATIONAL HOMES CORPORATION LAFAYETTE, INDIANA • HORSEHEADS, N. Y, • ' 1 . ) HOMES Here is America’s most versatile home . . . the Monterey, one of the 21 stunning new 1953 National Homes designs. A smart, spacious home, one you’ll not "grow out of.” The open planning in which the living, dining and all¬ purpose rooms flow together creates spacious¬ ness found only in far larger homes. Yet the all-purpose room can be closed off for a second living area, or a permanent third bedroom. The dual-purpose carport is ideal for a porch. When you buy a National home you buy the best . . . only quality "brand name” materials used throughout, still, you save up to 2(K> as compared to conventionallv built homes of equal size and quality. Price range, $7,500 to S 1 5,000 — 2-, 3-, 4-bedroom models. For floor plans and other details, send 25£ for Your National Home Magazine.” National Homes Corporation, Dept. CT Lafayette, Indiana. Sational Hornes prefabri¬ cated panels and structural parti a\ they leaie the as¬ sembly plant carry the G"td Housekeeping seal of appro i a l a Parents’ Magazine seal of conn See Your Local "Monterey Open House" Starting February 2V f

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Purple motor oil keeps engines in top condition ! The purple color of Royal Triton motor oil is your assurance of complete lubricant protection under all driving conditions. Royal Triton protects against acid and corrosive action and keeps your engine cleaner than either regular or premium grade oils. In short, heavy-duty Royal Triton does a far better job of lubricating -and protecting-today’s automotive engines. HOW TO GET 100% PERFORMANCE FROM YOUR CAR Take your car to your car dealer's for frequent check¬ ups (at least every 2,000 miles) and use the finest motor oil money can buy-Royal Triton— 45? a quart. A variable at leading car dealers' in most areas of the U. S. and Western Canada. UNION OIL COMPANY OF CALIFORNIA Los Angales. Union Oil Bldg. • Naw York. 4904 RCA Bldg. • Chicago, 1612 Bankers Bldg. • Naw Orlaans, 917 National Bank of Commerce Bldg. Cincinnati, 21 11 Carew Tower Bldg. Weeh’s Mail CONTINUED Scout headquarters, where an absent- minded official said that, yes, the camp was at Philmont, Arizona. We’re sorry. So are the Scouts. . . . John O’Reilly says of donkeys that “the critters are impractical for pur¬ poses of serious transportation.” May the Lord have mercy on his soul! There are many places where the donkey is the only transportation. Last December I saw the corn coming down from the mountain cornfields between Taxco and Acapulco. It’s a very siza¬ ble operation, not to be sneezed at even by an Iowan. There are no roads. The mountains are terrific. How else could it be carried other than by donkeys with two 4-foot-high wicker baskets? Trains of them. How do you get water if you live ten miles from a road in arid mountains? How do you take whatever you produce to market? How do you get wood? The donkey is the only answer. Mark Lintz, Mexico, D. F. Mexico In Don McNeill’s story about his Breakfast Club radio program, The Listeners Do All My Work (Jan. 10th), we included several verses and other contributions from his audience, including the poem titled Tell Him Now. Al¬ though it was contributed by a listener, the author was Berton Braley. We include our apologies to him with this belated by-line. Safety Suggestions Editor: My compliments to Herbert Yahraes for his article, How We Can Have Safer Cars (Jan. 10th). Also, of course, to those people who are doing all the research. Doubtless cars after 1956 will embody many safety devices which they do not now have. As one who has driven automobiles for 30 years for a total of some 500,- 000 miles, with no personal injuries, let alone fatalities, against my record, I believe that the crash-injury researchers left one very important suggestion out of their “meanwhiles” at the end of the article. That suggestion should be: Let’s drive our automobiles like sensi¬ ble human beings rather than careless maniacs. Henry H. Gavit, Stony Creek, N.Y. . . . Herbert Yahraes’ article is timely, to the point and needed. I believe that only one more point could have been added . . . Every motor destined for a privately owned automobile should have a built- in nondetachable governor to prevent speeds in excess of 70 miles per hour. Don C Harvey, Mooseheart, Ill. Doctors and Individuals Editor: You earned your subscription price times over when you published Dr. Magnuson’s “I want you to remem¬ ber that every patient you meet is differ¬ ent from any individual you ever saw before” (What We Doctors Must Do to | Stay Free, Jan. 17th). For more than 20 years I have been saying this over and over before classes in grapho- analysis from coast to coast. This is one reason that medical men as well as executives are today recognizing that handwriting, which reveals intimate de¬ tails, is an important factor in knowing the individual apart from the mass. People are not sausages, all alike, and Dr. Magnuson has made a vital contri¬ bution not only to the medical profes¬ sion, but to understanding people- when he presents this fact to his new classes. M. N. Bunker, Springfield, Mo. Elegant Jalopy Dept . Editor: A letter in Week’s Mail, Janu¬ ary 10th, by a Mr. Harold E. Glover, of Minneapolis, was quite interesting to me, as I am the owner of that other “Statue of Liberty” — the only known Matheson automobile. This car is a 1910 model, and has been driven 5,000 miles in two years since its “rebirth” at my hands. The Matheson was, from 1903 to 1913, one of the greatest motorcars made in America or Europe. This particular car is believed by many authorities in the field to be the finest and rarest quality antique car in the country today. Robert C. Laurens, Wayne, Pa. . . . The picture captioned “Apperson Jackrabbit, 1911 model,” in Week’s Mail (Jan. 10th) may be, and prob¬ ably is, an Apperson. But it is a tour¬ ing car, not a Jackrabbit. The Jackrabbit was a sport model, low slung for those days, with one seat which held two only, no windshield, four speeds, and geared to do over 80 miles an hour. Ours set a record for the run from Boston to Hartford, three hours and 25 minutes, the speedometer registering 73 miles an hour on one straightaway. The wheel base was but 97 inches, so the ride was uncomfortably rough, to put it mildly. Very few of the Jackrab¬ bit type were produced, and they lost their appeal within a surprisingly short time. Robinson Cook, Pinehurst, N.C. Congress on TV Editor: After reading your article, Should Congress Be Televised? (Jan. 17th), I thoroughly agree with Repre¬ sentative Javits and Senator Kefauver that the processes of our government should be brought into the living rooms of the American people. It’s so wonderful to think that, at long last, we have the opportunity to see for ourselves what the people we elect are doing in Washington. To think that I would no longer have to read someone else’s opinion of what Senator Wingding said, or listen to a biased commentator’s views of what happened. After watching for myself, and listen¬ ing for myself, I’d feel as if I really know who and what I will be voting for in the next election. The days of not knowing who your congressman is would soon be over. Mrs. W. L. Young, Vancouver, Wash. Collier’s for February 28, 1953

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Weatfcz/u 1km tfc" (wudfctiyv AND THAT'S WHERE TWA SKYUNERS FLY Your whole picture of winter travel will change for the better once you’ve flown TWA. For all thoughts of icy roads and snowbound delays melt away when you travel at TWA’s “fair-weather” level. Up here sunshine knows no season; the stars light your way at night. And while your TWA Skyliner makes time, you spend it in leisurely fashion . . . enjoying the kind of service that’s made TWA first choice of more than two million passengers each year. Where in the wo rid do you wonf ta go? Far information and reservations, calf TWA or see your travel agent. ACROSS THE U,S. AND OVERSEAS TWA SHANNONS LONDON FRANKFURT FLY S TRANS WORLD AIRLINES £ U f*Of>£ iCA • 45/4 BOMBAY

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8 Call for Florsheim Shoes when the season calls for the finest Coim*> Spring — and comes the urge for new *hoes. To the vast majority of better-dressed men in America that means only one thing, Florsheim Shoes. For through the experience of w earing them has come the knowledge that Florsheim Shoes deliver more — in style, in quality, and in extra i - wear! And for less, too, in tin* long run. |f$ ft and higher f The Navajo, S-1506, brown genuine calf hand- sewn moccasin: S-1509 in black The Florsheim Shoe Company • Chicago • Makers of fine shoes for men and women STATES OF MINIS By WALTER DAVENPORT Pamphlet has just arrived asking us boldly: What Would You Do If You Awoke and Found a Burglar Going Through Your Pockets? Well, we think we’d begin by laughing. ★ ★ ★ A high-tone fellow in Sacramento, California, was proudly showing his new custom-built car to a friend. Said he: “Listen to that beautiful engine purr.” Said the friend: “Hell, man, she doesn’t purr; she sneers.” ★ ★ ★ When Mr. Samuel B. Manderick — whose initials stand for what he is: small businessman — got through argu¬ ing with the internal revenue fellow in Bangor, Maine, he announced that, un¬ less taxes were cut soon, he wouldn’t be a businessman of any caliber. “It’s get¬ ting so,” said the complaining Mr. Manderick, “that even the mint’s hav¬ ing trouble making money.” ★ ★ ★ Chicago publisher was notified by his office boy that a lady wished to see him. Publisher asked: “A beauty?” The of¬ fice boy nodded. When she’d gone the publisher said to the office boy; “You’re a fine judge of beauty.” Office boy shrugged. Said he was trying to be dip¬ lomatic and thought perhaps she might be the publisher’s wife. She was. ★ ★ ★ To reap the full benefit of this sug¬ gestion, you've got to have oatmeal for breakfast plus the itch. When you’ve almost finished your oatmeal, quit eat¬ ing. Rub the remainder on your itch. Might be a bit messy, but according to a Midwest doctor you will thus be doing yourself a favor externally as well as in¬ ternally. You will hustle off to work well nourished and without scratching. ★ ★ ★ Having heard Albcn Barkley sing his favorite song, My Old Kentucky Home, we think it would be nice if he called the memoirs he’s writing Veep No More, So would the guy who sent us the suggestion. Name's Earle McLif- fey, of Baltimore, Maryland, ★ ★ ★ Mr. Jake Carbussel, of Terre Haute, Indiana, reports that he’s “sick with in¬ dignation.” Reason: He hears through South Carolina’s Senator Olin D. John¬ ston that a number of our top-salaried government employees abroad (250,- 000 all told), who get both salaries and living allowance, have had to spend as much as $150 a year of their own salar¬ ies — their living allowance just isn’t enough. Some of these self-sacrificing public servants are left with only $14,- 850 out of their annual 15 grand at the end of the year, which, by coincidence, is just $14,850 more than Mr. Carbussel winds up with at the year’s end. Fit to be tied is Mr. Carbussel. ★ ★ ★ Mail-order businessman in Boston says he’s discovered a way to get house¬ wives to read his sales letters. Just has them addressed in an unmistakably feminine hand to housewife’s husband and marked personal and confidential. ★ ★ ★ Old 48 salutes James Betz, a Port Washington, Wisconsin, cop. He ar¬ rested himself for sideswiping a parked car while he, in his prowl, was clocking a speeder. Took himself to court, com¬ plained that he had failed to keep his car under control, pleaded guilty. Fined ten bucks. Thanked judge. Thus chas¬ tened, Officer Betz went back to work. ★ ★ ★ The Communists propose to find out and honor the guy who in their ruddy opinion did the most to arouse the work¬ ing classes. They’ll probably pay no at¬ tention to advice from old 48, but we hope they don’t overlook the fellow who invented the alarm clock. Incidentally, who was it that did? ★ ★ ★ Supreme Court, State of Washington, has just ruled that a child five years old may sue his father for personal-injury damages except when inflicted by dad in the performance of parental duty. Lady informing us says several law firms are thinking of soliciting junior business with letters captioned: Is Spanking a Duty? ★ ★ ★ The way we heard it is that you are middle-aged when you decide your chil¬ dren aren’t going to amount to any more than you have and begin dream¬ ing of brilliant futures for your grand¬ children. The fellow we heard that one from didn’t sign his name and we don't blame him. Jk Jk Jk Collier’s for February 28, 1958

Page 593

Only STEEL can do so many jobs so well »*} i»^ .5 Stainless Steel walls mark the handsome skyscrapers of Pittsburgh's Gateway Center. Panels are made of corrosion-resistant Stainless Steel, backed up with lightweight concrete reinforced with welded wire fabric. These are attached to the building frame quickly and easily. Multi¬ story building walls go up with astonishing speed — in this project, at better than a floor-a-day rate. And because these wall panels weigh less, the weight of supporting structural members is also reduced, resulting in lower building costs. Taking no chances is a good rule to follow on modern highways. Drive carefully — the life you save may be your own. This U*S*S American Multisafty Cable Guard saves many lives, too. Over 140 proving ground impact tests, using cars of all types, have demonstrated that this type of highway guard providesgreater protec tionat high speeds. The bigger they come, the more skill and crafts¬ manship is required to produce quality forgings. At U. 8. Steel’s Homestead District Works, the skilled men, the mammoth machines, and the ex¬ cellent steel to turn out forgings like this steam turbine generating shaft, are all available. UNITED STATES STEEL Listen to The Theatre Guild on the Air, presented every Sunday evening by United States Steel National Broadcasting Company, coast to-coast network. Consult your newspaper for time and station They work high to dig deep, steel d< r ricks like this symbolize one of America's most vital defense treasures . oil To help bring up the “black gold" from its ancient, miles-deep resting places. U S. Steel makes drilling rigs, steel drill pipe, casing and tubing, cement, pumps, wire lines, and tough alloy steels for the drilling bits that can bite through the hardest rock. Photo — Stundard (Jtl C’u .V J What price tin ? If tin cans were made entirely of tin, they’d be far more costly than they are. But 99' , of a tin can is steel . . .and millions of cans a year can be made at prices we all can afford. For steel in semi-finished form costs only about one fortieth as much as tin per pound . . . it’s the cheapest of all metals. This trade-mark is your guide to quality steel AMERICAN BRIDGE . . . AMERICAN STEEL & WIRE and CYCLONE FENCE . . . COLUMBIA • GENEVA STEEL . . . CONSOLIDATED WESTERN STEEL . . . GERRARD STEEL STRAPPING . NATIONAL TUBE OIL WELL SUPPLY... TENNESSEE COAL & IRON ... UNITED STATES STEEL PRODUCTS ... UNITED STATES STEEL SUPPLY. ..Division, of UNITED STATES STEEL CORPORATION. PITTSBURGH GUNNISON HOMES, INC. - UNION SUPPLY COMPANY . UNITED STATES STEEL EXPORT COMPANY • UNIVERSAL ATUVS CEMENT COMPANY

Page 594

10 .. . relax in Canada You’ll ploy in “ picture country” in this land of H( ATlO\S UNLIMITED WET YOUT? LINE in hai'-r- Ljiunu- for salmon, lroul, musky ... or fisli for giant tuna off the Ea^ti-in nia'i Na\ at luxurious rrsorts for a “royal tour” of majustic iiiountainlands, or • t frien-K and rela- • « *• shtt| ui little treasure slore>. PLAY GOLF, go riding, enjoy sailing on leafy waterways. Plan to stay as long as you can, do a** iiiu( h as you can. See your travel or trans¬ portation agent soon; send lhe coupon now. 01.1-05 53- 02 CANADIAN GOVERNMENT TRAVEL BUREAU P« parr men l f Re^mr t*** anti Development, Ottawa, Canada PleuM* *>en«l >.iur 18 page, full-colour book on vatai on atlra -linn* in * * I parts of Canada. \umr - t IMA. AM I'HIM) t - Tou n - _s tatr . i>ai' CSV I I I FIG. 1. Automatic kitchen water tap, with Type II gasket miter HOW TO TURN ON A FA UCET By CLUNKY W ILLIAMS A workshop manual helps ail amateur, but a general contractor will keep your home in better condition 1VTOT so very many dollars ago I ' invested three bucks in a book called Handy Husbands Make Happy Homes (602 pages, 2,007 clear pho¬ tographs and diagrams) which the publisher said would pay for itself many times over, so replete was it with instructions for building, repair¬ ing and modernizing everything from a safety pin to a B-36. The night I lugged this tome home my wife told me for the seventh time that one of the bedroom windows had been sealed shut by a painter last November. “Hah!” I said, showing her the book. “We’re all set now; and the plumbers, electricians and carpenters who charge $4.50 just to push the starter buttons on their trucks can go soak their heads at Miami Beach,” 1 went upstairs and turned to the Handy Husbands index. Under W for Windows I found references to pages 39, 156, 254, 278, 396, 432 and 516. Twenty minutes later I had learned how to attach a bird-feeding station to a window sill, how to put cellulose tape over a crack in a pane and had absorbed five other hints concerning window care, including the information that ‘‘after painting window frames, the windows should be left slightly open for a day or so to prevent sticking,” I then turned to S for Stick or Stuck and was referred to page 436, which told how to cope with Balks- Bureau Drawers. Since every drawer in our house works with ice-skate smoothness, I turned again to S and ran across Sticks, page 327, where 1 was confronted with com¬ plete blueprints for the construction of A Ioothbrush Holder from Dis¬ carded Lollipop Sticks. Thoughtfully closing the book, I went into the bedroom, placed the heels of my hands against the under¬ side of the sash and whammed it several times. The window opened. I then retired to the bathroom, soaked my hands in hot water for several minutes — to prevent as much swelling as possible — and sauntered down to dinner. “Your window is unstuck,” I an¬ nounced. “Wondcrfui!” my wife enthused. “That book is a big help, isn’t it?” “Certainly contains a lot of dope,” I admitted. “Have you any discarded lollipop sticks around?” Lois stared at me, puzzled. “Lolli¬ pop sticks?” “Yes,” I said. “I thought an extra toothbrush holder might come in handy.” “What are you talking about?” asked my wife. “This creamed chipped beef is wonderful,” I said. Since then I’ve learned a lot from Handy Husbands. Even a random flip through the book discloses such absorbing and challenging titles as: How to Make a Wind Tunnel out of Your New Vacuum Cleaner; You Can Rebuild That Old Hourglass; How to Tell When the Roof Caves In; Keeping Bees in the Basement; Remodel Those Old Beer Mugs; Raise Your Own Salt. Nowhere is there a word about re¬ moving carbon particles from the nozzle of an oil* burner (an emer¬ gency operation performed recently by Sam, our plumber, for only $11.75); but on page 57 there's a dilly of a diagram for fashioning clothespins from ordinary wood and wire. Almost as interesting is a series of photos on pages 345-46 illustrat¬ ing the step-by-step process of manu¬ facturing your own soap. And I’ve slipped a bookmark between pages 568 and 569, which are devoted to short cuts in changing flashlight bat¬ teries. I thought Randy, our electri¬ cian. might be interested in taking a look next time he makes a rush call to replace one of our blown-out fuses. If I ever lost this informative en¬ cyclopedia and couldn’t buy another copy, I’d be in a pretty pickle. Which reminds me: Lois was so intrigued by page 586, having to do with the vari¬ ous methods of paring the warts from a dill pickle, that she’s going to buy a couple someday soon and give the project a whirl. A ^ ^ Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 595

Tou know how forlorn a youngster looks (and feels’) in an out-grown suit - you know' how often \our boy needs a newf one. In fact, the bigger he gets, the harder it is to keep up with his upkeep. Would your wife have money enough to provide the clothes the food — the other necessities if you weren’t here9 Yes — if you get MONY life insurance now. It costs very little to give your family this important kind of protection. For instance, take a father of 28. By adding a MONY Family Pro¬ tection Policy costing only S8.06 a month to his Social Security, he can guarantee his family a monthly income of S200 until his children are grown. And while he lives, that same MONY policy- builds a steadily increasing fund he can draw' on if he needs it. You’ll find a MONY representative a great help in working out the best w a v to assure your family the basic necessities. He's more than an insurance salesman —he's a specialist , backed by three years of Mutual Of New * York training. You can count on him not only for insurance that's individually fitted to your needs and income . . . but for continuing service throughout the years. WEATHER STAR FORECAST fc ATOP OUR HOME OFFICE 1 Green . Fair Orange . Cloudy Orange flashing. . . . Rain White flashing. . . .Snow UTUAL 0 N ew York "FIRST IN AMERICA" The Mutual Life Insurance Company of New York ( ) INCOME FOR MY FAMILY ( ) EDUCATION FOR MY CHILDREN ( ) SUPPLEMENT SOCIAL SECURITY ( ) RETIREMENT ( ) MORTGAGE CANCELLATION ( ) ACCIDENT AND SICKNESS Name- Address _ City _ County _ Occupation - . State. -Date of Birth- MONY TODAY means money tomorrow MAIL THIS COUPON TODAY _ The Mutual Life Insurance Company of New York Dept. C-13, Broadway at 55th Street New York 19, N. Y. 1 would like free information about a MONY policy * to cover my needs as follows: (please check.)

Page 596

12 Spark Plugs That Perform like this WORLD’S TOUGHEST ROAD RACE Will Make your car Perform Better! CHUCK STEVENSON, Winner , and 1952 National AAA Champion. Total time 21:15:38 JOHN MAN TZ Total Time 21:16:09 WALTER FAULKNER - Total Time 21:20:27 CAPT. BOB KORPF — Total Time 21:25:09 Four 1953 Lincolns recently scored an impressive sweep of the stock car divi¬ sion of the third Mexican Road Race, run over 1,934 miles of the rugged Pan American Highway. All equipment, including their Champion Spark Plugs, was strictly stock. These cars eclipsed all previous records, averaging over 90 m.p.h. for the five-day grind. It’s in grueling tests like this — over treacherous mountain highways with steep grades and sharp turns, alternat¬ ing with long, straight stretches where maximum speeds are maintained for long periods— that Champion Spark Plugs - prove their superiority. Give your car the best, get Champions for championship performance. CHAMPION SPARK PLUG COMPANY, TOLEDO 1, OHIO Better by Far for every car Regardless of Make or Year i

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13 DOES YOUR IAA 1 1 LY HAVE A NEUROSIS? It could have. According to an important new p^yehiatrie theory, a family, just as an individual, can he mentally ill — for example, Insterieal, compulsive or mother-fixated By MORTON M. MINT RALPH ROTLE Dr. Howard Schlossman (center), who advances family neurosis theory, meets aides at Montefiore Hospital HERE is an advance report on a challenging new psychiatric con¬ cept which should deeply interest everyone concerned with family health — in short, just about all of us. Thus far very few laymen — indeed, few spe¬ cialists — have heard of it; but among those who have, it has aroused keen en¬ thusiasm and sharp controversy. The gist of this concept is that a fam¬ ily has a personality and a life of its own. A family also can be mentally ill, with a neurosis all its own, separate and dis¬ tinct from the emotional states of its in¬ dividual members. A family may be what psychiatrists call hysterical, or mother-fixated, or compulsive, or sado-masochistic and so on. Stemming perhaps from one mem¬ ber of the family or from the relation¬ ship between two of them, this neurosis becomes part of the enduring person¬ ality of the family itself, even after the members who created the condition have died. This somewhat startling idea has been put forth by Dr. Howard Schlossman, a young psychiatrist w'ho is also research consultant for a family-health promo¬ tion project at Montefiore Hospital in the Bronx, New York. Montefiore, working with Columbia University and the Com¬ munity Service Society of New York, largest non- sectarian family and health society in the country, is trying to find out what kinds of medical service, other than the everyday sort, will keep families in the best possible physical and mental health. As part of the project Montefiore’s people are giving some 60 test families not only full medical care, but also dental care, the advice and help of public health nurses, the help of social workers in child-rearing and similar family problems, and, last but not least, preventive psychiatry. The doctors, nurses, psychologists and social workers who have been intensively studying and caring for these families during the oast two years also compiled their complete medical, emotional and psychological histories. As consultant psychi¬ atrist to the project, Dr. Schlossman has analyzed these case histories. Out of the analysis, as well as from his own experience in private practice and the writings of other psychoanalysts, he has evolved the theory of family neurosis. How' can a family have a neurosis of its ow-n when the family is only the sum of its members? The answer is that a family isn’t just a sum. A child’s building set consists of toy girders, nuts, bolts, pulleys and w'ashers. He puts them together to make a toy crane. The crane isn’t just the sum of its parts; it’s a crane. But if the pieces he uses don’t fit one another, the crane won’t work well; it will probably bend, or some of its parts will break. In some respects, members of a family are like those parts. They function as a unit. If the parts don’t fit properly, the unit won’t work well. In due time, the family’s internal stresses and strains may damage one or more members, particularly the children. Dr. Schlossman’s search for patterns may turn out to be of tremendous help in preventing mental illness. Similar searches advanced the development of medicine. Two centuries ago skin ailments were classified by their outward symptoms; all rashes, for example, were treated alike. Now doctors know that some rashes are caused by foods, others by worry, others by infection, and so on; they treat the causes, not just the symptoms. The same approach may apply to mental sick¬ nesses of a family. Although troubled families have been analyzed according to the crises they meet, according to who loves whom and who doesn’t, and according to who in the family holds what responsibilities, Dr. Schlossman feels that these aspects are only symptoms. He wants to find out why those symptoms appear. “The psycho¬ analytic approach,” he has told Montefiore co- workers, “ought to provide good descriptions of the causes of the family’s characteristics, make it easier to spot the real sources of a family’s prob¬ lems and tensions, and help its members avoid serious mental disorders.” Too Many Mental Illnesses A1 ready Note the word “avoid.” That’s the main point, because the number of mental illnesses already is fantastically larger than we can handle and cure. One of the major types of family neurosis de¬ scribed by Dr. Schlossman is that known in in¬ dividuals as hysteria. The battle-shocked soldier who can’t hear or walk; the sexually shocked gill who grows up to be a frigid woman — psychiatrists call these and many others hysterical types. When people want to forget an especially painful experi¬ ence, they sometimes unconsciously refuse to use parts ot their bodies associated with the experience. Similarly, there are hysterical family patterns; for example, the Gilbert Stone fa mil) (not the real name) At thirty - eight, Gilbert has a bad heart He gets only poor jobs at best, and loses them when his heart acts up. The family must then go on relief; it has no savings. How docs Gilbert try to meet this grim real¬ ity? “Listen,’’ he says, ' things'll work out okay. They always have. Besides, this heart thing is only temporary; Em starting some of them health foods tomorrow. They're good for the heart and arteries.” Wife Ellen is dangerously overweight because she loves rich cooking and lots of it. She could go out and earn some money for the Stones if she weren't so heavy. “Gilbert likes an armful.’’ she giggles, “and anyhow the kids need me around the house. Besides, Gilbert will work things out.’' Eight-year-old Susan gets poor grades in school, partly because she doesn’t pay attention, partly because she has trouble with her reading. Ralph is four, but still doesn't talk well, wants to sleep with Mommy, and is a thumb-sucker. He gets his way about everything. Are the Stones unhappy? Worried? Not a bit. They are the most improbably cheerful family you ever saw. Both parents have a score of excuses for Susan’s bad grades and Ralph’s babyishness. The entire family believes that everything is just as fine as can be. Maybe that sounds ideal — but maybe it isn't. Right now the family neurosis suits everybody. But if sudden expenses outrun the meager relief income, or Stone himself is bedridden or dies, his wife and children will be confronted with a reality they’ve pretended doesn’t exist. Then what? Any¬ thing is possible, from ulcers and colitis to full- fledged nervous breakdowns. Don’t misunderstand: psychiatrists are no more against happiness than clergy men are in favor of sin. But the hysterical family has the wrong kind of happiness and is heading for trouble. Of course, people with a few fears, compulsions or special emotional problems should not be auto¬ matically classified as mentally ill. Psyehoanaly sts know that some of the traits found in neurotic per¬ sons also are found in nonneurotic persons. Like¬ wise, according to Dr. Schlossman. every family shows traces of neurotic traits. 1 hat doesn't mean the family is neurotic or ill; the danger lies in how much the neurosis hinders normal living. If your own family is quite happy, don't jump to the conclusion that it’s a hysterical, mentally ill family. Don’t pin labels on neighbor families either. Amateur psychologizing is riskv. Almost every normal person has in him. for ex¬ ample, some traits associated with the obsessive- compulsive neurotic — a person impelled to behave in certain ritualistic ways and think certain pat¬ terned thoughts. He may feel he needs to wash his hands so many times a day. He may be fanatically Collier's, February 28, 1953

Page 598

14 I'ren happy, ambitious or devoted families may be neurotic , accordiny to a prominent neat and orderly, always on time, formal, obsessed by the importance of even minor duties. 1 he voluminous writings ol social case workers and clinical psychiatrists include descriptions of hundreds ol lamilies that show' these traits in their daily living. Olten only the dominant member of the family is a true compulsive, yet the whole fam- il> hie acquires the pattern. Even alter the com¬ pulsive dies, the family may continue that way. lake the Gottlieb Hinklers (again, not the real name). Hinkler is a tall, severe, red-faced man of lortv. C aptain in an armed-guard service, he is excessively proud ol his unilorm and his job, and is neat to the point where he will miss lunch to stop at the tailor’s and have an imaginary spot removed. He is harsh with loiterers or boys playing near his hank and speaks of them as trash and rilfrall. M rs Hinkler has adopted his attitude and ear¬ ned u over into child rearing. “My children are respectable, “ she says. “Ihev’re clean, they play quietly, and they make fine grades at school. I’m proud of them.*' And she smirks a little. Actually, her children have nevei been allowed the normal privilege ol being noisy 01 messy. The kids are al¬ ready in emotional trouble. I he girl is a severe nail biter, the boy stammers badly. Hinkler and his wile don’t have much ol a sex life. He daydreams a lot about sex, but his household doesn't approve of sexual love or even everyday expressions of af¬ fection these are too slobbery. 1 he semoi Hinklers will probably go through life without anv senous to lapse But the daughter in another 10 years may be a Ingid woman who permits no vva mth in her own marriage, and the boy, a stammering, hashtul mislit, living a hie of clean and germless routine. The Hinklers are an extreme case. But in a study of nearly 400 middle-class lamilies in the Boston area, this compulsive pattern ol excessive worry about neatness, quietness and social con¬ formity turned up as a common source ol tension contributing to the maladjustments and troubles of the children in those families. A third major type of individual neurosis, in standard modern psyehintr), is that of infantile dependency. The child with this neurosis never grows up; he or she remains “tied to mother's apron strings.” Likewise, Dr. Schlossman has detected a family neurosis pattern of infantile dependency. The family takes the form of a matriarchy. That isn’t bad in itself, but a matriarchy can easily be¬ come too much of a good thing. “Long after the babies are weaned and grown,” Dr. Schlossman explains, “Mama is still psycho¬ logically feeding and sheltering them. And her husband too — and her in-laws, if they live there.” A Family in Which “Mama Is All” Jack and Joan Berheim and their two sons are a good example of the family with an infantile- dependency neurosis. Jack was tied to his own mother. When she picked the girl she wanted him to marry, he accepted her choice. Joan was a strong-willed person who had dreamed of a med¬ ical career for herself; but when their first child came, she switched the dream to Jack. She nagged him into studying medicine, helped pay the bills by teaching school, labored mightily to assist him in his studies, ran the house without help, petted him when he was discouraged. Today he is a doc¬ tor, although not a great one, completely devoted to Joan. He relics on her in every way, lets her handle all the finances, buy the furniture, arrange their vacations, select their friends. What’s so bad about that? Joan's children are no longer underfoot; so now, besides teaching, she is active in a cultural group and a number ol welfare organizations. She unself¬ ishly pours out her time and energy on these things. What's bad about that? Son Bill, at nineteen, has become independent and disrespectful; he doesn't spend any more time at home than absolutely necessary. But eleven- year-old Junior is the darling of his mother's heart; he adores her and would rather help her with the dishes than play football. Nothing really terrible there, either, is there? Of course not. The Berheims are getting along fine, and will continue to — so long as Mother is at hand to encourage, help pay the way, tell what to do. What would happen to Jack if she became ill or died is another thing; he might easily be broken, semihelpless. Bill has rebelled against the apron strings; that’s fine for him, but the girl he'll marry may pay for it through years of heavy-handed male domineering. Junior is likely to have some trouble establishing relations with the opposite sex; he may become a lonely bachelor or perhaps flit from one unsuccessful marriage to another. Yet another type of neurotic family is less com¬ mon, but almost all of us have seen it. This type of family may be called schizoid. Schizophrenia in¬ volves a withdrawal from the real world into a life of private fantasy. The schizoid family lives under one roof, has unbreakable ties one to the other — but doesn’t communicate. Each member minds his own busi¬ ness; the inner thoughts, hopes, worries, jobs, pro¬ motions and failures of one member are often unknown to the others. The wife doesn’t know about her husband’s job; he doesn’t know that she has a secret store of money; the children have their world away from home and tell their parents nothing about it. Some severe strain, some deep- seated fear or hate has poisoned this household; its members live far apart, though under one roof. Notice how often, when neurosis boils over into criminal conduct, the wife of the bank official who has absconded is completely flummoxed. She swears, honestly, she “had no idea he was in trouble or had been betting. He just never told me his business, and I didn’t try to find out.” Another type of neurotic pattern appears in the “adolescent family,” In the individual adolescent, such traits as exhibitionism, w'ild impulses, at¬ tempts to rebel at convention, and fear and panic in new situations generally disappear as he grows older. But in the adult — and in the family — they are abnormal traits. A man vve will call Joe Reagan is thirty-eight «i and the father of four. But he still acts like a teen-ager much of the time, and his family does likewise as a unit. Joe talks big about becoming an investment wizard, although he’s only an ac- Collier’s for February 28, 1933 <(

Page 599

15 ifehiairist. ISat he stiffs there art‘ irtnjs to .\/> of l/i<» mental trouble — anti eorreet it countant in Wall Street. He gets violent but short¬ lived enthusiasms for new subjects. When the kids in his neighborhood start to play football, Joe gets right in there with them, although he usually comes home sick and sore. Any one of the Reagans may get a sudden wild urge to go places — and away the family goes, splurging $30 or $40 for a fancy steak dinner, or shooting $100 on a week end at the shore, never allowed for in their tight budget. None of the Reagans can ever be counted on to show up lor a meal — but then meals are never at the same hour. The house usually looks like a college dormitory the morning after the big party. The neighbors swear the Reagans have at least five times as many fights and tantrums per week as any other family in the block. Joe’s wife, when Joe goes of! to play poker and she's fed up, calls in a baby sitter and slips out for a couple of hours at a nearby dance hall; she’s still pretty, and she flirts with any men around. Then, about eleven, she hurries home, feeling exhilarated and young. Another pattern is that of the sado-masochistic family. One partner is the sadist — enjoying the power and ability to punish and embarrass the other. The other partner complains, but actually wants to be dominated. It may seem an ideal mat¬ ing — but it isn’t ideal for their children. The masochist, especially if it is the mother, may be excessively harsh with some of her children by way of getting even and letting off steam; yet she may spoil a baby boy who represents an ideal man she never could find. The older children may tor¬ ment the younger; the younger may store up resent¬ ment; and in general the whole family will have tremendous and perilous tensions. Dr. Robert Felix, director of the National Insti¬ tutes of Health, research division of the U.S. Public Health Service, estimates that about 9,000,000 Americans — nearly 6 per cent of our population — are suffering from some form of mental illness and need treatment. Add to this the huge propor¬ tion of routine physical ailments and diseases which doctors generally agree are caused by emotional disorders, and the picture is staggering. There is one psychiatrist per 18,500 persons in this country — about 1,060 mentally ill persons per psychiatrist. That’s absurdly inadequate. How can you put out a forest lire with a handful of men? You can’t. The answ'er is to avoid the fire. This reasoning led to the inclusion of preventive psychiatry in the health-maintenance experiment set up at Montcfiore Hospital a few years ago to sec how much extra help, both curative and preven¬ tive, a family would need to keep at the peak of its potential health. The experimenters hope to dis¬ cover eventually how much agony, money and ef¬ fort could be saved by heading off diseases or curing them in their early stages. Bailey B. Burritt, Executive Secretary of the Health Maintenance Committee of the Community Service Society of New York, and Dr. Martin Chcr- kasky, director of Montcfiore Hospital, decided at the outset of the project that since most emotional disorders can he traced to early childhood, a com¬ plete family health program should include pre¬ ventive psychiatry. The program now includes child-rearing guidance, social case-work counseling and small doses ot psychiatric probing. The pur¬ pose is to immunize the family against emotional disorders, much as a physician vaccinates a child against bacterial infection. A Health-Maintenance Phut at Work In a building across the street from Montcfiore, a group of doctors provides regular medical care for Bronx subscribers to HIH {Health Insurance Plan), a prepaid medical program primarily for New York City employees. In addition, a selected group of 60 HIP families gets all the services of the health-maintenance experiment, over and above HIP benefits, at the Community Service Society's expense. 1 his project, known officially as the Fam¬ ily Health Maintenance Demonstration, eventually will include 150 test families, plus 150 ‘'control'’ families which do not get the added health services. Each test family on joining the Montcfiore proj¬ ect is studied by a phvsician, pediatrician, social case worker, public-health nurse, psychologist and various consultants. After hours of physical ex¬ aminations. study of the home situation, interviews and discussions, this team confers about the fam¬ ily and tries to diagnose its basic structure, prob¬ lems and needs for adjustment and treatment (if any). In five or ten years, by comparing these test families with the control families getting general medical care only, Montcfiore researchers hope to find out, among other things, exactly how much family mental-health services and preventive psy¬ chiatry can help promote over-all well-being. The techniques of preventive psychiatry are nothing new. But at Montcfiore they are applied not just to a troubled individual as is customary, but to his whole family; not when the trouble is critical, but early; not by one therapist, but by a balanced team of specialists which collectively sees the family in true perspective. It is in this approach that the family -neurosis theory may help. Dr. Schlossman is convinced that spotting the family neurotic pattern will simplify the over-all job of locating the familv's problems and their real causes, and thereby the job ol most efficiently try ing to ease them. How many other family neuroses, besides those already detailed, may eventually be discerned no one knows at the moment. You can theoiize that family neuroses may be discovered which will be comparable to those which, in the individual, are called hypochondria (worry about one’s health), neurasthenia (emotional exhaustion), chrome in¬ validism and paranoia (delusions of persecution). But there is no way of knowing yet whether all the neuroses which appear in individuals exist on the lamily level. In addition, there mav be family neuroses for which the name of no individual neu¬ rosis is adequate. The whole concept is new. Many psychiatrists mav disagree as violently with the lamily neurosis theory as doctors did nearly 70 years ago with 1 rends first pronounce¬ ments on the indiv idual neurosis. Some, inev itablv . will regard it merely as a clever gimmick. I hose who have viewed it dispassionately , however, agiee that it may ultimately make a major contribution to the improvement of mental health. PHOTOGRAPH FOR COLLIER’S BY MAURICE BAUMAN

Page 600

MAJOR LEAGUE PENNANT PICKS National League 1. BROOKLYN 2. NEW YORK 3. ST. LOUIS 4. PHILADELPHIA 5. CHICAGO 6. CINCINNATI 7. BOSTON 8. PITTSBURGH American League 1. NEW YORK 2. CLEVELAND 3. CHICAGO 4. PHILADELPHIA 5. BOSTON 6. DETROIT 7. WASHINGTON 8. ST. LOUIS Our fearless forecaster foretells the future with bin horsehide-eovered crystal ball. Now lie awaits the season^ start, and vindication — or abdication World S pries Winner BROOKLYN fa TONG-RANGE predictions are about as reliable as a politicians promise. So it is without a J guarantee ot any sort that Collier's presents its 1953 Baseball Preview. There is, however, the persisting hope that the combination of a crystal ball, slightly cracked, and a seer in the same condi¬ tion ma\ turn out to be luckv. Baseball ironed out most of its immediate prob¬ lems at the winter meetings in Phoenix, practically eliminating b\ legislation the bonus spree, and reaching an agreement on interleague waiver rules, to stop the \earl\ flow of Johnny Mizes, Johnny Sains and Lwell Blackwells to the Yankees. 1 he tormer waiver rule permitted a player waived out ol his own league to be auctioned oil to the rival loop as Blackwell was last year. New' York got the Reds' right-hander for a reported $50,000, amid howls ( especially from Hank Greenberg, C lev eland's general manager) that the rich Bomb¬ ers were buving the pennant. Now, when all teams agree t > let a plaver go out ot their league, clubs in the other league will have the opportunity to claim him at the interleague waiver price of $10,000, the club lowest in the standings getting first whack. I he new bonus restrictions prevent any player who receives more than $4,000 in salary and bonus lor signing a contract to be moved in any direction for two years, unless he is released unconditionally. Ballplayers are still going into military service and leaving it, but most of the flow is in the lower leagues. No veterans are expected to be recalled to service, as was the case with Ted Williams and Jerry Coleman last year. The most prominent major-leaguer to go into service since '52 was Dick Groat, the kid who came of! the Duke University campus to play a fine game at short for Pittsburgh last summer. "The draft is still taking lots of players from baseball,” explained George Weiss, general man¬ ager of the Yanks, “but not many name players. I he pinch is being felt in the minors, where the players are younger.” Among the prominent returnees this year will be Weiss's own Eddie Ford, the little southpaw who sparked the Yankees' 1950 pennant drive. In the shuttle service which is being maintained between the majors and the services, no fewer than 45 big-leaguers, headed by Ford, are returning after serving their hitches, leaving 48 in service. Cleveland is getting back six players, the most important of whom is Bob Kennedy; he was a reg¬ ular outfielder before the Marines recalled him last spring. Johnny Antonelli, one of the earliest bonus babies, returns to try his pitching skills with the Braves, as does Del Crandall, a catcher of more than ordinary promise. Still another important re¬ turnee is Danny O’Connell, Pirate shortstop, who was voted the most valuable player in the National Baseball Congress tournament at Wichita, Kansas, last summer. Willie Mays, the sensational center fielder of the Giants, who was called up early last season, has applied for a release on the grounds of hardship, listing an even dozen dependents. Willie didn’t list Durocher among his dependents, but it’s a cinch Leo thinks the drafting of Mays was a distinct hardship on him. At this writing, Mays’s case is still under advisement by the Department of the Army. The one problem still likely to haunt organized baseball is that of TV, and the matter of sharing sponsors’ fees with have-not visiting clubs. No current solution gives promise of permanently re¬ lieving this headache. Television, bonus, waivers, military service. 16 Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 601

HATTING CHAMPIONS Amoricnii League National Lonmin* MANTLE, Yonkers Ml.'SIAL, Cardinals Home Kurt Kings DOBY, Indians KISKK, Pirates 20-GAME WINNERS BYRD, Athletics GARCIA, Indians CARVER, Tigers LEMON, Indians SIIANTZ, Athletics WYNN, Indians BLACK, Dodgers IIACKER, Cubs MAC LIE, Giants MIZELL, Cardinals ROBERTS, Chillies SIMMONS, Phillies AliL-STAR TEAMS \ui<*ri<\'iii League* Nalinn.’il I ramie ROBINSON, Athletics IB HODGES, Dod ge rs Y\ ILA, Indians 2B ROBINSON. Dodgers R ( )S EN , Indians 3B M V I HEW S, Braves CARR YSQCEE, White Sox SS MrMIEEA V Reds M YNTEE, Yankees OF Ml SI YE. Cardinals 1 )OB Y, Indians OF SNIDER, Dodgers MINOSO, W hite Sox OF KINER. Pirates BERRA, Yankees C CAM PAN ELLA, Dodgers *v How about some baseball? Sit still and hold your hats. It will be the Yankees and Dodgers in the World Series in 1953 with the pennant races pretty much following the 1952 script. There’ll be this important exception, however: Brooklyn will win the World Series for the first time in history. That appraisal, like all others in this preview, was reached after weeks of interviewing and cross- examining baseball executives, managers, players, scouts and umpires. In almost every case, however, a liberal discount was allowed for personal preju¬ dice. At least four executives assured me positively and unequivocally that their own club couldn’t miss winning the pennant in its league. In the 1952 Preview, Cleveland was picked to win the American League pennant on the theory that the Yankees couldn’t make it four straight, particularly without Joe DiMaggio. Only two man¬ agers in history ever had won four straight pen¬ nants until Casey Stengel turned the trick last September (John McGraw with the Giants of 1921-’22-’23-’24 and Joe McCarthy with the Yankees of 1936-’37-’38-’39) . The Yankees having proved that, so far as they are concerned, the law of averages was repealed along with prohibition, RALPH KINER — Pirates I’ll step right up and name Stengel as the first man¬ ager in history to win five straight. Ford’s return from the Army gives the Yankees another starter behind Allie Reynolds (20-8), Vic Raschi (16-6) and Eddie Lopat (10-5). Whitey was 9-1 with the Yankees after he joined them in midseason of 1950 and should be able to pick up where he left off. It is Stengel’s preseason plan — subject to change, like all of Casey’s machinations — to start his vet¬ erans, Reynolds, Raschi and Lopat, once a week. All are thirty-four years old. The Yankee boss ex¬ pects to take up the slack with Ford and some of the younger pitchers: Jim McDonald (3-4), Tom Gorman (6-2) and Bob Kuzava (8-8). A1 Cicotte, a big right-hander, who was with Binghamton and Kansas City last year, also may help. His combined won-lost record, 8-9, was not impressive, but he fanned a total of 148 in 128 innings. Mickey Mantle, who came along in amazing style last year, should again star in center field. The chief Yankee concerns are at first and third, and about the durability of the thirty-four-ycar-old Phil Rizzuto at short. The fifth outfielder to back up Mantle, Gene Woodling (.309), Hank Bauer NED CARVER — Tigers LOWELL HESS (.293) and Irv Noren (.237) will be picked from Bill Renna, who hit .295 last season at Kansas City, and Dutch Schult, .303 at Binghamton in 1950, his last year before entering service. Andy Carey, the bonus player from St. Man’s College in California, will get another whack at third, where Gil McDougald's average dropped more than 40 points to .263. Carey looked great in Florida in 1952. but faded when the season opened and was returned to Kansas City, where he batted .282. Brooklyn doesn't seem to have as many obstacles barring its pennant path as the Yankees do. Save the perennial one, pitching. If Charley Dressen goes through with his promise to use the sensa¬ tional Joe Black (15-4) both as a starter and re¬ liever, the Negro ace could win 20. Brooklyn's pitchers, even though they pitched only 45 com¬ plete games among them last season, were second only to the Phillies’ stall' in earned-run averages. The Dodger hurling corps runs to quantity , w ith fellows like Preacher Roe (11-2), Billy Loes (13-8), Carl Erskine (14-6), Clem Labine (8-4), Ben Wade (1 1-9) and John Rutherford (7-7). The first break in what President Walter O'Mai- Collier’s for February 28, 1953 17

Page 602

18 Opf tfttt.s'tit is ridiniiif/ hitfh. An A's official predicts the team's first pennant in 22 Daryl Spencer Harvey Kuenn Icy was fond of referring to as “Brooklyn’s solid eight' meaning his nonpitching regulars — oc¬ curred in January, when Andy Pafko was traded to the Boston Braves lor cash in excess of $50,- 000. 1 he money will fill nicely a gaping hole in the Dodger receipts, and Dressen hopes that the hole in the outiield will be filled by Dick Williams or George (Shotgun) Shuba, the dynamic pinch hitter of '5 2, or maybe a youngster up from Montreal. In this latter category are Jim Pendelton and pos- sibl\ Junior Gilliam, who is on the Montreal roster and doubles as an infieldcr-outfielder. The trading of Pafko was inevitable. Duke Snider and Gil Hodges are the onlv Dodger reg¬ ulars under thirt>, and OMajlev, with a wealth of youngsters on his farm clubs, has no intention of allowing the Dodgers to grow decrepit en masse. Cleveland, which lost the American League pen¬ nant by two games last year, again figures to chase the Yankees home. Manager A1 Lopez has excep¬ tional pitching with Mike Garcia (22-11), Bob Lemon (22-1 1 ) and Early Wynn (23-12). He may get some help from two Negro hurlers: Sam Jones, who had a bad arm last year, and Dave Hoskins ( 22- 10 ) . who pitched 280 innings for Dallas in ’52, walked only 70 and allowed only four home runs. \\ here tin* Indians* \\ eaknoss Lien 1 he Indians have the power, all right, with Dale Mitchell (A23), A1 Rosen (.302)’ and Bobby Avila 1.300), and the leading American League home-run hitter. Lurry Doby (32). At that, Doby hit only one homer more than Luke Easter, his teammate. 1 he Indians, however, are not tight defensively. T hey made lewer double plays than ny team in the American 1 eague, 141 against the Yankees’ 100. Behind the Yankees and Indians, the American I eague promises to present a fine scramble, with anv one ol live clubs the White Sox, Athletics, Red Sox. Senators and I lgers — having a shot at tluid plaec Arthur Lhlers. general manager o! the A’s. ulieudv is willing to be quoted on his belief that Philadelphia will have its first American 1 eague pennant winner in 22 years. The Athletics have two potential 20-game winners in Bobby Shunt/ (24-7) and Harry Byrd (15-15); a new power h n ter m Eddie Robinson (.206), garnered in the midwinter trade for Lems Lam; and a world ol enthusiasm. But somehow all this still doesn’t seem to ad 1 up to third place. 1 he pick here is Paul Kic hauls' White Sox, piovided Chico Car- l asquel ( .24s i makes a comeback at shortstop. L arrasquel. who sullered a broken finger, an in¬ crease in pound ge and a 16-pomt decrease in his batting average I, st summer, has been wowing the winter-league tans in his native \ ene/uela. just as Minnie Minoso has in ( uba. Minnie’s average dipped too in '52. Irom .>26 in '5 1 to .281. Prank Lane, general manager of the Sox, is confident that C hico and Minnie are due for re¬ juvenation and that, with Lain, it all adds up to a faster club. “W’e'll have more men on base and get more runs. We think we have a chance for the pennant, and we're going to go all out," Lane declared. “And I think 1 got a real steal when I picked up Mike Fornieles from Washington. He could be our fourth starting pitcher.’’ Fornieles came to Washington from Havana last September and opened up by pitching a one-hitter against the Athletics, winning 5-0. Mike is only twenty and apparently has a full complement of stulf speed, curve, sinker and, above all, fine con¬ trol. He pitched effective winter ball in Havana. Ked Sox Can Win in Their Own Park The A’s are doped for fourth, and the Red Sox, who were picked sixth in the 1952 Preview and finished there, are advanced to fifth, mainly on the strength of their ability to win at Fenway Park, Detroit, the flop of 1952, should advance from its first cellar-finish in history to sixth, with Washing¬ ton, one of last year’s surprises, tabbed for seventh, Bueky Harris did an outstanding job with the Sen¬ ators, but the club is such a low-scoring unit that a prolonged slump is a constant threat. 1 he strength of the Senators still seems to be in their Yankee alumni: pitchers Bob Porterfield (13-14) and Frank Shea (11-7), and outfielder Jackie Jensen, who hit .280. Outside of Wayne Terwilliger, the e.\-Dodger and Cub, who batted .3 1 2 at St. Paul, and Leslie Peden, a catcher drafted from Los Angeles (.279), Washington hasn’t added much. Trades, of course, can alter the final standings. Philadelphia could make another deal for Eddie Robinson and try to get by with Tommy Hamilton, up from Savannah (.342) in the Sally League, al¬ though it might be too big a jump. General man¬ ager Lane says Fain, whom New York would like to land, will stay with Chicago, so the Yankees may try to bag Robinson. Lou Boudreau isn’t kidding himself about the job in front of him in Boston, “We’ll have a pennant chance — in 1955,” is his public statement, and he may not be even that optimistic in private. The Tigers expect better pitching from Art Houtteman (8-20), who had a bad year after a personal tragedy, the death of his infant daughter in a preseason automobile accident, Ned Garver, who was great with the Brow ns in ’51 before being traded to Detroit, seems to have recovered from his arm trouble and certainly will improve over his 8-10 record. The Browns have been abuilding — to a degree, particularly with the acquisition of Bill Hunter (.284), Fort Worth shortstop, who was the Texas League's most valuable player. Hunter, who cost Bill Veeek $92,000, according to Veeck, should stabilize an improving infield. But there still doesn't seem much hope for the Browns to finish out of the cellar. \ eeck himself violently disagrees with this esti¬ mate. “My Indians in 1948 were the last club to stop the Yankees,” says Bill, “and my Browns will be the first club to stop them the next time.” He didn’t say in what year, though. Brooklyn's bid in the National League will re¬ ceive spirited opposition from at least three clubs: the Giants, Phils and Cardinals. The Giants’ Leo Durocher and Eddie Stanky of the Cards have made identical preseason statements, to wit: “I have the best pitching staff in the league.” Their enthusiasm is understandable, but it does seem that the Phils with Robin Roberts (28-7), Curt Sim¬ mons (14-8) and Karl Drews (14-15) may have the National’s best mound corps. Certainly, it was the best for the last half of 1952, when the Phils, with Steve O'Neill replacing Eddie Sawyer as man¬ ager, played the finest ball in the league. On July 5th, the Phils had won 33 games and lost 39, and were 17 games behind the Dodgers. But they finished up with an 87-67 mark. After July 4th they played at nearly a .667 clip, cutting seven and a half games from the Brooklyn lead. Splitting out the three Dodger rivals is a difficult assignment, but the preview gives the top nod to the Giants because they'll have Monte Irvin s pow¬ erful bat all season, and there’s the probable return to form of Larry Jansen, only 11-11 last season, and a stronger bench, Sam Calderone is back from the Army to help Wes Westrum (.221) with the catching, and there are at least three good rookies coming up: Daryl Spencer, who hit .294 and 27 homers with Minneapolis; Ranee Pless, .364 at Nashville, and Bill Taylor, who is expected to be released from service in time for spring training. Taylor, a bat-left, throw-right outfielder, hit .346, with 30 homers, at Sioux City in 1950. Spencer is a shortstop and Pless a third baseman. Both bat right-handed. Eddie Stanky was voted manager of the year for finishing third w ith the Cardinals last year, though Marty Marion had been bounced for finishing in the same spot with the Redbirds the year before. In all fairness, both did equally good jobs. And Stanky will have more pitching in ’53 than he had a year ago. Vinegar Bill Mizell ( 10-8) could be the league’s best southpaw. Gerry Staley (17-14) is a work horse. Stu Miller (6-3) and Harvey Haddix (2-2) are promising rookies who came up at the fag end of the season. In addition, Alpha Brazle ( 12-5) and Eddie Yuhas (12-2) make up the best one-two relief corps in the league. The Cards, in addition to the pitching, will get catching help from Dick Rand (.256) who proved a fine receiver at Columbus and then did great work with Havana in the Cuban winter league. They have a good second-base combination in Red Schoendienst (.303) and Solly Hemus (.268), and will have a hard-hitting third sacker in Ray Jablon- ski, who batted .302 and knocked in 100 runs for Rochester. And there is always Stan Musial (.336) and the seemingly indestructible thirty-seven-year- old Country Slaughter (.300). First base is a problem, since playing Musial there weakens the outfield. Steve Bilko gets another chance at the bag. He hit ,322 at Rochester. Philadelphia comes up with a promising pitcher, right-hander Paul Stuffel, who has fanned more than 1,100 batters during six years in the minors, but who has trouble with his control. The Phils could use another outfielder, and more punch at second and third, Connie Ryan (.241 ) and Willie Jones (.250) haven't carried their share of the load. Cubs Should Be in First Division After finishing eighth in three of the previous four seasons, the Cubs showed signs of an upsw ing last season. Now they may definitely be regarded as one of the National League clubs which is over the rebuilding hump and on the way back to pen¬ nant contention. Hank Sauer’s home runs and the pitching of Warren Hacker ( 15-9), Bob Rush (17- 13) and Paul Minner (14-9) stamp the Cubs as a first-division possibility. Dee Fondy, who hit .300 at first base last year, may find himself pressed by Preston Ward, returning serviceman, who hit .253 in a half season w ith the Cubs in 1950. With both Ward and Fondy on deck, there is the possibility of a trade with the Cardinals. Rogers Hornsby made some strides with Cincin¬ nati last season, but he doesn’t seem to have enough there to get the Reds home any higher than sixth. He is certain to get improved pitching from Eddie Erautt (27-6), who was on option at Kansas City. Roy McMillan (.244) is one of the best fielding shortstops in baseball, Ken Raffensberger (17-13) is more dependable than his record indicates, and Ted Kluszewski (.321) seems to have come all the way back at first base. Hornsby, of course, is hoping that it wasn’t all a mirage when Jim Greengrass came up from the Texas League last September and began spraying base hits all over the premises. He batted .309 and hit five home runs in 18 games, including a grand- slammer against the Dodgers. Rog also expects the veteran Willard Marshall (.261) to show some of his old pow er. In direct contrast to the Cubs, the Boston Braves are still in the process of rebuilding. There may be Collier’s for February 28, 1953 1

Page 603

19 (.sons. Ami Hill VeecU says beware of the Hrowns. Hal he doesn't say in ichat year pitching help for manager Charley Grimm in Gene Conley (1 1-4) and Don Liddle ( 17-4), a pair who ran one-two in strike-outs with Milwaukee in the American Association. Bob Mainzer, an infielder from Wichita Falls (.326) also may help. Grimm can count too on Pafko, and the veteran Sid Gor¬ don (.289) and young Hd Mathews (.242). Gordon and Mathews each hit 25 homers in *52, and, with Pafko, they should give the Braves some punch. Another Year in Cellar for Pirates? While the outlook isn’t bright for the Braves, they should have no difficulty staying ahead of Pitts¬ burgh. Branch Rickey’s youth movement, which eventually will pay off for the Pirates as he made it do in other years for the Cards and Dodgers, is still a long way from getting the club out of the cellar. The most likely of all the Pirate prospects is hardly a member of the youth movement. He is thirty-six-year-old Johnny Lindell, the ex-Yankee outfielder whose knucklcball gave him a 24-9 rec¬ ord at Hollywood last year. Also coming up is Carlos Bernier (.301), a Hollywood outfielder, who stole 65 bases in the Coast League. Another member of the Stars who will be re¬ united with Fred Haney, the new Bucco skipper, is the onetime $100,000 bonus baby, Paul Pettit (15-8), who is gradually becoming >i pitcher in¬ stead ot a thrower, f rank 1 homas, an outfielder who hit 35 homers and batted 303 for New Or leans, may help more than Bernier. If Ralph Kiner (.244) is traded, the players obtained lor him will compensate for the absence of his hom¬ ers, but not enough to boost the Bucs up. Elsewhere on these pages you'll find a list of the most highly touted rookies of 1953. It is custom¬ ary for the preview to select the newcomer in each league most likely to be named the most outstand¬ ing, a task at least as hazardous as going over Ni¬ agara f alls in a barrel. I he American League pick this year is Harvey Kuenn, who is a cinch to be the Detroit shortstop — unless he breaks a leg, Kuenn, twice classified 4F by his Milwaukee draft board, played !9 games with the Tigers last year, not enough to disqualify him as a rookie. The draft board twice turned down Kuenn be¬ cause of a knee injury sustained playing high- school football. A National League scout didn’t hesitate to call Harvey the best-looking infielder he had seen in years. "Dick Groat came right from Duke and played fine ball with the Pirates in our league,” said the scout, “and this kid is a better ballplayer than Groat,” Kuenn came into the I i *er or’ ni/ »t n -tie' completing his junior >ear .it the l i .eis.l> Wisconsin, and received a sp nkine bit bo s He reported to Davenport in the Ih cc I ve I t .b*jc- and did well (.340) before moving on to Dctr late last season where he batted 32^ Big -nd rangy, Kuenn will remind old-timers cspcu.mv Pirate fans of Glenn Wright at shi rtstop His closest American 1 eague competition ■ot tre^hr. .in honors will come from another rookie shortstop Bill Hunter of the Browns. 1 he choice for the National l cague s top rookie would be comparative!) simple it vou c* u Id dis¬ cover in advance what the Giants are going to do with Dar\l Spencer. A big tcllow (six cut two 180 pounds), the twenty-three-\ ear-old Spencer has some ot the Giant scouts talking . bout pi vine him at shortstop and moving Captain Alvin Dark to second or third, an amazing recommendation considering how well Dark has done at short. Spencer is a great ground-covcrcr and thrower, and hits the long ball — 27 homers at Minneapolis last season. Durochcr will simply have to find room tor Spencer, possibly at third base. A “sleeper” not listed on the major-league ros¬ ters is Bill Skowron. infielder-ouifielder from the Yankees' farm at Kansas City (.341). Skowron finished red-hot in the American Association, and if he keeps going in the spring, he may wind up a Bomber regular. He’ll get plenty of attenuon at the Yankee school at Lake Wales, Florida. Players not on the roster have a way of popping into major-league line-ups, too. One to be watched is Jim (Junior) Gilliam, whom the Dodgers have at Montreal, where he batted .301. Junior is sup¬ posed to be the eventual successor to Jackie Robin¬ son, but he also can play the outfield. The Brooks, by the way, will have six other potential players be¬ sides Gilliam who are not on the roster of the parent club. They arc pitchers Johnny Podrcs, Ronnie Lee, Bob Millikcn and Glenn Mickens; outfielder Vic Marasco, and catcher Ken Staples. Two Who Lived Up to Expectations Turning to established performers. Collier's 1 953 Preview bows gratefully to Stan Musial of the Cardinals and Ralph Kiner of the Pirates. Musial stood up for the 1 952 Preview by leading the league for the third straight time and the sixth time in his career, while Kiner hit 37 homers to tic with the Cubs’ Hank Sauer for the lead in that department and thus set a record of his own. Ralph has led or tied the National League in home runs for every one of his seven seasons. Musial and Kiner arc the picks again. Yogi Berra, chosen last year to become the first catcher in history to be a home-run king, trailed Larry Doby for the honors by two. Now the Clev e¬ land center fielder is picked to lead the American League in homers again and probably to improve on last year’s mark of 32. No American Leaguer has led the league in home runs twice in a row since Ted Williams turned the trick in 194 1 -’42. George Kell, who was picked to lead the A. I . in batting in 1952, was injured in September and finished third to Ferris Fain, leader for the second successive year. Peering into the crystal ball, the 1953 Preview comes up with Mickey Mantle of the Yankees, whose speed and power should go a long way to¬ ward putting him on top of the league in '53. Pitchers who have a 20-game potential in the American l eague are Bobby Shantz and Harry Byrd of the Athletics; Mike Garcia, Bob Lemon and Early Wynn of the Indians, and Ned Garvcr of the Tigers. In the National League, it wouldn’t take much of a push to put Joe Black ol the Dodg¬ ers in the 20-game class. Others with good pros¬ pects are Sal Maglie of the Giants; Robin Roberts and Curt Simmons of the Phils; Bill Mizell of the Cards, and Warren Hacker of the Cubs. And now, Officer, all right; 1 11 go quietly. Name, Club 1953 ROOKIES TO WATCH * 0 j- CQ H Ht- Wt. Born Home 1952 Club PITCHERS \V-L •AL CICOTTE, Yankee s R-R 6*3" lao 1929 Mclvlndale, Mich. Kansas City 4-7 •GENE CONLEY, Braves R.R 6'8" 22S 1930 Richland, Wash. M il waukee 11-4 •UAL EltlCKSON, Tigers R-R 6'5" 200 1920 Syracuse, N. Y, Dallas 20-14 •ED ER.ALTT, Reds R-R 6' 1 85 1924 Portland, Oro. Kansas City 27-6 •MIKE FORMELES, If hit# Sox R-R S'll" 1 S3 19.3.3 Havana, Cuba 11 a vane 14-12 •FRICK FR1CANO, Athletic s R-R 6* 175 1923 N. Collin*, N. Y. Ottawa 17-8 •ALVA HOLLOMAN, Broun- R-R 6'2" 209 1926 Macon, Ga, Syracuse 16-7 DA\ E HOSKINS, Indiant L-R 6'1" 180 1925 Flint, Mich. Dallas 22-10 ROR KEEGAN, White Sox R-R 6'3" 207 1921 Rochester, N. Y. Syracuse 20-11 •DON LIDDLE, Braves L-L S'lO" 165 1926 Mt. Cnrmel, Ill. M ilwaukce 17-4 PALL STL FEEL, Phillies R.R 6' 180 1922 Canton, O. Baltimore 11-10 GEORGE U11AZE, Red Sox R-R s'n” 1H3 1929 Trenton, N. J. Alhnny 18-10 CATCHERS B.A. •JOHN RLCI1 A, Tigers R-R 6' 185 1925 Danlelsvllle, Pa. Rochester .284 •LESLIE PF.DEN, Senators R-R 6'2" 220 1926 Pheniv City, Ala. Los Angeles .279 ♦J. W. PORTER, Tigers R-R 6'2" 180 19.32 Shawnee, Okla. Colorado Springs .340 •DICK HAND, Cardinals R-R 6'1" 175 1931 San Diego, Cal. Columhiis .256 AL ROBERTSON, Yankees R-R 5'9" 18S tw 05 Peoria, 111. Binghamton .303 CHARLEY THOMPSON, Dodgers L-R S'll" 180 1925 Coal port, Pa. M ontrenl .303 FIRST BASEMEN BOB ROYD, White Sox L-L S'9" 167 1926 Memphis, Tcnn. Sacramento .320 •FRANK KELLEJIT, Brown. R.R 6'3" 185 1926 Oklahoma City, Okla. Oklahoma City .303 INFIELDERS LEON RR1NKOPF, Cobs R-R 6' 165 1927 Cnpo Girardeau, Mo. Los Angeles J238 DON llOAK, Dodgers R-R 6'1" 170 1928 Roulette, Pa, M ontreul .293 •111LL 11 INTER, Brown. R-R 6' 180 1928 Indiana, Pn. Ft. Worth .284 •RAY JAULONSK1, Cardinals R-R S'lO" 175 1926 Chicago, III. Rochester .302 • HARVEY KUENN, Tigers R-R 6'2" 185 19.30 Milwaukee, Win. Daven port .3 10 •BOli M A INZER, Braves R-R S'll" 170 1926 Wichita, Kans. Vi ivhitn Falls .326 ♦RANGE BLESS, Giants R-R S'll" 190 1923 Greenville, Tina. Nashville .364 •DARYL SPENCER, Giants R-R 6'2" 180 1929 Wichita, hunt. M inncapolls .291 DON ZIMMER, Dodgers R-R S'9" 165 19.31 Cincinnati, O. Mobile ,310 OUTFIELDERS CARLOS RERNIER, Pirates R-R 5 '9" 180 1928 Los Angeles, Cnl. Hollywood .301 HILL HR ETON, Braves L-R 6' 169 1929 Wilmington, Del. Milwaukee .325 •FRANK CARSWELL, Tigers R-R 6' 1 95 1919 Houston, Tex. Buffalo .,3 14 MIKE LUTZ, Inti inns R-R 6'1" 204 1 9.30 Warren, O. Reading .321 ♦JIM PENDKLTON, Dodgers R-R 6' 175 1926 St. Charles, Mo. Montreal J291 ♦HILL HENNA, Yankees R-R 6' ,3" 226 1 926 Oakland, Cal. Kansas City .295 ELDON REPULSK I. Cardinals R-R 6' 19.3 1929 Sank Rapid*, Minn. Rochester .296 • DUTCH SC11 LILT, Yankees R.R 6', 3" 2 10 1928 Scarsdale, N, Y, Binghamton (1950) ,,303 FRANK THOMAS, Pirates R-R 6'3" 200 1929 Pittsburgh, Pa. New Orleans ,.30.3 ♦111LL WILSON, White Sox R-R 6'2" 200 1928 Long Reach, Cal. Memphis (1930) .311 •BILL TAYLOR, Giants L-R 6'4" 215 1929 Arcadia, Cal. Sioux City (1950) .346 (*) Good chance of sticking. Collier’s for February 28, 1953

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Page 605

M * . 4l ' , FLIGHT OF THE GOLDEN PLOVER Bv SALLY CAKRICMAIt The lost bird had found refuse with the men. Now thev had to drive him away. Their lives depemled on it ■P*-* -/A IT HAPPENED suddenly that the golden plover, fly¬ ing along through the storm with his flock, was lost from them. In the dense cloud and the heavily fall¬ ing snow, none of the birds had been able to see more than two or three of the others. But they all felt the need to remain together, and they had kept in touch with one another by their whistled calls. In an attempt to escape to a clearer and thinner atmosphere, they dropped down from the cloud layer. Small, tattered scraps of fog were racing along at this low altitude. One of these maverick wraiths overtook the plover. When he came out of its darkness, he found that the flock and their voices had vanished. The bird’s clear, sweet piping became shriller. He flew more erratically as the sense ot his solitude over¬ whelmed him. It was not only companionship that was gone. He was young, with no memories to guide him on the hazardous venture ahead, and like all the flock he had depended upon the shared instinct, the sagacity of the group. Early that morning, the flock had set out from their breeding grounds beside Bering Strait. The birds were all immature, about two months old, and beginning what probably was the most perilous migration undertaken by any birds. The storm was already threatening when they left, and had soon caught up with them. The urge to go on was strong, but suddenly caution rose in their group consciousness: they would turn east, and when they were over land they would come down and wait out the storm. The single bird, fighting his way through the fragment of mist, had failed to sense what the others were doing and had continued south. By the time he was passing over the entrance to Nor¬ ton Sound, the coast was a hundred miles east ot him. Everywhere under him was the white boil of breaking waves. If he had been a diving bird, he could have adapted himself to the water’s movement. He could swim, but if his plumage were to become waterlogged, he would be trapped on the sea, his wings useless. I hat would certainly happen if he tried to take refuge on the tumbling billows. As he did not find the land he expected, he turned west again, over the Bering Sea. He came down close to the water, seeking a quiet area where he could alight and rest. His legs dropped for a landing from their trailing position beneath his tail, but he was warned away by the scud blowing off the waves. He swung up to a higher al¬ titude. Now, however, the temperature was falling, and the sticky snow’s moisture was freezing upon his feathers. Its weight forced him to greater elTort. He could not con¬ tinue much longer without relief. FOR the first wrecks of his life this plover had been a land bird entirely . He had been hatched in a shallow nest on one of the terraces of Wales Mountain, and had at once started exploring the mosses and lichens in search of his insect food. By the time his parents left for the south with the rest of the golden plover adults, the young bird was ready to leave the mountain and spend his davs on the sandspit that spread its wide shining beach from the strait up into the Arctic Ocean. There he fed on the snails and pelagic worms that were stranded b> tides. Of all the birds, dozens in kind and thousands in num¬ ber, then gathering on that coast, the plovers were the most elegant, both in the velvet black and bright gold of their plumage, and in their behavior. Like an egret or a peacock, the young male seemed a bird meant more for a park-like environment than the North’s vast, ice-bor¬ dered spaces. When he had run on his long black legs to a morsel of food, he would stand with raised head and his body erect, to listen, to wait. Rising into the air with his deep, measured wingbeats, he would fly wildly, circling, dropping, turning near somersaults on the curves. He was driven by a new impulse, irresistible but not vet fo¬ cused, not yet the clear command that would shortly make him ignore everything else except his need for southbound migration. The bird waited — and the (Continued on page 50) 21

Page 606

22 The SILLY SEASON By WILLARD H. TEMPLE The story of a man who laid claim to a cave before he’d captured his woman IN A WAY I suppose you could blame it on the car. But to be strictly honest, if it had been raining that Saturday afternoon, I wouldn’t have left my apartment to go for a walk; I wouldn’t have seen the car in the used-car lot; and I wouldn't have bought the car. Without a car I wouldn’t have asked Carol to go for a spin on Sunday; we wouldn’t have seen the model home, and I wouldn’t have proposed to her. I guess you could blame it on the weather. Spring, of course, is dangerous. Every year I could see its effect in the office. Hard-boiled execu¬ tives seemed to lose their grip. Guys would come in on a Monday morning saddled down suddenly with new responsibilities: houses in the country, gardens, dogs, rabbits, chickens, wives and babies. I was impervious to the stimulation; I had it licked. I won’t say I was completely unconscious of spring. I lamented the oyster disappearing from the menu and rejoiced in the appearance of straw¬ berries. Of course there is always a little excite¬ ment in the air, but it’s no problem to me. Then came that Saturday — one of those days when you feel you can lick your weight in purchas¬ ing agents. 1 leaned on the window sill of my apart¬ ment, breathed deep of the clear air, and decided to take a walk. Three blocks north and six blocks east I came upon the car in the used-car lot. It was newly painted, and the speedometer registered eleven thousand miles. It was a sporty-looking convertible. A guy in a sweat shirt and overalls came up to me. “Just browsing,” I told him. “Just passing by.” He seemed to understand. “Sweet little job,” he said. “Owned by an old lady. Never drove it over thirty miles an hour. Treated it like a watch.” All cars in used-car lots have previously been owned either by old ladies who never drove faster than thirty miles an hour or else by minisjters with the same disinterest in speed. The truth is, there’s no point in owning a car in the city where I live. A dilapidated city garage is approximately the price of a permanent suite in the best hotel. “How much you want for it?” I said. I was just curious, just killing time. An hour later 1 was saying to a cop on the other side of town, “I’m sorry, Officer; I just bought the car. I wanted to see if it had any pep.” It was spring — he let me off with a warning, and I drove downtown to a favorite restaurant of mine and then leisurely homeward after dark. I drove around my block four times and finally squeezed into a parking place. Up in my apartment I came to my senses and realized what I’d done. I figured that everyone is entitled to do something silly in the spring, and it * - “In the days before the world was civilized, primitive man went out with a club and socked his woman over the head,*’ I told Carol; and she said, “Get out of my way” ILLUSTRATED BY EARL CORDREY

Page 607

U.-v-vt * v'V/ ^ ' Very special delivery. W ln*n you serve a drink made vvit.li Four Roses, vou reallv deliver somethin'! extra- J X. special. Four Roses, you see. lias one (pialitv to be found in no other whiskey — the distinctive (lavor that has made this brand the first choice of millions. Wouldn't you rafher drink TburT3c£3S Frankfort Distillers Corporation. New York. Blended whiskey . 86.8 proof. 60( < grain neutral spirit rmjH BQ&nB

Page 608

24 ■ i jl> I " have been wohe, One of the vice- piLMdcnts in my company had bought a horse It was costing him so much money lor lood tor the horse t h t he was buying a fitty-thousand-dollar house in the country so he could raise his own lood lor the horse He was do¬ ing it to sa\e money, he told me a v ice-pi esident! I wasn i n that deep All I had was a secondhand car 1 could sell it back to the used car dealer. I'd have had some lun and sprme would have cost me a w h indred bucks, no more. I’d ttc h .ill easy . ^IMII next morning I rode around by l mysell lor a lew minutes Ob\ lously what the car needed, because it was an¬ other beautilul day, was a girl on the Iront seat beside me. I went o\er my list and thought of Carol right away. I here were one or two others who would look more spectacular, but Carol seemed to be the one that car called for. (jay and exciting, she was a little like spring herself We went to shows together in the winter, and we went dancing once in a while, and occasion¬ ally we had been together at week-end parties in the coun¬ try 1 stopped at a corner drug¬ store and telephoned her. She was in bed, but her mother woke her up. “I was out late,” she said. “What are you doing up so early?” “I bought a car yesterday,” i said “Would you like to take a ride? We eould have dinner on the road.” Hall an hour later, when I pulled up in Iront of the apart¬ ment where she lived with her folks, she was waiting on the sidewalk for me — a small girl, black-luured, wearing a skirt and sweater and saddle shoes, kx>king just like a kid playing hooky from school She thought the ear was simply beautiful. “Where do you want to go?” I said. “Somewhere in the country,” Carol said “We’ 1 lind a bosky dell. I packed a picnic lunch. ” She stowed it on the hack seat, and we were oil It turned out to be one of the nicest dates we'd ever had. About our m the afternoon, we thought wc wue heading lor home, but we weren’t su.c. because we were lost. " 1 here’s a sign up ahead in the shape of an arrow.” 1 said, but all the sign said was Model Home. Wc kept going, and in the woods we came upon a development of new homes Spring was at work there, also. Women were out with baby carriages, and guys were working on their lawns. I he houses were “ranch-style,” small but attractive. “Would you like to live in a place like this?” Carol said. “Not a chance,” 1 said. “Probably takes better than an houi to get to work. I aw ns to cut, sc i ceils to put up. no place to go ,it night Wiu want to go to a show or a ball game, it’s an expedition. I i\e out here, and vou’re trapped. I'm going to find out where we are.” The model home was the last house on the block. An old guy smoking a pipe stood out in tront. I asked him where we were and got directions on how to get back to the highwav. When I turned around, Carol was missing. “I believe your witc stepped inside.” the old guy said. “She’s not my wife.” I said. The old guy laughed. “Bashful?” he said. “Get in there and punch, son. She might say yes on a day like this.” “Hev, Carol,” I called, “let’s get go¬ ing,” hut she didn’t hear me, and 1 stepped inside the house. The model home was furnished. “Come and look in here.” Carol called from a distance. One of the two bedrooms was fur¬ nished as a nursery. “Isn’t this the cutest baby’s room you ever saw?” Carol said. “I wouldn't know,” I said, “I’m not a baby. T hat living room is pretty nice, though. Has a television set built right into the wall.” I went hack for another look. I could see myself sitting in the chair by the fireplace. Suddenly, like a vision, I could see Carol in the doorway, wear¬ ing an apron and telling me that supper was ready. And then Carol appeared. She didn’t have the apron, but I got chills just looking at her. In a sort of stupor I followed her out to the kitchen. Carol went into ecstasies over the blue-and- yellow color scheme. There was a breakfast nook in one corner, and I could see myself sitting there in the morning, Carol pouring me a last cup of coffee before I hurried of! to catch the train. “You selling this house furnished?” I said to the old guy, who had come in¬ side. I was just making conversation. “Either way,” he said. “Eighteen thousand unfurnished, or twenty-four thousand as she stands. You could move right in.” 4T was just asking,” I said hastily. “You know what I think?” the old guy said. “I think you kids ought to have this house.” Carol blushed. “We ought to leave before dark, Harry,” she said, “unless we want to get lost again.” ICOUI DN’T get out until I gave the agent my name and phone number. It was a little embarrassing driving home. I was overcome by a strange new emotion which left me speechless, and Carol was silent too, curled up on the seat like a kitten. 1 always kiss her good night; it's auto¬ matic. But this time I felt strange, and I hesitated. “It was a lovely day,” Carol said, and before I could recover she got out of the car and ran up the steps. A little of the magic went out of the air when Carol left. Then I got a snide sort ol thought. Carol was a wonderful girl and all that, hut with a girl, the ob¬ ject is matrimony. Maybe I’d been lost in the woods when we came upon that development, I thought, but maybe Carol knew where she was all the time. It was important to consider that, but all I could think of was how Carol looked in that house. -I began to un¬ derstand why our vice-president had bought a horse and why somebody else was raising chickens. In the spring a man really isn’t responsible. But coincidence can go just so far. It was Carol who had suggested that we drive out into the country and take a picnic lunch. Maybe she'd led me to the model home on purpose. It figured. I brooded about it. Tuesday morn¬ ing, at the office, I got a call from the old guy who had shown us the house and taken my number. “Don’t want to push you,” he said, “but I have another couple very much interested in that house. Been hack to look three times.” “I’m not interested in the house,” I told him. “Well,” he said, “I just wanted to let you know. The way you seemed to be at home in the house, I was curious how you'd feel about someone else sitting in that big chair in the living room.” The way I felt, Ed kill any¬ one else who sat in that chair. Suddenly I got an angle. “I’ll be out Saturday,” I said. What 1 planned to do was to take another girl out to the house. I’d take Elaine. She was a blonde and Carol was a bru¬ nette. Elaine wasn’t a spring- type girl exactly — more like summer, sultry. What I figured on doing was showing Elaine through the house on Saturday. If I got all steamed up about living in the house with Elaine, then I’d know it was just spring magic in my veins. I picked up Elaine on Satur¬ day morning, and I was very cagey. I drove out in the coun¬ try and pretended to get lost. Finally 1 came upon the devel¬ opment and the model home. “You want to go through this house just for laughs, Elaine?” I said. “My boss at the office is looking for a house.” Elaine said she didn’t mind if she did and looked at me archly. I hoped I wasn’t going to get involved with every girl I knew, before spring was over. We went up the walk, and the old guy come out and did a double-take when he saw Elaine. I was standing behind her, and I held my finger over my lips. He was smart enough to pre¬ tend he'd never seen me before. Elaine went on inside. I lingered a minute. “What you trying to do, find a girl to fit the house?” the agent said. “Just making a test,” I said, and went on inside. “Gee, isn’t it cute,” Elaine said, with a melting look. “Your boss will love it.” The dilTerence was amazing. I could hardly wait to get her out of there. I was in love with Carol. Whether spring was responsible I neither knew nor cared. Elaine went into the kitchen, and I lunged for the agent. “I’ll buy it fur¬ nished,” 1 said. “It's a deal. Lock the door; don’t let anyone else inside.” He was curious. “Which girl?” “What do you care?” I said. “The other girl, if you have to know.” “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t both,” he said. “This is a respectable neighborhood.” “I'll be here at nine tomorrow morn¬ ing.” I said, “and we'll sign the papers.” The next morning I went out to the development with my checkbook and made a down payment on the house. On Monday morning I arranged for a mortgage. Broke but happy, I tele¬ phoned Carol. “I want to see you tonight,” I said. “I’ll be over about eight o’clock — ” “I’m afraid I’m busy,” she said. “You’re going to be busier than you know, honey,” I said. “This takes pri¬ ority. Eight sharp.” I was there on the dot, hammering on the door. Carol came out and closed the door behind her. “Harry,” she said, “I have company.” “Honey,” I said, “I have tremendous news. I want to marry you, and you’ll never guess what I’m going to give you for a wedding present. I’m — ” “Save your money,” Carol said. “I’m going to give you — ” I stopped and stared at her, feeling panicky. “What did you say?” “I said save your money,” Carol said. “There’s a man waiting for me inside.” “Carol, I’m in love with you, I’m in love w'ith you,” I babbled. “Interesting. if true, which 1 doubt,” Carol said. “I am not in love with you, however. Good night.” She stepped back inside and slammed the door leav¬ ing me there in a state of severe shock. AFTER a while I staggered out into . the spring-night air. In my excite¬ ment over proposing to Carol, I hadn’t noticed that fire plug. I had a ticket on my car. It might be spring for most peo¬ ple; for me it was the dead of winter. I drove back to my apartment build¬ ing. The landlord was at the down¬ stairs desk. “Got good news for you,” I he said. “You wanted to sublet your apartment? It’s done.” I made my way upstairs and called the real-estate agent. “About the house,” I said. “I changed my mind. I don’t want it.” “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a little late. Of course if you want to sell it, I’ll be glad to show it for you for the customary commission.” “Mister,” I said, “my girl backed out. She won’t marry me.” “Well,” he said, “how about the other girl? How about the blonde? Rave you tried her?” A wise guy. I hung up on him. I sat there thinking how carefree 1 had been just a couple of weeks ago. It was raining cats and dogs the day I moved. There were a few flagstones between the driveway and the front door. They slid out from under my feet when I stepped on them. I floundered through the mud and unlocked the door and moved into my house. 1 hung my clothes in the closet and put Carol’s picture on the bureau; then I made myself a highball for a house¬ warming and toured my domain. I went into the nursery and sipped my drink and looked at the pink elephant painted on the crib. There was going to be hell to pay if any of the office gang got a j look at that nursery. The rain streamed down, and my feelings got lower along with the level of my drink. Spring had betrayed me. The rain let up and the doorbell rang. A little girl stood on the thresh¬ old. “I brought you some flowers,” she said, handing me a dripping, muddy bunch of violets. “Thanks,” I said. She looked at me expectantly. “You got any little girls I could play with?” she said. I shook my head. She was *, persistent. “Any little boys?” “No little boys, either,” I said. I started to close the door. ‘‘Any cookies?” she said. All l could do was mix her a high¬ ball, and her parents would probably Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 609

25 ohject. I shut the door in her lace. I'd lived in the development m.ivhe twenty minutes, and already I was the neigh¬ borhood Scrooge. I wandered around the house trving out the chairs one h\ one, peering into closets like a ghoul. At midnight I crawled into the double hed and set the alarm for the crack of dawn. In the city I could get up at eight twenty and be in the ollice on the stroke of nine. Out here I had to catch the seven fifty- three train, and there was nothing in the house lor break last. In the morning I parked my car in the lot across from the station. I watched the other men Irom nn devel¬ opment arriving, being chaulleured by their wives. That night, their w ives were there to meet them. I trekked into the village and had dinner in solitary splen¬ dor on a drugstore stool. I did this all week. I learned to know the faces of my neighhors. I could see them watching me, speculating on what kind of a screwball I was, living by my¬ self in a family development. There was only one thing to do, and on Saturday I did it. I swiped a couple of scraps of lumber from the develop¬ ment company. I nailed them together and lettered on the crosspiece, MODEL HOME FOR SA1 E. 1 went outside and poked the stick in the ground, then went back and waited for action. I got it fast. There was a bang at the door, and the old guy was there, blowing his top. “You can’t do this." he screamed. “We’ve just opened an¬ other model home around the corner." “This was a model home a week ago, wasn’t it?" 1 said. “Then it still is. I can sell it if I want. You worry about your model home; I’ll worry about mine." “I’ve got signs all over the place advertising my model home," he shouted. “There’s only one road in here. Every¬ body will come to your place. I’ll get a court order; I’ll go see my lawyer." “Excuse me, sir," 1 said, “I think I have a prospect." A MAN and a girl were com¬ ing up the walk. “How' do you do?" I said. “Come right in." The old guy turned purple. I felt sorry for him, but 1 had no alternative. As I shut the door 1 saw him wrench my sign out of the ground and carry it off. Meanwhile, the man and girl were walking through my house, muttering to each other, afraid to act enthusiastic. I didn’t care for their looks. Finally the man came over to me. “How much?" he said. “It’s twenty-four thousand," 1 told him. He looked at his wile who ap¬ parently gave him signals. “Give you twenty-two five," he said. Maybe they were nice people — I didn t know. But when 1 looked at the woman calculating the value of everything to the last penny, I could only think of Carol. I refused to bargain; the couple went into a huddle and finally agreed to the price. I couldn’t help myself. “Have you seen the other model home?" I said. “There’s another one just down the road. Maybe you’d like to look at that one before you make a decision." They fell over themselves get¬ ting out the door, but ten min¬ utes later they were back. I Collier’s for February 28, 1958 didn't let them in, I went outside Anil then, staling at them, I suddenly made up lm mind. “1 guess we like 1 li is one hcttci." the in m said. I couldn't vvaii to get rid ol them “It s been sold " I sank lie sputtered. “You mean in the ten minutes we’ve hecn gone.*" he said “ I hat’s impossible'" “ I akc a look out Iront," I said. “ I he For Sole sign's been laken down.” ">ou buds sme work last.'1 he said I brushed past them and hurried out to my car. An hour later I jumped out of my ear in front of Carol’s apartment, went upstairs, and rang her bell. Her mother looked out the peephole. “I don’t think Carol will see you," she said through the opening. “I’m a desperate man, I said. “I’m liable to hreak down the door." Her mother let me in. C arol was sprinting lor her hedroom. I beat her to it and got a hcadloek on her. “You gotta come witlr me," I said. “Don't call the police," I said to her mother; “she isn’t in any danger." "You bet I’m not," Carol said be¬ tween her teeth. “But, hrother, don’t think you’re not," and she drove an elbow into my stomach. “Carol," I gasped, “one hour is all I ask. I’ll never darken your door again if you’ll give me one hour now. I’m entitled to one hour." Carol cheeked her watch. “Sixty min¬ utes,” she said, and preceded me out the door. We rode downstairs in silence. In my car she looked out the window, never said a word all the way to the counti until 1*0 i" I i v B istci . ’ she s.nd iv- e» t lh ■- ■ . seconds lei t ( tunc and loof at t - I i e I I’ve seen it. ’ sht, ,d She I ; i her arms 'I won t lU i ii o ihc e . She wouldn’t budge I rail ,io{*. 1 and opened the dooi on hei ode w tried to pull her out She inked n*. hat down over mv eves .aid punched n> in the stomach I got nn aims an urn.1 her middle and vanked. and she e m* out like a cork out ol a champ. nine bottle. All the wav up the w. k si c kicked mv knees. I braced hei against the door with one arm and shoulder, un locked the door with mv Irec hand „nd pushed her inside, while the neighbors forgot their chores to stare at us. INSIDE. I slammed the door and stood with my hack to it “It’s spring.” I said, panting, “and in the days hei ore the world was civili/cd. primitive man went out vviih a club and socked his woman over the head and dragged her by the hair to his cave. We do it differently today; we lure them with convertibles. But I can use t lie cluh method if you prefer." “Get out of my way," Carol said. “ I his is mv cave," I shouted, “and you're my mate!" I stood hraced against the door, ex¬ pecting her to make a break lor Iree- dom. Instead she took out her compact and went to work on her lace. She looked at me intently. “Where's that babv-faced blonde?" she said suddenly. She didn’t sound like the sweet inno¬ cent Carol I’d always known. She had a predatory look. “Where is she?" she said. “I saw you bring¬ ing her in here." “You saw her?" I said weakly. “She was just a girl I — " “Don’t lie to me," Carol said. “You and I had had a wonderlul day, and it was just between the two ol us, something we shared. I thought. The next Saturday I had my parents drive me out to see the house. We got here just in time to see you escorting that blonde inside. Now let me out of here." 1 blocked the door and caught her by the shoulders. "It didn’t mean a thing,” I pleaded. “I just did it lor purposes of compari¬ son. I bought the house. I wanted to give it to you lor a wedding present." “Maybe you thought I’d make a better drudge.’’ she said. “I love you," I said, making a last attempt to keep her there. “We’ll live in a hotel. I’ll scrub the floors — Carol!" Her arms were around mv neck, and lor just a moment I thought she was trving to stran¬ gle me. "Oh, Harry," she said, her lips against my ear, “I’m so happy I could cry." I had just enough strength left to kiss her. “C ome and see your picture on the bureau." I said, and just then the doorbell rang. I opened up, and the little girl was there with more violets. “Thanks, little girl," I said fe¬ verishly. “Blease go avva\ now; we’re husy." “Aon don’t have a little girl I can play with?" she said. "No little girls." I said. “Not even a baby?" she said forlornly. I gave her a quarter. “I loney," l said, “come hack next spring. You can be the sitter." jk.Jk.Jk. Next Week THE ALL-AMERICA IN COLLEGE BASKETBALL Selected by the National Association of Basketball Coaches Time to change •o America s most convenient travel way No change of bus! H* n i ; without parallel f«*r ... brgtr *T.v hundreds of d- i-\ *h*- ugh ules straight to y< ur d< st r* tu n v. r no chai ge of coach **r uagg -go No local stops! You’ll save hours traveling direct to and through every major city w'ith no time-wasting de¬ lays . . with a minimum of stops, a maximum of relaxed sight-seeing. Extra luxury! Enjoy extra comfort features at slight extra fare . . . re¬ served seats, steward service, hour- slashing daily schedules to major cit¬ ies and popular resort areas. FREE! Colorful Tour Folder Mail to Greyhound Information Center, 105 W Madison. Chicago 2, 111. for folder describe 50 vocation tours Nome Address City State c 2 5

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Hiding face* from the wind-driven snow, mother and children of a Middle Park Valley family plod homeward after stocking up at nearby grocery Stark forms of fences, animals and farm buildings are silhouetted against a pallid world, in which land and sky are almost indistinguishable Collier’s for February 28, 1953

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A smashed plow lies in waist-deep snow after plunging off road and down a steep slope. Men worked for days to get it out vv i tl i steel rabies SNOWBOUND In Colorado’s Middle Park Valley, snow is fury and air is like iee in the lungs. If you douhl it, ask the folks who live there WINTER arrives early and lingers late in the rich Middle Park Valley of northern Colo¬ rado. The valley lies only 60 miles north¬ west of Denver, but when the snows come it is a faraway and lonely land. Dark, enormous moun¬ tains encircle it on all sides. The sun is half an hour old before it clears the mountains to the east, and it sets half an hour before its time, 30 miles west across the valley. Weather is a tyrant for the people of this land. They live by its implacable code. They have seen snow fall in July and, in the iron-hard earth of No¬ vember, they have often used dynamite to make a burial place for their dead. In winter months, the temperature sometimes drops to 40 or 50 below zero along the 70-mile length of Middle Park. Great storms sweep over the soaring peaks of the Rockies, spending their snow-filled fury at the east¬ ern end of the valley. The snow lies heavy and deep upon the land nine months out of the year — “three ponies deep,” the Indians used to say. When there are blizzards, the ranches and small towns such as Granby, with its 600 population, hole up tight. Streets arc almost deserted. Peo¬ ple stay home for days at a time, looking out upon a white desolation which makes earth indistin¬ guishable from sky. But there arc always bits and snatches of activity; for certain tasks must be done, in a land where the outdoors is a way of life. Railroad men work around the clock to keep the line open, bucking their heads against the vicious wind, and clearing switches which arc cov¬ ered again in minutes. Highway maintenance crews push laboriously through drifts taller than their huge snowplows. Sometimes they arc over¬ powered. and other machines must come to haul them out by steel cable. Families bundle up and fight their way through the storm into town, to stock supplies against the possibility of being com¬ pletely snowbound. The rancher uses pickaxes to chop his hay from the fast-frozen stacks. Then he hitches up his team to a stcel-runncred sleigh Rancher Bud Einkc warms hi* face gingerly to prevent frostbite. If lie tried rubbing it, frozen iee crystals would lacerate his skin PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY ROLAND PATTERSON

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In «*toini M-a-on. lioix*s with ire frozen to their hitler drift down to lower pastures, seeking the summer grass which lies buried under snow W ith road- blocked, lawyer-rancher John Barnard walk- 3 mile- into tow n on snow shoes In an icy mist, men of the Rio Grande railroad work around the clock to keep switches clear 28 and starts a long trek across the valley to feed the stock. For him. the thin strands of barbed wire connecting each knotted fence post make a surer compass than a beacon or a street sign. They are among the few landmarks to show man his way when the snow lies on Middle Park Valley. After the storm comes the thin air, so cold that white crystals grow from a horse’s muzzle. Breath¬ ing through the mouth can cause frozen lungs, and when warm hands touch chilled steel the skin burns. In times of such cold, the ranchers gather around hot stoves in great, warm kitchens, listen¬ ing to the wind and slapping their thighs and guf¬ fawing over the tall tales which are part of their heritage. “1 stood my broom on the porch under the thermometer, ■' one says, “and by morning the mercury was halfway down the handle.” And an¬ other says: “Cold? It was that bad three snow men had to ask Ma permission to sit by the fire.” At last, there is the feeble candle of a sun rising over an alabaster land. 1 hen, in a few hours, clothes begin to thaw on the lines; animals shake the chunks of ice from their hides; the children start rocketing on skis down the precipitous slopes they call little hills; and, by afternoon, a single jacket or sweater is enough under the sun. “Feels like spring coming,” a visitor says. The ranchers smile. They know their land, and the treachery of its seasons. They know how the ther¬ mometer, here, can behave like a crazy thing, swooping from the high eighties to the low twenties in a single day’s time. “Well, maybe spring will get here,” says one old-timer, “and maybe it won’t. Me, 1 11 do like we always do in the valley — just wait and see.” ^ ^ ^ Bud Linke and father try to free pitchfork frozen into stack before chopping away hay Collier’s for February 28, 1933 I

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' Scan rain s It was written in the stars that Seagram’s 7 Crown would become America's most popular whiskey. Favored by both professionals and amateurs— by expert bartenders as well as discriminating hosts everywhere— 7 Crown now stars in more drinks than any other brand of whiskey. SEAGRAMS 7 CROWN. BLENDED WHISKEY. 86.8 PROOP. 65% GRAIN NEUTRAL SPIRITS S E AG R Am D I ST I L L E R S CORPORATION CHRYSLER BUILDING NEW YORK

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ANDREW VIRGIL We're taking care of everything at home , she read, and thought: They've gone away from me The Whale in M-3 11% III .OISE 15 ARRANCON MARINA opened her eyes and saw dawn- light again bordering the edge of the shade on the hospital window. She had slept, then, and somehow she had got through another night. “The human species survives because it has such amazing powers of adjustment,” she recited from a dimly remembered biology course. ’‘Adjust, darn you,” she said to herself. That was all very well, but nobody would tell her anything. She reached out to the drawer of the night stand and took from its hiding place the snapshot of Budge. It was too dark to see it well, but Marina knew it by heart: Budge wearing a pinafore and riding a tricy cle with her rebellious braids askew on her shoulders. Budge was grinning, and it showed where a tooth was gone, and her nose was wrinkled in a squint. Marina put the picture on the pillow beside her cheek. ’Tm sorry. Budge,” she murmured. “1 tried to get you the baby brother you wanted, but he couldn't quite make it.” She shut her mind tight against memories of the night of hemorrhaging, of the hope that dwindled. ”Of course, you can have another baby,” they told her. ’ Just get well now and build up your strength.” But what could she believe? They were treating her like a cellophane angel. ‘’Every¬ thing is lovely,” they said. ’’Just rest comfortably, don’t won) about a thing.” She heard the nurse coming with the thermome¬ ter and the breakfast trav, so she quickly put away the snapshot ot Budge. A posed studio portrait would appeal to Miss Talbot, with her white- starch standards, but hardly this little, quickly caught likeness that was so dazzlingly alive. Miss Talbot raised the shades and lowered the windows. “Good morning.” she said, with war¬ bling cheeriness. “And how are we?” Marina submitted to the hocus-pocus of tem¬ perature- and pulse-taking. Her bed was cranked into an eating position, and she fussed with the food on her tray. She tried to take as long as she 30 could — anything to ward off the time when she would have finished with the morning routines and be left alone with her thoughts. Already she could feel the sense of futility and loss that came each day to waste her strength. ‘‘And what would we like for lunch?” asked Miss Talbot, holding out the menu to be checked. “How about a nice lamb chop?” “You mark it, Miss Talbot,” said Marina. “Any¬ thing you think best.” ’’But, Mrs. Graham, we ought to make an ef¬ fort. Doctor said if w'e felt up to it we could take a little walk. We’ve dangled, we’ve sat in a chair, and today we can take a walk.” “No, I don’t think so,” said Marina. “Not to¬ day. Maybe tomorrow.” Miss Talbot took away the breakfast tray and helped Marina into a chair. Marina sagged, drained of energy, waiting for the pitiless black brooding to engulf her. “Stop this,” she told herself. “Where’s your buoyance? Be forward-looking. Accentuate the positive.” She had never been one to indulge in self-pity, and she had no name for the evil quag¬ mire in which she floundered. “Adjust, adjust, adjust, adjust,” she chanted, to discipline her mind. She made a verse of it: “Ad¬ just to the facts of things as they are; adjust to the earth and not to a star.” Miss Talbot came back with a gust of good humor. “Here’s something we’re going to like,” she said, holding out a letter. ‘Til just bet it’s from that handsome husband of ours.” Marina took the stiff, fat envelope and turned it over. Not Jim’s handwriting, of course. He came to the hospital every day; no need for him to write. No, this was Harriet Dean’s writing, and that meant it was a letter from Budge. Jim had said Miss Dean seemed a reliable young woman, with good references and a pleasant but firm way with Budge. Marina held the letter for a moment un¬ opened, like a wrapped-up present. Strange, how little comfort it was to see Jim when he came to visit. Perhaps if he came alone instead of with Enid ... Of course, Enid was a close friend, and she had been wonderful about taking Jim under her wing. But Marina would have liked to be alone with Jim more often, to cry a little, perhaps, and hold his hand and just be quiet and close. It almost seemed as if Enid and Jim were in a club together — a club of people who were up and around — and Marina was not a mem¬ ber. And they kept telling her how fine everything was, perfectly lovely, don’t worry about a thing. SUPPOSING I asked right out loud, Marina thought. Supposing I said, “How much is a pri¬ vate room in this antiseptic charnel house costing us? Will we have to give up Budge’s dancing class? Will we have to sell the car? Can we keep up the mortgage payments? I want to know now — not when I’m stronger.” And supposing she looked Jim right in the eye and said, “Tell me the truth, no hedging. Can I really have another baby?” But, of course, they wouldn’t tell her. She pried open the envelope and drew out the letter from Budge. Dear Mother , she read in Harriet Dean’s pre¬ cise handwriting. / am going to tell Deanie what to say , and she will write it for me because she can write faster than 1 can. I wish you could see how neat my hair looks when Deanie braids my pig¬ tails. It is very * nice to go sledding now , and l have been twice. Aunt Enid conies nearly every day and brings me presents , and l stay up and have supper with Daddy. Please don’t worry about any¬ thing at home , because we are taking care of every¬ thing. I am making a picture of a whale spouting , and l will put it in the envelope. Your loving daughter , Budge. Marina let the letter slip from her fingers and shut her eyes, desolate. They’ve gone away from me already, she thought. They’re closing the gap. She saw Budge at eighteen, introducing a fine young man to Enid. Later she would explain to him, “Enid’s not really my mother. My own mother died years ago when I was little. I scarcely remember her.” And Budge’s face would be shad¬ owed, but only for a moment. Marina tried to summon back Budge as a little girl. The image grew hazy and eluded her. Anyway, thought Marina, she made a whale for me. She began groping for it, a folded piece of drawing paper, bright with orange crayoning. She unfolded the stiff paper and yearned over the whale, a chubby leviathan with a purple eye and green spoutings. It seemed to have a name in one corner. Se over. Sea Rover, perhaps? Or — Ma¬ rina turned,the picture over, and there was a post¬ script to her letter. This is a pak of lies, it said in Budge’s labored printing. She doesnt no beans fbeng my pigtals. She pulls. I cant have my baby brutlier til nex yeer. Daddy is a Grumpy all the time. If you dont come home soon Ini gong to run away and be where yon are. With Jove from Budge. Marina cuddled the note in her hand and ran her finger over the child’s letter-forms as if testing some exquisite engraving. When she had savored each phrase, she pressed the call button. There was strength in her summons. The nurse appeared; Marina was sitting up very straight. “Miss Talbot, what’s my hemoglobin count?” she asked. “Why, it’s — it’s about fifty-five, but I’m not sup¬ posed — ” “What should it be?” “Eighty or over.” “Now, about lunch.” She picked up a pencil. “Yes, Mrs. Graham.” “I’ll have vegetable soup, two lamb chops, a baked potato, squash, aspic salad, eggnog, ice cream and milk.” “Yes, Mrs. Graham.” “And before lunch. I’m going to take a walk. To the end of the corridor and back.” “Well, Mrs. Graham!” Miss Talbot exclaimed. “Has something stirred us up?” “I’ve had good news from home,” Marina said. “My little girl — By the way, did 1 ever show you her snapshot?” A A Jk (Jolliers short snoivr

Page 615

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32 “I think God h a woman,*' said six-ycar-old Christine. uShe is the mother* of the world. She slays on top of the world. She is watching e\ erv body, and She has a dog to keep Her company. Maybe God becomes a man when there is war. Then He is strong and He can help to win" "(7 0(7 Is Between the Sometimes a child's thoughts are loo hi<r for his vocabulary. But i Of his picture recalling Greek mythology. Irving. “God is between the earth and aged seven year?, said: ‘'God is a King riding in sky." said Cherry, six. ‘‘lie a chariot in the sky. He makes the sun shine" is leader of the whole world*’ THE young mind needs a picture to which it can an¬ chor every thought. When a child asks, “What is God?" no adult can answer him adequately in words alone. The child must find for himself the pro¬ found meanings, the depths of faith and the sacred emo¬ tions involved in the simple word God. Like a primitive, he begins by creating an image, selecting from the whole of his experience whatever he needs to satisfy the thought he is trying to express. Slowly the image be¬ comes less- important and words begin to take its place. And finally the child finds the beginning of wisdom. The drawings on these pages were made by the pu¬ pils of a typical Sunday-school class. They illustrate the tentative, groping process by which the very young reach the God of their fathers. a a a Collier’s for February 28, 1953

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33 “God is a man with a lot of hands, so He can do everything,” said Howard, seven years old. “He lives in the sun. I think. He looks at the people all day, and at night He conies down and looks in our windows and takes care of us while we are asleep. God is very kind” Earth and the Shy" avon, lie can grope for the answer to a question too complex for words Rose, five, explained: “God has wings to go all over. The green is trees and yellow is sun. The round things are clouds and sheep’’ Collier's for February 28, 1933 “God lives up in the sky," said five-year-old John. “He secs everything we do. He is good hut lie will punish us when we do had things" Drawing God in man's image, Seymour, aged seven, thought: *'God is a good, nice man who makes children. He loves ns all. He hates war"

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LESS THAN A MAN By J. M. BARAK M\ friend Jack slaved in that town. And to lain, I was just running away, not facing up to a had trouble. How could I tell him nothing ever really changes — especially hate 1WAS tired, nd I wanted to go home. I remembered the way it used to be there in the morning and how I’d walk out to the lake carls and go fishing. In those days I didn’t need much, and I sure didn't have much — yet now I thought of that time without bitterness. I d been liv ing out of a suitcase now tor months. This feeling first came o\er me after the last game I here had been a pla>-ofT before the Senes, and the Series had gone to seven games, but 1 would have a winner's share, and as 1 came across the plaving field stepping on third the w t\ I always did the feeling struck me, and hard I want to go back there, I thought and it was then that I made up my mind. I hat s tme night, 1 w rote this Jaek 1 used to be buddies with I told him to expect me in a few weeks. 1 hadn't seen Jack since 1 left there. He wrote me after I got up into the majors, but though I meant to answer him, I never did. 1 never was much of a hand with a pen. But I wrote now, and the next dav 1 went out and bought me some fishing tackle, the best I could lind 1 hen 1 made a plane reservation for C it r us ( it > , Honda. Jack w,ts waiting at the airport when 1 got olf the pi me It had been snowing that after¬ noon when 1 got about d in New York, but 1 got off in as warm and peaceful a night as ever 1 hope tv> see Jack hadn’t changed much, he It) v- cd good and he must have been uoing good too. tiom the looks ot him and the ear he was d'iVing On the wav over to his place, he told me about his wife whom I had never met, and his bov lhibber. who was off in the -\rmv. Bv the time I'd seen his place and met Mabel and had a snack to eat. it was too late to go any- place So Jack and me sat up half ot the night trying to get caught up with each other . . . 1 had tigured going fnhing that next morning, but I slept until nearabout noon. But that after¬ noon I went over to C itrus C itv and bought me 34 a boat and a kicker. It was one of them light aluminum boats. The store wouldn't deliver it, but once I’d bought a carrying rack for the top of the car that Jack had loaned me, they at least helped me heft the boat up onto it. Jack was standing out in front when I drove up. He looked over what I had bought pretty carefully. 1 didn't tell him that I intended leav¬ ing the boat and the motor to Bubber when I left, as a sort of payment lor the use of the car. “That’s a nice rig,” Jack said. “Where you figuring on putting it in?” “Out on Tangerine Lake,” I said. “\\e used to do all right from shore out there, and 1 figure with a boat I ought to do even better. It’s been a long time, but I think 1 can still smell out a speckied-pcrch bed. That way, if the bass ain't hitting, I can at least pick me up a mess of specks.” “1 reckon you could,” Jack said slowly, “but they ain’t going to like you fishing there.” “T hey don’t own the lake,” I said. “No,” Jack answered, “they sure don’t own the lake But they think they do, and they ain’t going to like it.” “Nuts. I got me a good long chain and a heavy padlock. I’ll just chain her to a tree out there. They won’t bother me none.” Jack shrugged. He started to say something, but just then Mabel called us in to supper. I'HIE next morning I was up before anyone else. 1 got out to the lake early, an J, just like I'd figured. 1 was able to ease the boat down off the back of the car without a bit of trouble, and snake it through the scrub to the water. i wouldn't say it was the best day’s fishing I ever had. hut I did all right. Not enough lo get fat on, but 1 caught a couple of nice bass, and after they quit biting I got into the specks by trolling slow and deep with a worm behind twin spinners. Anyway, I had a good day’s fun, and that hot sun sure felt good on me. When I quit I chained the boat to a big old water oak and took the kicker back to the car with me. At supper Jack asked me how it went. I told him pretty good. “They didn’t say anything?” he asked. “I didn’t even see them,” I said, laughing. “You ain’t changed a bit, Jack. You always w'as a worrier — long as I knowed you. That’s a big lake. Jack, and they got better things to do than looking to see was I on it. That lake’s plenty big enough for me and them both.” Jack shook his head, but he didn’t say any¬ thing more. AFTER supper me and Jack sat on the stoop a spell. Mabel had turned down my offer to help with the dishes. It was a warm night — not hot like it gets down there sometimes, but just right. I had almost forgotten how the nights were. Then after a while Jack suggested we take a turn down through the square. It wasn’t but a few blocks, so we didn’t fuss with taking the car, and as we walked along I got a sudden funny feeling that I had never been away from there. Down the street in the corner juke, I could hear the honky-tonk playing as we came by. It was grinding out an old song. I thought of my mama and my daddy, and how they had died before anything good happened to me; I thought of how maybe I hadn’t done right by them, and now, when I could have, it was too late. “Jack,” I said suddenly, “it’s good to be back.” “Why didn’t you come back sooner then?” he asked. “What took you so long?” I sighed. “I swore I never would come back,” I said. “You know, you could have been wrong,” he said, w ith a laugh. “It’s not so much w'hether or not I was wrong,” 1 said, “as it w'as the way they acted.” Down the street toward the square, the lights seemed brighter than I remembered, and every¬ thing looked bigger to me. But I could smell ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK McCARTHY

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i 1 N i’ll is is the 1953 Chevrolet. . some of the wonderful new things . and these are it brings you . . . (ii\c thought, lor a moment, to all the things vou want in vour next motor ear. You’ll line! thev ’re vours in the thrillinglv new l()5s C hevrolets — the ” ( )ne- F i f t v I wo- I cm” and Bel Air Series— and at savings th.it only the world’s largest pro¬ ducer ot motor cars could possihlv otter \ou. I hese ’ s > models are t ntirt /) nt u , through and through. I hev’rc fbrijfnr, too. \nd the\ bring vou more advanced features than anv other ( hevrolet in historv. lor example, il it’s beauty vou want . . . lake a look at the long. low. smoothlv rounded lines of this car . . . the superbly st \ led exterior and interior of its new Fashion-first Body by Fisher . . . and you’ll knou that here is beauty hitherto found only in custom-built creations. 1 1 it’s performance vou w ant . . . Take the wheel and experience the sensa¬ tional new power, acceleration and passing abilitv of ( hevrolet’s 1 1 5-h.p. ” Blue-Flame” Yalv e-in-Head engine or the highly im¬ proved lOS-h.p. ’’Thrift-King” engine. If it’s comfort and safety you want . . . You'll revel in the roominess of Chevrolet interiors . . . the conv enience of Master-Key Control with combination starting and igni¬ tion key switch . . . the ease of Velvet- Pressure Jumbo-Drum Brakes . . . and the luxury of the smoother Knee-Action Ride. And if it’s economy you want — you’ll be delighted to know that the new Chevrolets bring vou even greater economy than the thrifty Chevrolets of the past . . . and that they’re the lowest-priced line in their field. See and drive the new Chevrolets real soon. Chevrolet Division of General Motors, Detroit 2, Michigan. Lk CHEVROLET

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Till: THRILLING NFW BIT AIR •t-DOOK SI: DAN ( Continuation of standard equipment and trim illus¬ trated is dependent on availability of material ) The new interiors are richer and roomier. 1 hey’re large, spacious, luxuriously comfortable. Two-tone upholstery and appointments in "Two-Ten” and Bel Air Models harmonize with exterior body colors. And a new one-piece, curved windshield (plus wrap-around rear windows in many models) provides much greater visibility. You’ll enjoy finer performance and economy. Choose the brand-new 1 1 5-h.p. high-compres¬ sion "Blue-Flame” Valve-in-I lead engine, alumi¬ num pistons and full pressure feed lubrication in Powerglide* models. Or the greatly improved 1 08-h. p. high-compression "Thrift-King” Valve- in-Head engine in gearshift models. Both give thrilling new power and acceleration —together with even greater economy than the thrifty Chev¬ rolet s of the past. MORE PEOPLE BUY New Powerglide gives faster getaway and greater passing ability. Chevrolet’s famed Powerglide Automatic Transmission/ coupled with the entirely new "Blue-Flame” engine, now provides automatic getaway in "drive” and auto- miitic fiick-up tor passing in traffic. Results: Much fleeter performance, greater economy, and finest no-shift driving in Chevrolet’s field. New Power Steering lets you turn the wheel with your finger tips. Greatest advance since automatic driving! New, Fxtra-Fasy Pow er Steer¬ ing, with a hydraulic booster doing the work, helps you park and steer with finger-tip ease. Another wonderful feature exclusive to Chevrolet in its field. (Available on all models at extra cost. ) The body is much stronger ~ the whole car more durable. Larger cross section body sills, heavier center pillar construction, larger cross section roof rails, make the new' Body by Fisher even stronger and safer. Moreover, sturdier, more rigid construction in part after part gives even greater durability and dependability to a motor car long famous for these qualities. Item after item for your comfort and safety. New Center-Fold Front Seat Backs, in 2-Door models, allow easier entrance and exit from rear CHEVROLETS THAN seats. New Finger-Fit Steering Wheel gives a firmer grip and greater driver comfort. F-/-F\e Plate Glass cuts down glare and heat (optional at extra cost). And Safety Plate Glass is used in windshield and all windows of sedans and coupes. The brakes are big — sure-acting — efficient. They're the largest brakes in Chevrolet’s field . . . operate smoothly and positively with velvet ease . . . and are safeguarded against rain and snow for top all-weather efficiency. No lifting bags over a high ledge. New, larger rear deck opening — almost flush with compart¬ ment floor — permits easier loading and unloading. ( nmhin.it ion of Pou trgliJt' uutonutii truntrnnstnn amt 1 1 '•/'./>. «>/£/>/ 1 ofUt'in.il on ‘ I' u o- 1' t n’ ‘ unit lit 7 -1/Y model* u/ t\tr.i *oit. ANY OTHER CAR!

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38 the same familiar odors of things cook¬ ing, and I could hear the sound of re¬ membered voices around me. ‘ It looks different, Jack,” I said; “it looks good. 1 reckon I’d forgotten how good ” “It’s changed, boy. We come a long way, ’ Jack said, and there was pride in his voice. 'Look up yonder — the the¬ ater there on the corner. We don’t have to go clean over to Church Street in C urus City now; we got our own theater here in the square. We got a de¬ cent school too, and even a nursery where mothers who work can leave their young’uns and know they’re safe. We got a good doctor and better store. We vote now and our vote counts. They know it counts too.” I didn’t say any thing for a minute be¬ cause 1 remembered the way it used to be, and that was still with me like an unpleasant taste in my mouth. “things aren't perfect up there, are they?” Jack asked. “No,” 1 said slowly. “I don’t reckon they are. But they are a lot better than they used to be.” “Same as here,” Jack said trium¬ phantly. 1 wasn’t so sure. When you come back to a place you had never figured on coming back to, the way 1 had, you can’t never be sure, but 1 got to admit it seemed good to be back. BEFORE long we were right in the middle of the square, and then sud¬ denly somebody recognized me. “Jug,” a voice called, and the first thing I knew, I was surrounded. A lot of them I remembered, and some 1 didn’t, but I knew better than to let on I didn’t know everybody. T hat was one thing I learned early: that when you’re in baseball, like I am, you don’t belong to yourself, you belong to the crowd. “l.emme buy you a drink, Jug,” somebody called, but I just grinned. “Any drinking going to be done, Em paying lor it,” I said. “Only l ain’t dunking tonight.” "Why not? ’ the same voice called back “You old enough, ain’t you?” “Sure,” I said, “old enough to be your daddy But tonight I'm planning on getting my night’s rest. I’m going fishing in the morning,” 1 hey laughed, and another one caked. “1 known you to drink all night and go right out the next morning and fish all that day, and then come back and frolic all that night and the next morning go and pick f ruit until the man couldn’t see you, it was so dark.” I he\ got a kick out of that, and 1 did too. but 1 meant what I said. “Satur¬ day night,” 1 told them, “I’ll be hack Saturday night when 1 can sleep late on Sunday.’ “Jug. ’ a kid called from hack in the crowd, “you sign my baseball Satiday night.’” “I’ll do better than that,” 1 said. “What’s your name, hoy ?“ “John 1 emon Davis. Jug.” "Y ou F d Davis’ young’un?” “I is that ” “I got a ball tor you.” I told him. “I’m coming round to see your daddy soon as I get caught up on my fishing, and I’ll leave it with him. you ain’t there. It’s signed by all the players on both teams.” “You got that ball you won the big game with. Jug.’” someone else called. “I sure have, but you ain’t gonna get that one.” The crowd started to laugh, and sud¬ denly I realized that I didn’t have any¬ one to give that ball to: no wife, no kids, no folks, nobody who meant more to me than some gal saying: ‘‘Jug, buy baby a drink.” Those people standing there were really all the folks 1 had. All at once I like to start crying. ’’Come on, Jack,” I said. ‘‘I better get on back and get some sleep.” We turned, but I stopped after a few steps. “See you all Saturday night,” I called back to them. I WAS out at the lake again early the next morning, it had rained hard in the night, and when I got to where I had chained the boat, it was gone. I knew I had the right tree, all right, but it just wasn’t there. Could I have for¬ gotten to snap the lock, I wondered. But when 1 looked down 1 seen that the chain was still there, only it was under water. For a moment I couldn’t figure it. With all that rain an old wooden boat might have filled up and sunk, but not a brand-new metal one. Then 1 heard a noise behind me, and 1 spun around fast. A man was stand¬ ing there, and the minute 1 seen his face I knew he was one of those mean ones. I looked again, and then 1 recog¬ nized him; he was one of them who had nearabout run me out of town a long time ago, “You know better than to bring a boat in here,” he said, “We don’t mind you coming out to the lake and fishing from shore. Trouble is, we give you people an inch and you take a mile.” 1 knew then what had happened to my boat, but 1 still couldn’t figure out how they had sunk it. There weren’t enough rocks in the whole of Citrus County to sink a washtub. and I didn't see how they could have punched holes through metal. “Say . ’ the man said suddenly, “didn't you used to work out in that grove I had on Lake Sal? The thing is, I ain’t seen you in a long time.” “No, Mister Warren, you ain't,” I said, and then I named him my name. Fie whistled. “Well, now,” he said, and he laughed; no wonder I didn’t place you right ofT. Been a long time, ain’t it? I seen that first game on televi¬ sion, and 1 heard about the others. Well, now, and to think, in a manner of speaking, I made all that possible.” At first I didn’t get it. I just stood there looking at him. Then he went on: “What I mean is, hadn’t some of us talked to you that time, you might still be here. You might still be here living of! us the way the rest of you do. Those of you who can, get on relief, but we made that a lot harder since you left. So you work — only you don’t work, really; you never earn what we pay you. Well, by gollies, you owe me a little something, Jug, you surely do.” The rage filled up inside me the way they fill up those balloons they sell at carnivals. But I didn’t let it burst. 1 held it there inside me. I didn't want to; 1 wanted to hit him, but 1 didn’t. “Well,” he said, spurting a jet of to¬ bacco juice through his teeth, “that’s neither here nor there. You being who you are now don’t change nothing; you know that, don’t you?” What was there to say? I bent down, picked up the kicker, and started back toward the car. Never once did I look back, though I knew he would be watch¬ ing me. I couldn’t because 1 felt less than a man, a thing 1 hadn't felt in a long time. JACK wasn’t there when 1 got back to the house. Neither was Mabel. That was good; going would be easier that way. 1 could just leave a note for Jack explaining about what had happened and saving I’d left the kicker for his boy. Bubber could have the boat too, if they could get it up off the bottom of the lake. I’d leave the autographed balls I had brought down, too, with a list of the people they were to go to. I threw my clothes into a bag, which didn’t take me long because 1 travel light, and at the last minute I decided to leave all that good fishing tackle for Jack’s boy, too. I was planning on catching the bus to the airport and grab¬ bing the first plane heading South. Last year I had vowed I never was going to pitch another season of winter ball, but 1 liked it in FFavana, and 1 didn’t want to just sit around on my tail. Once I get a plane where none of them can tell me where to sit, J thought, I’ll feel a lot better. It had been a mis¬ take, the whole thing, and I should have known better than to come. Just as I started out the front door, Jack pulled up into the driveway. 1 told him about what had happened, and he listened without interrupting, until I was through. Then he said, “What good will running away do. Jug?” I shrugged. “It ain’t like I was run¬ ning away, Jack. I never should have come. That’s the whole thing.” “But you did come, and now this has happened, all you can think of is run¬ ning away.” “I never should have come,” I said. “I should have known better.” 1 kicked at the sandy road angrily. “They run me out a long time ago. Nothing has really changed. It’s just the way it al¬ ways was.” “You think it ts,” Jack said. “You think so, but you won’t even try to find out. All you want to do is run off. You're hurt, and all you can think about is to run and hide.” J WHAT Jack was saying made sense j to me, and still I didn’t want to believe him. “Well, what can I do?” I said, shrugging. “Let’s go see,” Jack said, motioning toward the car. I got into the front seat beside him, and he started the motor and drove off toward town. “Where we going?” I asked. “To see a man I know,” Jack said. 1 couldn't get out of my mind the look that had been on Jess Warren’s face out there at the lake. As we rode I along, I wondered again how they had ever managed to sink that boat. One of them must have sat on one gunnel until I she shipped enough water to partially sink; then they must have thrown in | bags of cement. I couldn't figure it no other way. We had come through the main part of town and were headed toward the big houses out near the golf course. “He still might be in his office,” Jack said, “but the chances are he's home by now. It’s better to see him out here.” “See who? You acting mighty suspi¬ cious, Jack.” “No, I’m not. I’m talking about the mayor.” That one made me like to bust a gut laughing. “What’s he going to do?” I asked. “Do what’s right, of course,” Jack said. “What else?” 1 thought about the way it used to be. How maybe something happened, and one of them came in a police car, and unless you got out of there fast, you were going to get caught up in the trou¬ ble. It was only your word against theirs. Or say it came to law. Unfess you had one of them for a lawyer, they would likely as not bury you right under the jail. , “Who’s the mayor?” I asked. Not that it mattered much, but l wondered idly if it was somebody I’d known. “T. K. Bagby. You remember him, don’t you?” “Yeah, 1 remember him all right.” Collier’s for February 28, 1953 BFTCn “If it was my cousin genin' married, I*<I just swipe a ear for them an’ collier s tir heck wit’ fancy gift wrnppin’ ” larry Reynolds

Page 623

39 ] did too, hut then everybody knew T. K. ftagby. His old man owned fruit groves all over the state, but he had been pure hell to work lor. 1 K v\as younger than me, and if he was any¬ thing like his old man used to be, I didn't want any part of him and said so. “There you go again," Jack said. “You go oil half-cocked more often than you ever did. You never think any¬ thing through. T. K. Bagby’s not like his old man. He’ll play ball with us. He’s one of the best friends we got around here.” BF.FORF long we came around a lit¬ tle lake and turned up a long drive. There was a big, white house with high columns, at the end of the drive. We parked out by the garage. “Come on,’’ Jack said. I wondered whether we were going to have to go to the back door, but I never did find out, for just then T. K. came out of the house. “Hey, there. Jack," he called out. “You never will leave me alone. What’s wrong now?” “Well, we do have a little something at that, Mister Mayor,” Jack said. “You remember Jug here? If you don’t, I reckon you must have read about him in the papers.” “I can answer yes on both counts,” the mayor said. “Good to have you back with us.” I nodded, but I didn’t say anything. The mayor led us out under the orange trees, where there was a table and chairs. “AH right," he said after we sat down, “shoot.” “I guess Jug here can tell you better than I can,” Jack said. “Go ahead. Jug.” There wasn’t much to tell, but I told him everything that had happened. I didn’t make it any better than it had been, and I tried not to make it any worse. “It doesn’t make you feel very good, does it?” he asked when I got done. “No, sir,” I said, “1 don't reckon it does.” “Still and all,” he said, “it isn’t as though it was the end of the world. The first thing to do is to salvage your boat. I’ll tend to that, and if there's any dam¬ age I’ll tend to that too. Then I’ll see that some kind of an apology gets in the paper, so everyone can see it. An offi¬ cial apology. “But I want to do something more than that, Jug You’re a local bos, just as much a local bet) as I am. Only , alter the Scries, you're a lot better known." He turned to Jack. "You know that colored playground you been hitting me for — down in the square. Jack? Well, when we start to thinking about what to call it, what would you think if we named it after, Jug? W hen we dedicate it we could have him there, and we might get some publicity in the papers. What do you think?” Jack nodded. “1 think that would be right nice. Mister Mayor," he said. The mayor turned to me, and sud¬ denly I didn't know what to do. Every¬ thing he said was nice, and 1 appreciated it. It would mean a lot to me. But 1 knew it wasn't enough, and 1 realized that if he asked me 1 would have to tell him it wasn’t. 1 didn’t want to, because I could sec that T. K. Bagby wasn't a bit like his old man had been. But it w'asn’t enough. “Well,” the mayor said, “I guess that about takes care of it." He was talking to me and looking at me, and 1 saw- that I would have to make the answer I hated to make. “There's one thing more,” 1 said softly. “Yes?” They were both looking at me. It was hard to say what 1 had to say without T. K. Bagby thinking I just wanted to bollix up the whole deal. “1 want Jess Warren to apologize,” I said. “It’s a little enough thing to ask. He don’t have to do it in front of nobody. All I ask is that after what he done, he just meet me face to face and apolo¬ gize.” There was that moment of silence that is so quiet that you think you can hear it. “I can't do that. Jug,” the mayor said. “You know better than that.” 1 got to my feet. I could see the whole business falling apart, but I didn’t care. 1 thought of Havana, and how it was there, how the people were. I knew that though I didn't want to play ball that winter, I was going to, but it was going to be all right. The point was I would feel like a man. “It’s a little thing,” 1 said, “but it would mean a lot to me.” “Why?” Jack asked suddenly. And I knew- that T. K. Bagby had wanted to ask that and that Jack had taken him off the hook. But even that didn’t make me mad — not at Jack nor at T. K. Bagby either, i’ll just catch the night plane, 1 thought, and never come back again. "Jack asked you a question, Jug,' 1 . K Bagby said I wanted to ask Wh\ don’t urn ask your own quest ions ’ But 1 didn’t M A K E “Sure 1 sa nd, "he ask ed me a question Now can 1 ask him one ” 1 ! looked at Jack. "Why not?” 1 a sked. y 0 U R Jac k started to answ -ei . but the mayor interr up ted “It isn’t hard to answer that one," 1 he said. This is the South. N E X T Jug - and you can’t change it over- night. “1 didn’t come bac k here to change BOT T L E it.” 1 said “1 appreciate what you I t'k SHERRV Tj, m Hl c‘c -»*• offered to do. It would mean a lot to me. But Jess Warren made me I eel less than a man. I got to leel like a man again.” “There's more than one way of feel¬ ing like a man,” Jack said slowly. “You keep out of this, Jack." 1 said, starting to feci a little burned off. “Jack's right. Jug,” the mayor said. “What if 1 did like you said? If 1 did I TAYLOR’S SHERRY AND TASTE THE DIFFERENCE- wouldn't gcEclectcd the next time I run. What would that prove? I've got to go along as best I can. It's people like Jess Warren who help elect me. There are more Jess Warrens than there are de¬ cent people. But there aren't as many as there used to be.” I looked at T. K. Bagby. I realized that 1 didn’t know for sure just what 1 did think. This was my home; my roots were here; the people who lived around the square were my people; what I would always he. J had maybe another five years in baseball — more if I was lucky, but the chances of that weren't so good. It had taken me too long to get where I was. Then I looked at Jack, and 1 knew that 1 would miss seeing him, that he was a real friend. What would 1 do when 1 was through with ball? If 1 did what I had been doing — just drifting along rootless and not really belonging — what kind of a life was that? Most sherries just can’t com¬ pare with Taylor’s New York State Pale Dry Sherry ! As an appetizer,.. a welcome cocktail ...a before- with- or after-dinner wine— Taylor's dry, brisk flavor is just right. Try it . . . ask for Taylor’s Pale Dry Sherry — or I DIDN’T have to go to Havana; I didn’t need the money. When I signed my next contract, I ought to be pretty w'ell fixed, well enough so that I could build me a little place of my own near Jack. Maybe I could even start a little business there in the square later, when my playing days were over. I could fish a little, hunt a little. If I left them alone, they would leave me alone; and when 1 tried to feel hitter about that, I found 1 was only confused. Maybe Jack was right, maybe there were other ways of feeling like a man. 1 didn’t know. I turned slowly away. “Come on. Jack,” 1 said. The mayor said my name, and I turned around. As 1 looked at him I suddenly realized: He wants to do right, but he’s just as much a prisoner of the Jess Warrens, in a manner of speaking, as I am. “You're going then Jug?” T. K. Bagby asked. I shook my head. “1 don’t know, Mr. Bagby," 1 said slowly. "1 just don’t know. 1 got to study on it." I followed Jack back to the car, and all the way to the square I thought a lot about what had happened. I knew that Jack wanted to ask me what 1 was going to do, but he didn’t say a word. That night 1 went to bed early, and 1 slept the next morning until late. When 1 got up I felt good; I knew that my mind was made up. 1 was going to stay — not just until I cut out for spring training, hut for a good long time. It wasn't going to be easy. It wasn't going to be just the way 1 wanted it, maybe, but it was the way it had to be. Jk^Jk^Jk. Taylor’s medium Sherry sweeter — next time you buy wine. A DELIGHTFUL GIFT As an inexpensive yet highly-prized gift for any occasion, choose Taylor's Pale Dry Sherry in a handsome gift carton (at stores, where legal . The Taylor Wine Company, Vmeyardists and Producers, -v Hammondsport, New York. ]*£*- f; TAYLOR'S S'ul 1 NEW YORK STATE * from the famous cellars at Hammondsport, New York Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 624

I I ' man wi SpAC[ SOC Man’s Survival We can build the rocket ships, hut success depends on l)r. WERNUER von BRAIN l)r. HER MANN J. MILLER Chief, Cni ded M i**siles Laboratory, Redstone Arsenal, Huntsville. Alabama Nobel Prize Winner, Physiology and Medicine 1946; Professor of Zoology, Indiana University Col. DON I 'LICK INCUR, m.d. W ILLY LEY Director of Human Factors, l SAP's Air Researeh and Development Command, Baltimore Roeket expert and historian, cofounder of original German Rocket Society (apt. JAMES E. SI 'LL! VAN Dr. JAMES 1\ HENRY USNR, Director, Airborne Equipment Division, Navy Bureau of Aeronautics Consultant, Aero Medical Laboratory, USAF’s Wright Air Development Center, Ohio Dr. HEINZ HABER Dr. I RITZ HABER Institute of Transportation and Traflie Engineering, Iniversitv of California Department of Space Medicine, USAF’s School of Aviation Medicine, Randolph Field, Texas Dr. JAMES A. Van \LLEN Dr. HI RER I LS STRLGHOLD Head, Department of Physics, State University of Iowa Mead, Department of Space Medicine, USAF’s School of Aviation Medicine, Randolph Field, Texas Dr. DONALD \V. HASTINGS National Psychiatric Consultant to the U.S. Air Force; Head, Department of Psychiatry, University of Minnesota Medical School ILLUSTRATED BY CHESLEY BONESTELL. FRED FREEMAN AND ROLF KLEP

Page 625

LEY ic mosl complicated mechanism of all: the human ho»/ WHO will fly tomorrow's rocket ships? Must the crews be limited to expert mathema¬ ticians, astronomers and physicists or can we use the caliber of men who lly today's jet planes? Will space travelers be tall, short, fat or thin? We have the answers to these questions. Scien¬ tists, physicists and aero-medical doctors can specify the type of person suited for the job of conquering space and how the crews will be se¬ lected and trained. There's a good reason why our scientists can confidently make these estimates: they are hard at work at this moment to put man into space. So are certain branches of the Navy and Air Force. While the government has not officially an¬ nounced a space program, a score of the nation's colleges have quietly received U. S. contracts to investigate specific space flight problems. Some aircraft manufacturers are busily engaged in top- secret space research. One has the prototype of a space station on its drawing boards. The Air Force and Navy are also vitally con¬ cerned with what kind of man we’ll need for space ilight. Today's jet fighters, bombers and experi¬ mental rocket-powered craft arc Hying faster and higher than ever before. They are speeding along the very borders of the upper atmosphere and, at these great altitudes and high speeds, crews are meeting virtually the same environmental hazards which exist in the void of space. In short, modern aviation is rapidly growing into space flight. We have been preparing for the inevitable. Just as we protect. man in atmospheric flight, so will we safeguard man in space. In the last few years, Air Force and Navy scientists and doctors, working together, have developed pressure suits which can be used in upper-altitude flight. We can use the Navy's version in space. 1 he time has come to start thinking how we want the rocket ships built. In the prejet age, airplanes were built with only performance in mind, l ittle thought was given to the men who had to fly them. Pilots and crews were expected to adjust automatically to the fin¬ ished machines. Modern aviation medicine, as it becomes space medicine, has one rule of thumb concerning upper-altitude or space Ilight: man — human needs — must be considered before a single blueprint for an aircraft or rocket ship leaves the drawing board. Says Major General H. G. Arm¬ strong, Air Force Surgeon General: “Physics and its allied sciences identify the specific physical hazards . . . Medicine determines the human re¬ actions to these hazards . . . Engineering and its allied sciences design and develop the necessary protective equipment." We must construct our rocket ships around the men who must fly them. But who are they? The story of the selection and training of the crews who will operate tomorrow's rocket ships begins on the follow ing pages, as the first of a three- part series. So many branches of science are in¬ volved in discussing the human factor of space flight that Collier's asked a distinguished panel of aero-medical scientists, physicists, radiologists and engineers to contribute to the scries. Because their fields of study interlock and overlap, their papers have been combined into one continuous narrative. It is an important narrative. The success of any program to reach space depends on the machines, it is true. But even more largely it depends on the most delicate, most indispensable of all instru¬ ments — man himself. 41

Page 626

42 Alan's Survival in Space Picking the Men (Ian ordinary, liraltln (iconic visit space? They can — the \uvv\s new space suit points the way — lint we’ll look for special qualities in the pioneers. The physical and psychiatric examinations will he so tough that of every 1,000 trainees who can meet the strict entrance requirements only five will make the grade. Here's how we’ll choose JV ( 01 1 1) send man into space right now, this vear And he would survive. With¬ out . ny particular discomfort, either. He'd . ce ha/ards trom blood-draining acceleration to hood not ing low pressure, trom cosmic rays to c\t chic temperatures — but these arc hazards we know we can beat Most in taet. have been overcome by a single development, never bclore publicly disclosed: the complet on o! the Navy s new pressure suit, tailored tor s \tec travel. 1 he Navy space suit, pictured on this week s cover and on the opposite page, carries its own atmosphere oxygen, pressure, air condi¬ tioning It can be worn lor long periods, and per¬ mits eon plete Ireedom of movement. It was deve'oped with spece problems in mind. 'ion eould weal it to the moon tomorrow. We know that we can build the rocket ships to t kc us into space (Colliers. March 22. October Is and 2N ]^2>. arid we know we can protect their cie.vs V! we h oe to do is find the right men . ml women to make the trip It would be foolish to solve all the mechanical pu hieim and then run a risk ot human error. So vve must choose space cievv members earefulh so caret u lv that C olonel Hon 1 hckinger, the doctor w ho is one ol the top \i 1 oicc experts on vv hat the hodv must enduie in flight, makes this rough esti¬ mate O' i I ( pet \oi \ who (an meet the initial u/ u'.i , i i(,l pi .sn id uh 1 1 uvn i iruinu"^ im \ fi\ e \ 'll fm (>/u } n At t r\ w\ What t.c toe stanches1 •* 1.000 must meas¬ ure up u 1 \nd what vile i „ problems that will wash out of them? An . v'lc.iiu lor space training must he old enough to have mature judgment, whizzing through the hhukiicss ot space at speeds up to IS. 000 miles an hour, ta^mg situations men have never known before, he must make decisions tast and right. But he must not be so old that he can't stand the rigois of space tr.vel. e i t.ipul |l ike acceleration which mav merease his weight ninefold, to1, lowed within minutes n complete weightlessness: ti enicn- dous demands on hts endurance, the need lor near- perlect reflexes and co-ordin. non. Of the 1J scientists taking part in Collier's three-installment symposium, six contributed to the article Picking the Men: Drs. Heinz Halier. Donald \Y. Hastings, Hermann Muller and Janies A. N an Vilen*. Air Force (ad. Don Fliekinger and Navy Capt. Jaim*s E. Sullivan He must be well-educated, so he can absorb the fairly advanced scientific instruction that will equip him for rocket travel and life in space. As part of his training, he will receive a thorough grounding in both practical and theoretical engineering, medi¬ cine, astronomy and navigation. He can’t be too tall or too short and stout. Such people olten have poor control of their blood circulation, which makes them more subject to tainting, and more susceptible to variations in tem¬ perature and other hazards of space. I he best prospective cicw members will be be¬ tween twenty -eight and thirty -five years old. and of medium build: five leet live to five feet eleven inches tall, and weighing perhaps 10 per cent less than the average for their height. And they will have college degrees, or the equivalent as measured by examination. How about women? Chances arc, they'll be sought alter tor some space crew jobs. Not as pi¬ lots. perhaps, but as radio and radar operators — jobs requiring a high degree ot concentration under dilluult circumstances. In industry, women have indicated that the\ can perform monotonous and tedious tasks hour alter hour without undue loss of elfteiencv. Wc need people like that in space travel. I he physical and educational qualifications will bo about the same for women as for men, ex¬ cept that the women may be shorter and lighter. Those are the applicants. Now they must be culled, the unfit must be ruthlessly eliminated to mininvze the risk of personnel failure. *1 he first and most severe test will be a medical- psychiatric examination which will cut the original 1 .000 dovs n drastically . 1 he physicabexams. w hich will be in two parts, are expected to weed out no less than SS0 of the starters, and the psychiatric test 60 more. Why so tough? Because even minor organic or emotional defects will be tremendous handicaps; what we’re looking for arc people with specific physical attributes and unusually stable person¬ alities. The space crew members will not be supermen. But they will be well-adjusted individuals in ex¬ cellent health, with a few special aptitudes to equip them for the special problems of space. Those special aptitudes are important; they explain w'hy even men as carefully picked and well-trained as jet pilots probably wouldn't all make the grade as space pilots. At altitudes above four miles, there's virtually no air; an unprotected man would swiftly suffocate. From eight to 12 miles up, the region of extreme low pressure starts; from that level on into infinity, the body fluids would boil if not protected (first the saliva bubbles, then the skin balloons in places, under the pressure of water vapor rising beneath it, and finally the blood starts to churn). Then there's the temperature problem. A man speeding spaceward passes within moments through wild temperature variations — from moderate tem¬ peratures on the ground to 67 degrees below zero F. at an altitude of eight miles and then into a re¬ gion where temperature as wc know it no longer exists: a man exposed to the full blast of the sun’s ultraviolet rays would roast in an instant, while objects hidden from the sun would lose heat until — if in the shadow long enough — their tempera¬ ture would drop close to absolute zero. In a region so unlike the environment we've al¬ ways known, there's only one way to protect life: bring our environment with us. From the moment he enters space until the time he leaves it, man will Like Navy, the Air Force has been thinking of space problems. This i * Air Force emergency pressure suit, developed hv Dr. Janies Henry, shown undergoing pressure-chamber test. Suit inflates automatically as cabin pressure drops, does not protect bands or feet. Main contractors were David Clark Co., Bendix Aviation Corp., and International Latex Corp. PHOTOGRAPHS BY RALPH ROYLE

Page 627

New Navy space suit is a one-piece a flair, with helmet hinged to the shoulders. It has been tested to altitudes of 63,000 feet and still higher tests are under way. Many details of the suit are top secret Suit permits great freedom of movement. It was designed by Carroll 1* Krnpp, of Findlay. O.. 33-year-old self-taught Goodrich engineer, undei the direction of L.S. Navv’s technicians. It would work on the moor

Page 628

44 1 typical space crewman: not too tull , short or stout — anti emotionally stable . For sonn i live nside a protective envelope of his own making, high-pressure chamber, either within the sealed u bin ol his rocket ship or living quarters, or within the sealed casing of his space suit. I he new Navy suit developed under the direction of Captain James Su'livan ol the Navy Bureau of Aeronautics w ill do the trick. 1 he Vov space uniform, which is being used <.\pc i.nentallv under heavy guard at the National \ i i Mateiiel Center, Philadelphia, actually does more than solve the major problems which occur at extieme low pressure. It solves many of the bothersome minor problems, too. How does a man move around when he’s en¬ cased in a high-pressure balloon (which is what a space suit is) ! 1 he natural tendency of a pressure-filled suit is to beet me rigid and unyielding; how can the wearer bend his arms and legs? How can he use his lingers , 1 urn his head? 1 he rubber Navv suit permits almost complete mohilitv bv means ol a variety of devices, most of them still top secret. Semirigid accordion pleats allow' movement of the important body joints: shoulders, elbows, knees. Ingenious wrist joints permit rotation of the hands. Man in space will fine* that his fingers wriggle almost as freely as they might in a conventional thick glove — and with a sensitivity of touch that’s almost completely lack¬ ing in normally gloved hands. 1 he helmet is at¬ tached at the shoulders, and is so built that a man’s head can move comfortably w'ithin it. The suit has special slide fasteners which seal the suit as they close. Refinements such as these explain, in part, why the suit cost about $225,000 to develop. (It was made by the B. F. Goodrich Company, using fab¬ ricating techniques developed by the David Clark Company and hardware by the Firewel Company and Bendix Aviation Corporation. In production — it will be made in three sizes — its price will drop to about $2,000 per suit.) But the real significance of the uniform is the near-perfect protection that it gives against the big hazards: lack of oxygen, blood-boiling low pressure and tempera¬ ture variation. If the crew member gets all that protection, why W'orry about special aptitudes? Couldn't any indi¬ vidual live comfortably in an artificial atmosphere almost identical to the earth’s? The answer is no. Some people simply can’t endure man-made atmosphere. Scientists aren’t sure why, although it seems certain that the rea¬ sons are largely psychological. Pressure-chamber and pressure-suit tests show that a certain percent¬ age of any group will fold up under conditions which other people don’t mind at all. And a few can take low' pressures that would knock out al¬ most anyone else. Those are the few we want. Suppose a rocket-ship cabin develops a leak. It’s possible; no equipment is perfect. The crew mem¬ bers will be so well-versed in emergency procedures that the leak probably will be plugged in a few mo¬ ments — but for those few moments all personnel aboard the ship will have to cope with an environ- i I TV CAMERAS HEART-ACTION PlCICUl BRAIN-CHECK HELM! RETINA CAMERA BLOOD-OJ METEl RESPIRATION ANALYZEI HEARTBEAT PICKUPS ARTERY PRESSURE BLOOD-PRESSURE AND MUSCLE-TONE PICKUP CHEST AND ABDOMEN VOLUME INDICATORS PULSE PICKUPS PERSPIRATION ANALYZER BLOOD-PRESSURE AND MUSCLE-TONE PICKUPS BLOOD SAMPLER MOVABLE INSTRUMENT PANELS ROLL MOTOR PRESSURE AND EXHAUST MOTORS KIDNEY-SECRETION COLLECTOR EXHAUST FAN BLOOD-CIRCULATION INDICATOR BOOT MEDICAL ANALYZER TRANSMITTER TO CONTROL BOARD PERFORMANCE ANALYZER NOISE AND Vibration ANALYZER LOUD-SPEAKER

Page 629

HAZARDS IN LOWER ATMOSPHERE ARDS IN l).v, women nun/ beat out men ment far dilTerent from the earth’s It s then that our extreme care in the selection ot crew members will pa\ oil. Obviously, we’ll want to test all applicants in pressure chambers. We’ve been doing that tor years with aircraft crews and trainees. But more than that, we’ll check our 1 ,000 for certain physical properties. A person whose circulatory system is under excellent control will be far better equipped to exist for long periods on relatively little oxy¬ gen, and in the cramped quarters of a rocket ship, than one with unpredictable variations in blood pressure. A crew member whose nervous and circulatory systems react swiftly and efficiently to outside tem¬ perature changes will be affected only slightly by variations which might incapacitate someone else. Problems of a Space \ chicle’s Crew Before a space vehicle even leaves the 120-mile- high atmosphere which surrounds the earth, its crew members will have confronted all the prob¬ lems of low pressure, plus a couple of others: cos¬ mic radiation and ultraviolet radiation. Ultraviolet radiation doesn’t trouble us; it could be dangerous to an unprotected man, but our crew member will never lack the protection of cabin walls, space suit fabric and tinted glass. Cosmic rays, the minute, ultrahigh-speed, radio¬ active particles which whi 7 constantly through the upper atmosphere and space, have been an object of dread for many years — principally because most people know so little about them. Scientists know enough, however, to be pretty certain of two facts: First, they aren't as bad as they’ve been de¬ scribed, not bad enough to constitute a real danger. Second, their relative harmlessness is a source of vast satisfaction to space scientists, because there’s no practical way of protecting space travelers from them. The reasons will be discussed later in this article. Above the atmosphere, only one more physical hazard confronts the space traveler: meteorites. There again, there is no built-in safeguard in the human body. Medical men are counting on the engineers to provide sufficient protection. But there are other problems we must meet. In aviation training, the greatest number of men are eliminated because of faulty reactions or poor judgment under actual flight conditions. Ft isn’t easy to provide flight conditions in rocket-ship training; obviously, we can't send potential crew members into space in a multimillion-dollar space vehicle as part of our selection process. Yet it’s much more important to weed out the unfit in a This device will lest candidate’s ability to lake stresses of space. Poll motor and pilch cylinder will rock and shake chamber; noise will he piped in; pressure and composition of atmosphere will he varied. Prospective crew member w ill he required to solve problems set into instrument panels by remote control. As lie works, electrodes, cardiographs and other instruments attached to his body will record how various organs function under the strain. The heart, brain, eyes, perspiration, blood, muscles all will be cheeked separately, and technicians and surgeons will see results on analyzer panels. One TV camera will be fixed on candidate, oilier on the instrument boards In lower atmosphere, the hazards at left menace unprotected man. Even erewinan in space wearing pressure suit will he subject to dangers noted on right. Hill none is a se¬ rious obstacle to an assault on space today Mill* AftOVf SC A LI VII -28 ULTRAVIOLET RAYS - 4 OXYGEN REQUIRED - 3 BREATHING DIFFICULTIES BEGIN FULL OVER-ALL -25 INTENSITY OF COSMIC RAYS MAXIMUM INTENSITY OF COSMIC RAYS OVER MAGNETIC POLES -12 -r LOW PRESSURE CAUSES BODY FLUIDS TO BOIL: PRESSURIZED CABIN OR SUIT REQUIRED DRAWINGS BY ROLF KLEP

Page 630

46 Science is breah’iny tlown the barriers. The' Navy suit licks the low-pressure liazart ROLF RLIP 74,080 70,000 yit)GHTLIS$ niGHf 80 SECONDS 80,000 I hi* «hov*s ih e method deviled by Dr. Heinz Htfher for achieving weightless flight in a modern li igh-vclocity airplane. Plane dive?* to pick up speed, then pulls up and flies in liumplike are. Pilot is weightless while in arc. Bottom diagram shows flight path of T-33 jet trainer which made the first such flight, with erack Air Foree test pilot Maj. Charles Yeager at the controls. Upper line indicates how our fastest rocket plane, the Douglas Skyrocket, flying above 10-mile altitude, can lengthen are, almost triple period of weightlessness i space program than in aviation training. What can w e do } W e can copy the stresses of rocket flight on the ground In fact, we can do better: right now we can make the tests tar more concrete than those used »n aviation which depend largely on personal observation and opinion. I he trainee will he seated within a small, elabo- ratelv instrumented, ho lerhkc chamber. The inside pressuie can be lowered; the chemical composition of the atmosphere varied, the temperature adjusted, f he testing flight surgeon can vibrate the whole contraption violently, pipe noises into it— or con¬ duct any ot the tests in combination. Candidate Given Kleetronic Checkup I he candidate will, in efTect. he wired for sound and radar. His suit will he the center ot a network of wires, ldcvision and Vrav cameras will hover over him. [ lestrodcs, cardiographs and other elec¬ tronic devices will check his pulse, blood pressure, breathing rate, sk n temperature, internal tempera¬ ture, perspiration and the oxvgen content of his blood, b v erv section of his heart and brain will send out its own s gnals to a control board outside the chamber- — so the surgeons vvi'l he ah e to check not only for malfunctioning of specific organs, hut for the co-ordination of the physical machinery as a whole. The air intake of the candidate’s lungs and the chemical composition of the exhaled air will be analyzed to see how efficiently his lungs work at various pressures. The movement of blood through his body will be followed as a check on the contrac¬ tion and relaxation of his blood vessels. Outside the chamber, the w'atching doctors will see a picture story, of the candidate’s life processes in action. They will be able to evaluate the reports transmitted from the chamber, to see if some or¬ gans arc working too hard, to see if integration between the brain, heart, lungs and circulation is all it should be. By the time he steps out of the chamber, the candidate won’t have a physical secret left, of the original 1,000 only 120 men and women will re¬ main. And the chamber tests may disclose a few psychological secrets, too. • Psychology is an extremely important considera¬ tion in weighing a candidate’s ability to cope with life in space. An individual living in the confine¬ ment of a rocket ship or space station experiences many emotional strains: the confusing absence of familiar guidepoints, like the horizon, to show him what position he's in (there’s no vertical or hori¬ zontal in space); the tremendous monotony of emptv scenery and cramped quarters; the irritat¬ ing presence of the same few people over long periods; mental fatigue caused by the need for con¬ stant, unrelenting alertness to the problems of a completely new environment. Can harassed modern man endure the addi¬ tional mental stresses of space life? He can, according to Dr. Donald W. Hastings, U S.A f . Maj. ‘‘Chuck** Yeager, first man to he weightless, found experience confusing Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 631

47 K»ir method lets us experience weightlessness. Cosmic radiation ? VoJ/iiitr/ to fear the top Air Force consultant on psychiatric prob¬ lems. Some men will do better than others, though, and we’ll want the best of the lot. We’ll get them by putting each candidate through an exhaustive psychiatric check, probing into his subconscious (possibly with the aid of harmless drugs and hypnosis), and testing him for such characteristics as ingenuity, intelligence, judgment and courage. When our psychiatrists and psychologists finish with the candidates, the 120 survivors of the physi¬ cal tests will have been whittled down to 60. Even so, no test psychologists can devise will measure adequately an individual’s ability to ad¬ just to the one remaining problem of space: weight¬ lessness. A space vehicle or space platform traveling around the earth at a certain distance and speed (1,075 miles and 15,840 miles an hour, for exam¬ ple) will exactly counterbalance the eflect of the earth’s gravity. Occupants of such craft will float in space. It's likely to be a disturbing experience; until crew members get used to it, they may sufler from dizziness and nausea. Some people might never get used to it. How can we comb them out? We certainly can’t sim¬ ulate weightlessness on earth, can we? No, but we can simulate at least one eflect of weightlessness, and, using jet planes, at certain Cosmic rays, X rays act alike. Normal flies like one above, heavily X-rayed, had freakish descendants below: tiny-eyed, yellow, short¬ winged, wingless, mottle-eyed or dark-bodied. But men won't find such heavy dosage in space speeds wc can achieve brief periods of weightless¬ ness in the air. Zoologists know' that when small iron filings re¬ place the sand grains which are normally in the inner ear, or balancing organ, of a crayfish, and a magnet is held above the filings, the crayfish shows about the same kind of confusion humans can ex¬ pect from weightlessness. His organ of equilibrium responds to the impulse of the magnetized filings with a wrong guess: up becomes down, and the crayfish flips onto its back. A similar experiment, both harmless and painless, might be tried on larger animals. We might learn a lot about weightlessness in humans from such research. An Experiment in Defying Gravity But obviously, the most effective way to judge the effect of weightlessness is to watch someone who's experiencing weightlessness. We're now able to do that, using a method devised by Dr. Heinz Haber, astronomer and physicist, who was for¬ merly with the Air Force Department of Space Medicine. A number of men have already tried Haber’s method, and have defied gravity for peri¬ ods of up to 30 seconds. Here's how it's done: A cannon shell is weightless from the moment it leaves the muzzle until the instant it strikes the target. Haber proposed imitating the arc of a shell with an airplane. Air Force Major Charles Yeager tried it. Yea¬ ger, the first man to fly faster than sound, went up in a jet trainer and put it into a long dive, to pick up speed. Then he pulled up and pushed over into a roller-coaster arc, to simulate a shell’s flight. From the moment he started the arcing trajectory, he was weightless. A pencil lying on the jet's in¬ strument panel rose majestically into the air and hovered there, providing Yeager with a course in¬ dicator. (When the freely floating pencil rose too high, Yeager adjusted his flight to keep the pencil stationary; in that way, he was able to stay within the weightless arc.) How did it feel? Strange, Yeager reported. First there was a fall¬ ing sensation, but that didn’t bother him much, since he was securely fastened to his seat. But then his head began to “grow thick,” and he had trouble orienting himself. A few seconds later, he had the impression that he wms spinning around slow v. he couldn't sa\ in what direction It w s. he s d. like sitting on a big hall which was s'c wl\ rotating in all directions at once. Alter 1 ^ seconds, th r- oughly contused, he pulled out of the re Several other men have tried the Haber method since Yeager's attempt. Some have been weight¬ less for halt a minute and none h, vc reported the effects that disturbed Yeager Ihcir solution: by staring at a fixed point on the plane’s instrument panel, they keep a sense of balance and perspective Additional flights, under controlled conditions, should supply more answers to the problem of weightlessness — especially if thcv’re made in one of the latest experimental rocket models. If the Navy’s rocket-propelled Douglas Skyrocket, our fastest plane, were used for such an experiment, weightlessness could be achieved for almost a min¬ ute and a half. There’s just one more possible psychological hazard to space travel: an unreasoning fear of cos¬ mic radiation. The simplest answer is to give our space candidates a complete course in cosmic rays, to prove that they need not he afraid. Theoretically, cosmic rays arc capable of doing the same kind of delayed damage to humans as that done by X rays or radium or atomic-bomb rays: a person who absorbed too great a dosage might produce strange physical changes — or muta¬ tions — in his descendants. But the damage is insignificant unless we ab¬ sorb an overdose. About 25 years ago, massive doses of X rays were administered to a species of fruit fly which breeds so rapidly an entire genera¬ tion can be produced in a few weeks. Within a short time, weird freaks turned up among certain of the descendants — some without eyes, others with strangely shaped wings and legs, or with legs where their feelers should be. or with unusual col¬ oration. These mutations were passed on to later generations, proving that the damage had been permanent. The fruit-fly tests were dramatic and, to many people, fearsome. They should not have been. It wasn't easy to produce the freakish insects. Of hundreds of flies subjeeted to massive X-ray doses, only a relative few1 passed on marked changes to their offspring, and it sometimes took generations of breeding to turn out a real monster. Even t PHOTOGRAPHS BY INDIANA UNIVERSITY

Page 632

One expert checked cosmic-ray intensity 53 miles up I £ genes which sustain a near-killing dose of radia- I Z tion seldom produce outlandish abnormalities. I 2 C hanges, yes; freaks, rarely. Dr. Hermann J. Mul- (ler, one of the world's outstanding authorities on the subject, puts it this way: If a human were ex¬ posed to all the radiation his system could stand, enormous numbers of his descendants would have to be eloselv examined before a single really abnor¬ mal person turned up. How much cosmic radiation would a man ab¬ sorb in space? The Air Force is conducting experiments to help answer that question, sending fruit flies aloft in bal¬ loons to altitudes between 50,000 and 100,000 feet. But even now we know the answer in general terms. Last year, Dr. James A. Van Allen led an expedi¬ tion to the waters oil Greenland for the Office of Naval Research to measure the intensity of cosmic radiation over the polar area, where the earth’s magnetism attracts an especially high concentra¬ tion of the electrically charged particles. Small plastic balloons were sent aloft from the Coast Guard cutter Eastwind with slender rockets sus¬ pended beneath them. After 55 minutes, timing devices launched the rockets, and Geiger counters on each rocket measured cosmic intensity all the way up to 53 miles. The greatest concentration — about 170 par¬ ticles per second striking an area the size of a man’s hand — was found at altitudes between 14 and 25 miles. There are sure to be more particles than that at a great distance from the earth, be¬ cause the earth itself shielded Van Allen's Geiger counter from particles which might otherwise have struck from below. Van Allen estimates, on the basis of his findings, that a three-inch square 1.000 miles above the earth might be struck by about 700 cosmic particles a second. Is that a dangerous intensity? Far from it. A man could absorb such a concentration for as long as six years in a row without appreciable harm. The X-ray doses used on the fruit flies were equiva¬ lent to millions of particles, administered all at once. So, the 60 candidates now left of the original 1,000, armed with the facts on cosmic radiation, will know they have little to fear on that score. But some tests lie ahead. The 60 are ready for training now — training in methods of withstanding acceleration shocks, training in group procedures within a scaled cabin, in navigation, and in per¬ sonal locomotion in space. By the time the candi¬ dates have finished that instruction, there will be only five left. AAA. Left: high-altitude roomie-ray tests were carried on from Coast Guard cutter Eastwind by launching balloons which set off rockets aloft. Above: preparing rocket-firing mechanism # 11 iitfil* In a h*? hangar, a cage whirls around like a bucket on the end of A ^ « ww f f, string; inside sits a man, his face sagging, his body under heavy pres **ure — hut his mind working swiftly. In the next room, a space-suited figure is seated atop a sler der pole with a gunlike instrument in his hand; as he pulls the trigger, he cartwheels, spin? gyrates crazily. What are the) doing? They're training for the toughest assignments of thei live**: the harsh* complicated, exacting duties of rocket crewmen preparing to conquer spac 48 Collier’s for February 28, 195

Page 633

HUDSON HORNET FOUR-DOOR SEDAN Now try Hudson, the style leader with the winning wallop Pictured here is America’s number -one performer — the fabulous Hudson Hornet, winner in 47 out of 60 stock-car races in 1952, champion of all three major U. S. racing associations— a record no other car has ever equalled. The secret of this record performance is exclusive “step- down” design, which gives Hudson the lowest center of gravity among American cars, and gears it to the road. That’s why only Hudson can handle such tremendous power so safely — why, in the Hudson Hornet and in its lower-priced running mate, the spectacular Hudson Wasp, you get the safest, most comfortable and thrilling ride you have ever had. Only HUDSON, with the lowest center of gravity among American cars, can handle such tremendous power so safely! And as for style and luxury, you’ve never seen anything to match these new beauties for 1953. You’ll find new colors, new styling, new contour seating and new upholstery in both the Hudson Wasp and the Hudson Hornet. Truly they are the most beautiful cars of the year. By all means, see them at your dealer’s. Standard trim and other specifications and accessories subject to change without notice. No other car can perform >r ride or last like a Hudson j because no other car has "STEP-DOWN” DESIGN 1953 HUDSON HORNET NATIONAL STOCK-CAR CHAMPION WASP HUDSON OTHER MAKES LOWER- PRICED RUNNING MATE TO THE HORNET

Page 634

50 lY/#//#f of Uio imoldan i*tover CO M I M I D FROM PACE 2 ] ■ ••■'•h vv med for the mantle of n.e and mm .4 tKit before lone would spicid : tla. po' i sl v ar d the land On the 4 rth til tile impending event was lelt. ( >r the f-ioiintiin the bale u ovv berries . id iub\ u 'I i be r ries were st. mine the * lopes with I wine color picked up by die ow v n j c'oud>. down on the tun if § f *h 1 1 1 d the sh i e the cotton grass w as g* id w\id ;m und blue ponds (1 at e J) n«or i r.g weie edged with icc. VS huU he tic a out above the ocean, tie p .-•} etHfid see in its depths the si di a. bn k ol the whales beginning tleir a+'tumn journey. Over the shore, eor io i' mts gulls, murres. ld squaws, seotets. geese, curlews, jaegers, terns, hif(|»spurs and snow buntings, sandpip¬ ers au k lets -nd phalaropes. and the voting golden plovers w heeled and streamed through the air, exercising their wings 1 \cry day a lew strands of them would untangle themselves and draw a way southward, but multitudes sti 1 1 remained. Most ot them were sort¬ ing themselves into flocks. I he plover joined one group and then another. Hy¬ ing caeh company till he had lound the one that was most congenial. r|"'HIS homeland ol his was out on the A continent's farthest tip, where the dark heuht ol Wales Mountain over- locks Bering Strait, f ll ty -three miles away was Siberia. Most birds, having tr< veled thousands ot miles to this arctic breeding ground, stopped at the strait. Siberia's bird population migrated south lor the winter, into Japan and C hina, to Jav.t. New Guinea. Australia, I he birds that had reared their young in Alaska trned southeast hound tor Calilornia or mh nd through C anadu. some to stop o the States, others to fly on to South A me I lea. W hi e . 11 ot the other migrants chose land routes, the Pacific golden plovers would journey down over the Bering Se i, past the Aleutian Islands, and then on above the broad rolling wastes ot the Pacific Ocean I heir goal was the Ha¬ waii m 1st i ds. those pinpoints upon the v *st waters, which they would reach alto . flight ol three thousand miles. fn preparat on the plover and the llock he had latelv joined had begun to swing out horn then beach in flights of wider ,nd wider circles. Wales Nfoun- t xi i had seemed an immense wo1 Id. e\- Cit mj and sti i »e when the plovei was s*i*iM Bv iow it was onlv one ol nu- mciois peaks on the continent s shoul- dei I lie s ove s had nianv times swung past the summits but that was onJv a moriung s i -i.nt bv |nus. and the next widempg ot then course took then on a wide G* eu’ii ti ip aei oss the sti iit lilts extended ti p had been m van- ous wavs a test flight C ertain o1 their dn eetiou alMomJi thev we e sur- rouiieled bv a de se white nust, the plover Ikxk had tfcuvn west and the birds had c m heel stead !v to Pie gi eat altitudes at which P cv would flv oil their migration, due to begin anv day. 1 he blur that enclosed them gievv brighter. Sudden Iv thev were above it, over a surface ot flultv down st etch¬ ing away on all sides to a love nonzon. Over the stratus sheet, i 1 some places resting upon it, were alto-edn i us pulls, pure vvhite. billowing chimneys, spaced out in the intense blue of the skv . These puffs were drawn closer to¬ gether ahead, and beyond that thev merged. Finally', the birds could find no clear sky. Acting as one. with an im¬ pulse that was generated from within the group as a whole, they tilted their wings and relaxed their drive. Now they were down in the stratus layer again and still descending; below, the atmosphere seemed merely steamy, with the shadowed earth taking shape below. No sunlight penetrated the clouds, which were once again above the birds. I he plov ers had flown over the strait and past Siberia’s East Cape; under them was a marsh with mountains be¬ yond with treeless slopes, like the ones they knew on the Alaskan side. A river wound down through a valley, wil¬ low brush edging its banks. The flock started to circle back. Soon they were over a Siberian Eskimo village, and bul¬ lets were stinging the air. Two ol the birds were hit 1 hey fell to the earth as though diving; one struck and bounced off an igloo roof ol tight wal¬ rus skin. I he flock speeded their wing- beats. 1 hey were beyond the settlement; now they were crossing the shore to¬ ward the Bering Sea. I heir eastward course was straight and direct until the York Mountains rose ahead of them. I"' HE voung male was exhilarated by . the expanded trial flight. When he alighted upon the familiar beach, he ran about in the shallow waves, foam sing¬ ing about his feet. T he great expedition was taking shape now in his mind; his tension was due to break soon, in his short life’s most challenging venture. It was the imminent snowstorm that tripped the flock's impulse to start, at last, on the actual migration. Cirrus clouds had condensed into a fibrous veil hidmg the sun, and meanwhile a change m the atmosphere’s pressure warned of a c inicix in weather. All the birds were avv.ac of it. The air was scintillating with neivous wings, though the plover flock was not yet flying. The birds were perched at the head of the beach, poised to begin their migration. I heir actual departure was unevent¬ ful. That morning, with a common im¬ pulse, the plovers had simply flown up from the shore and, ascending rapidly, turned southward over the Bering Sea. in a few hours, a blizzard had over¬ taken the young, inexperienced birds. It was this blizzard that had forced the llock to retreat to land. The single male bird which had become separated from the flock continued to fly on above the water alone. BY NIGHTFALL, the golden plover could go no farther. Under him the great waves had increased in height. The breakers were flinging their crests into the sky and spreading behind them coarse nets of foam, and the roar of the w inds and the waters was one bewilder¬ ing crush of sound. His will to continue was firm, but so heav y a load of ice now encased his feathers that all the energy he could put into the push of his wings would not keep him aloft. In his descent toward the sea, he saw a dark, wallowing object ahead — a small ship. It was heaving and drop¬ ping, battered from one side and then from the other by the waves, but it was floating. The bird reached it. He cir¬ cled it once and came down to alight on the rail in front of the pilothouse. Behind him, through a window blurred with a coating of snow, a man’s face peered out. It was only a few' feet away, yet the plover did not take alarm. Io have the firm wood in the grasp of his toes was an incalculable comfort, even though sheets of spray were flung over him with each dip of the rail. It was enough that he need not be driving his stiff, weighted wings. He folded them, and at once they froze into place at his sides. The ship was attempting to quarter across the waves. It had been bound from St. Lawrence Island to Norton Sound when it was blown oil its course toward the south. The engines churned steadily , but the breakers were rapidly overtaking the ship. After each rise, the boat slammed down into the trough with a blow that racked its timbers. The face that looked out from the other side of the glass was tense. Just before dark, a door at the side of the pilothouse opened and another man, one of the Eskimo sailors, came out. With one hand he held his pea jacket closed; with the other he reached lor the bird. Instinctive fright seized the plover. He attempted to raise his wings — he would have flown off the boat if they had not been rigid — but the man’s hand closed around his tody and lifted him off the rail. Now they were in the pilothouse. The captain glanced at the sailor and smiled faintly, but did not speak. The sailor went on down a narrow corridor of the pitching ship to the galley. Two men, the engineer and another sailor, w'ere there, bracing themselves on benches between the cabin walls and a table, and balancing coffee cups in their hands. “Look what Dummy’s got. We’ll have chicken for dinner,” one said. The plover’s captor, a deaf-mute, caught the meaning. He grinned, but shook his head. Sliding onto a bench, he held the bird on the table before him, enclosing its frozen plumage in both hands. The pressure of the man’s fingers was like a trap; yet their warmth was welcome, and the bird’s heart, which had been pounding until it seemed that it would explode in his breast, subsided. He sensed that this man was his friend. SOON the ice in his feathers had melted; now he w'as only w’et. When the man shifted his hold, the bird raised a wing. The sailor set the bird’s feet on the rim of the table and lowered his hands to the surface, but he kept his arms spread around the bird to w'arn off the other men. The plover stood quietly, and the deaf-mute began to stroke him. At the first touch, on his back, the bird took alarm. His wings fluttered, and the man understood. After that he stroked on the plover's breast. That w'as not a covering motion, and therefore the bird did not fear it. The sailor across the table spoke again: “When the captain sees this he’ll put the bird in the pot.” As if to test the prediction, the engi¬ neer disappeared into the passageway. In a moment the captain, a Norwegian, came in. He was a mariner with intent blue eyes: he looked at the bird in a preoccupied way, as if he did not see him. The mute sailor gathered the plover into his hands and slipped him into the front of his jacket. Then he left the cabin and went down a ladder. Down in the engine room he took out the bird again and set him up on a warm overhead pipe. The bird fluttered off. He struck the dark sloping walls, but at last lound a perch for himself on one of the rungs of the ladder. Two more sailors were there, hut they were busy and paid no attention to him. The ship's violent plunging was more disturbing than any wind. When he was tossed by a gust, the plover could coun¬ ter the motion by his wing action, hut here, though he clutched the rung, he was nearly thrown off by the shock of the hull crashing into the trough of the waves. And the air in the hold was foul with oil and bilge. The bird was dizzied, and his head dropped down on his breast. The mute sailor had started to help the other crew members, but, noticing the bird’s distress, he buttoned Collier's for February 28, 1953 VIP S WAR

Page 635

51 him into his jacket again and took him out on the deck. He put the bud down on a eoil of rope. The plover was free, but now he made no attempt to fly. Lashed to the deck were a dory, a snowplow and a small pile of lumber, all of which shifted and strained each time the ship lurched. The snowplow lilted six inehes or more, to bang down again on the deck. The captain and one of the other men started to brace it w ith additional taekle. I he mute sailor joined them. They were all working hastily. In the darkness the swirling snow was lighted by the beam from the galley door. After a while the men went baek into the pilothouse and closed the door, leaving the plover outside. TORRENTS of Spray slashed across the deck; from time to time one of the breakers poured over it. The plover had little urge to take wing, for the ship, as it pitched about, seemed less to be feared than the snow in the screaming wind. He crouched in the coil of rope. He w-as still huddled there when the black night gave way to a glow¬ ering, heavy dawn. The water could now be seen clearly, as far as the snow allowed. Its movement had changed. The storm had beeome a revolving gale, as it often did on the Bering Sea, with the wind veering so rapidly that it blew from every point of the compass in the space of five minutes. The waves w'ere wild and ehaotie; the slopes of great liquid summits swept sky¬ ward and sank. The boat had been built orig¬ inally for fishermen to use off a eoast where the weather was milder; and it had neither the strength of hull nor the motive power to stand such a buffet¬ ing long. All the men’s faces were apprehensive. They came often to tighten the gear that was holding the snowplow; the eap- tain stood by it constantly. The bird and the men were sharing this danger. None of them eould survive for very long if the tim¬ bers in the boat should give way. Noon approaehed under a sky uniformly dark. The wind and the waves were useless as guides; only the eompass, serewed to its standard up in the pilothouse, gave any clue to the ship’s heading. Having no southerly swells to eontend with now, the eaptain had set the ship’s eoursc straight for the east, toward the eoast, for the boat eould not hold together for many more hours. The erisis eame suddenly, at mid- afternoon. While the men, all but the engineer at the wheel and one sailor down in the engine room, were on deek, the snowplow' broke loose. It slid along the steep, slippery deek and erashed to a stop against the rail. Its weight listed the ship over so that the rail was sub¬ merged. If that barrier had given way, the plow, plunging off into the water, would have let the ship right itself. But the heavy rail held. As the ship lurched sideward, all the men lost their footing. Two would have been washed overboard, but they suc¬ ceeded in getting a grip on the plow. The mute sailor had fallen against the wineh, where he clung. “Loose the dory!” the eaptain roared. He scrambled across the lumber and reaehed the boat hooks. The engineer, on his hands and knees, appeared in the eabin door. His faec was oyster-gray with fear. Then, with a sickening roll, the deek rose until it was vertical, swung Collier’s for February 28, 1953 on over, and threw all five of the men into the monstrous sea. . . . 1 he bird flew into the wind and the snow, but stayed close. '! he ship’s rusty keel hung in the water for a moment or two but soon slid out of sight, the water boiling and sucking about it. I he dory was riding the waves. Three of the men had gone down, among them the engi¬ neer, but the others eould swim. I he eaptain reached the dory first and tossed a life jaeket out to the deaf-mute; an¬ other man stayed afloat by grasping a pieee of the drilling lumber. I hese three saved themselves; the eaptain got himself into the lifeboat and rescued the other two. They started the engine, and though the boat reeled about on the peaks and in the pits of the waves, the captain attempted to steer in a circular eoursc, hoping to find the other men in the wreckage that drifted upon the surface. For more than an hour they continued their seareh without sueeess. The eaptain scanned the sky. How, laeking a eompass now, eould he deter¬ mine which way was east? He kept the engine running, but at low speed, lest he move away from the eoast. The bird hovered eloser and eloser above the boat, for the winds and the snow were still as hazardous for him as the turbulent waters were for the dory, and soon he was tired again. He alighted upon the boat. Both sailors were bailing and paid slight attention to their small companion. Once, how¬ ever, so thiek a shower of spray struek the bird that he was knoeked from his pereh and had to flutter off into the air. When he eame down on the rail again, the deaf-mute lifted him off and put him inside the shelter of the prow. The eaptain had long sailed these de¬ serted seas, where no lighthouses or bca- eons were maintained to assist a ship, and he had been accustomed to watch¬ ing the birds. Their actions warned him of changes in weather, and in fog their erics told of the presence of rocks and cliffs. Now a thought struck him. He said: “If that plover would leave us, he’d probably set out for land and give us our eoursc.” He gestured to show his meaning, and the mute sailor nodded. Again he took up the plover, this time to try to per¬ suade him to leave. He tossed him out into the air, but the bird returned to the boat. The sailor continued to wave him off. but the bird sensed th.it the greater danger lav out in the blowing snow Ife would fly for a little, allowing Inin self to be hurled about in the blizzard until he was tired, and then return “Our gas may not List until morning.” the eaptain said. I ben all the men took tui ns waving the bud away, and finally he stayed aloft. Night was beginning to darken the white tailing snow. Or was the snow thinning? 1 he wind was certainly sub¬ siding, and the flakes, coming down gently now, were no longer as blinding as before. The men in the boat watched the plover anxiously, their pale faces upturned to him. He sensed their inter¬ est, though he did not, of course, com¬ prehend their actions, which were not hostile and yet not friendly. The bird was immensely hungry, hav¬ ing been without food for all of the two harrowing days. If he could reaeh the eoast, he eould rest there and feed, and regain his strength. After a little while aloft he began to discover that his flight in the sky was becoming less perilous. There was little light over the sea now, and no land was in sight; yet the plover was not eon- fused. He knew instinctively where the shore should be. On a sudden, decisive urge he straight¬ ened his eoursc toward the east, away from the boat, whieh, as he sped over the sea, swung round to follow him. CAPE ROMANZOF, a steep promontory, beeame visible where, intuitively, the bird had expeeted to find it. Most of the slopes were white, but because the gale had drifted the snow, some of the terraees were seant- ily eovered. The elouds were blowing in tatters and were being swept out of the sky. The moon shone fitfully and its light re¬ vealed to the plover a pateh of erowberries. He flew down and ate hungrily of the fruit before he fluffed out his feathers and elosed his eyes for a long, wel¬ come sleep. Winter had eome to the North, but it was still a season of only moderate cold, and the sun, al¬ though sinking lower, rose every day. Its warmth melted the snow off more of the berries. The bird feasted and slept until he was ready to continue his mi¬ gration. He would make it alone, and he would not lose his way. On the third morning, when he set out again, a bril¬ liantly colored sunrise was putting a wash of mauve and gold over the vast, white land. At first he stayed near the eoast, and before he had traveled far, his keen eyes discovered a camp on the beach — the well-known dory drawn up on the sand, and, stretched out around the fire, the three human companions with whom he had shared his ordeal. The sea had quieted. It was a surlaee where he eould rest, should lie need to stop, but the drive in his wings was a foree that eould carry him, so he felt, far from the Arctic. He turned over the water, south toward another eoast, one bordered with swaying trees and great vivid flowers, a shore very differ¬ ent from this — one that he had never seen. There he would spend the winter. But late in the spring, when the ice and snow were due to be gone from Alaska, he would make the long flight again. He would return to this wide, unobstructed eountry, to skies always buoyant with iee-eooled winds, and to unending light. He would return, for the North wras his homeland. AAA W “What's this I hear about you going over to Mrs. Smith's and offering to trade th ree of my cookies for one of hers?'’ COLLIER S SCOTT BROWN LUBRICATION ^Lubricatt^. Sound your Z kyiMI. Th« Pinntell Co. Member Penn. Grade Crude Oil A*»n.. FVetnli No. 2 PENNZOIL* MOTOR OIL AND LUBRICANTS AT BITTER DEALERS . . . COAST TO COAST LONG because it lasts long — saves you added quarts between oil changes This 100% Pennsylvania motor oil with the JmujltJdln stands up under intense heat . . . resists the forma¬ tion of oil-wasting engine deposits. Your engine stays cleaner, smoother running • . . uses /ess oil I Nnnxoil gives all onginot on extra margin of softly. Thtrt'i a correct grade and type af Pennxall far YOUR car and driving conditions. HI

Page 636

Eat a Bigger Breakfast— And Be Thin By FREDRICK J. STARE, M.D. And JULIA A. SHEA, M.S. You can lose weight if you start oiF your day with a hearty meal. Researchers at Harvard say it will prevent those morning hunger pangs and keep you from overeating later 52

Page 637

Dr. Fredrick Stare, coauthor of this article, has heen head of the Department of Nutrition at Harvard School of Public Health since 1912, Julia Shea, mIio collaborated >vith him, is doing geriatric nutrition research in the department YOU and your family arc at breakfast. Late for school, the children grab a roll or some fruit and run out the door. Re¬ calling that extra slice of pic you tucked away last night before bedtime, you only cat a couple of doughnuts and drink two cups of cofTcc. Your wife, still more conscious of her figure, takes only coffee. To those of us professionally concerned with nutrition, this picture is too familiar to be amus¬ ing. We have, in fact, good reason to suppose that such short-cut breakfasts may be one cause of our high late-morning industrial accident rate and the shocking number of overweight adults in this country — a total set by U.S. public health authorities at some 15,000,000 persons. We have known for some time that a substan¬ tial, high-protein breakfast is important for good health. But only recently — thanks in part to experiments here in the Department of Nu¬ trition at the Harvard School of Public Health — have we discovered why. And as is so often the case in scientific research, once the why of the matter was found, new questions and an¬ swers swiftly followed. Our researchers already have turned up two fascinating facts that should cheer up all who arc overweight and help bring better health and longer life to everyone else who acts upon them. These findings arc: fl If you cat a bigger and better breakfast, you are likely to cat less during the day as a whole, fl Judieious nibbling between meals can help you lose weight once you make up your mind to do so. The key to these seeming paradoxes lies in the discovery of what we believe to be a trigger that controls our appetite. Knowing at last why and how we become hungry, we can recom¬ mend menus and diets that will tend to keep this mechanism in the oil, or not-hungry, posi¬ tion longer. Thus, with no loss of strength or energy, we can cat fewer calorics each day and lose weight safely while rarely feeling hungry. Breakfast is the most important meal — whether you wish to reduce or simply maintain your present weight. We have found that a breakfast of fruit juice, hot or cold cereal with milk, an egg and bacon, toast and coffee will add fewer pounds in the long run than a break¬ fast of only coffee with doughnuts or sweet rolls. While the larger breakfast contains roughly 200 more calorics than the other, it will carry you over with no midmorning slump and less desire to tackle too big a lunch or dinner. The protein content of each breakfast is the answer: 17 grams of protein in the larger meal, and only four grams in the other. And it is the proteins, the work horses of our diet, which seem to con¬ trol the trigger mechanism of our appetite. At some time in the future, people may cat dinner at breakfasttime and breakfast at dinner¬ time. But until such time, we urge everyone to 53 PHOTOGRAPH FOR COLLIER'S BY ANTON BRUEHL J

Page 638

Try fruit juice , tiro fried eyys, toast , butter , mtllc «it«l coffee for breakfast if you want \ t j This chart shows the advantages of eating a hearty — or high-protein — breakfast. It keeps your hlood sugar above level where you feel hungry until it’s time for your midday meal cat a quarter or more of the day’s total of calories and proteins at the morning meal. Whether you, like man) white-collar workers, average 2,500 calo¬ ries and 70 grams ol protein a day, or are on a 1 , 600-caloric reducing diet, you should observe this rule and feel better for it. If \ou think vou can’t face a sizable breakfast, .t limited amount of exercise before the meal might help. Many parents have noticed that, on morn¬ ings when there is no school, their children go out in the yard, play for a half hour or so, and then come in demanding their breakfast. By the same token, farmers and harvest hands who work a couple of hours before breakfast like a big, old- fashioned meal, including even pork chops and fried potatoes. How was our appetite control mechanism dis¬ covered? How does it operate? Nutrition Experts Evolve a Theory The Glucostatic Theory of Food Intake Regula¬ tion, as the theory is technically known, was evolved by Dr. Jean Mayer and his associates in the Department of Nutrition at Harvard’s School of Public Health as part of a continuing study of obesity. Dr. Mayer, a thirty-two-year-old Frenchman and veteran of his country’s World War II under¬ ground movement, studied at Yale and served as a scientific consultant with the United Nations before coming to Harvard in 1950. Here at Har¬ vard. he set about to find the answer to why some people are hungry most of the time and others only three times a day. At one time, it was believed that hunger was caused by an increase in stomach contractions; when the stomach was full, contractions slowed down and hunger disappeared. Followers of this theory advocated reducing diets high in bulk but low or negligible in food value, such as special cel¬ lulose products. 1 he scheme was to keep some¬ thing, anything, in the stomach so long as it was low in calories. But this theory was exploded when it was found that animals and, later, surgical pa¬ tients continued to complain of hunger even after then stomachs had been removed. It was known that appetite centers exist in the lower part of the brain, called the hypothalmus. So Mayer reasoned that changes in the make-up of the blood passing thiough these centers might be the trigger mechanism that set them off. He thought it unlikely that protein or fat in the blood activated the appetite centers since they cause only a minute change over the course of a few' hours. However, earlier investigators had found that amounts of sugar in the blood stream fluctuate markedly and abruptly alter eating. Working on the theory that the sugar level of the blood controlled the appetite centers, Mayer began a series of experiments to try to prove it. lie found he was right, the amount of sugar in our blood, like heat acting on a thermostat, controls our appetite. Mayer and his associates discovered that the process works like this: we feel hungry, we eat, and part of our food turns to sugar in our blood. W hen our sugar level rises to a certain point, click! the control in our brain shuts off and we no longer feel hungry ( 1 his control has been nicknamed the appestat b\ Dr. Norman JollitTe of the New York City Health Department.) As we expend en¬ ergy, the sugar level begins to drop, our appetite control mechanism snaps on and we are hungry again. The implications of this discovery were recog¬ nized at once by all of us. If sugar levels in the blood could be maintained for longer periods above the appetite line with fewer calories, we could all reduce our waistline by apparently eating more while in reality we would be eating less. Overweight people could diet safely and successfully, free from the worst if not all pangs of hunger. In the course of his study, Mayer injected a daily equivalent of three calories of glucose, a sugar, into each of a number of rats and noted each animal’s daily food consumption. A caloric, as most of us know', is a unit expressing the energy-producing value of food. Mayer found that each of the glu¬ cose-injected rats ate eight calories less than other comparable rats injected only with water. Thus with an injection of 4 per cent of a rat’s daily cal¬ ories, the animal’s total daily consumption dropped 1 0 per cent. This study was repeated with a number of foods and drugs. It w'as found that any procedure which increased blood sugar levels caused decreases in food intake and vice versa. In addition to vitamins and minerals, the food we eat consists mainly of carbohydrates, proteins and tats. C'ofTee with cream and sugar, doughnuts and rolls, for example, are mainly carbohydrate foods. Cereals with milk, as well as eggs and meat, are good sources of protein. Some years ago, Dr. George Thorn, professor of medicine at Harvard Medical School and physician in chief at the Peter Bent Brigham Hospital in Boston, found that a breakfast of high carbohydrate content left a man weak and hungry by midmorning, but a high pro¬ tein meal would keep him going until lunchtime. Later studies, notably those at Iowa, Michigan State and the University of Nebraska, corrobo¬ rated and extended Dr. Thorn’s findings. Now Mayer’s theory has provided the “why” of this earlier research into what constitutes the best breakfast. It also has emphasized that protein is an important key to safe and simple weight reduction. Because carbohydrates raise the blood sugar level abruptly, they have been called quick energy foods. But this energy doesn’t last long. After we eat these foods, our sugar level shoots up and our appestat shuts ofl. But, just as quickly, the sugar is used up and the hunger signal flashes on again. Proteins also raise the sugar level, but they hold it above the hunger mark far longer. The chart on this page compares the staying power of a high carbohydrate breakfast with a high protein break¬ fast. Since fats have been found to slow down the rate at which both carbohydrates and proteins are digested, they also help maintain a more con¬ stant blood sugar level. Clearly then, the man who starts off his work¬ day with only coffee and a couple of doughnuts or sweet rolls is going to feel hungry by midmorning and, if he can, will slip out of the office for more “doughnuts and coffee” to tide him over until lunch. Hungry again, he will eat a larger lunch than if he had breakfasted on fruit juice, cereal, bacon and egg, toast and coffee. The result: by the end of the day. he will have consumed far more calories than if he had eaten the heartier breakfast. The Woman Who Eats Between Meals Similarly the housewife who skips breakfast with the laudable desire to keep her figure will, nine times out of ten, more than make up for her morning calorie loss by treating herself to large snacks throughout the day and by overeating at lunch and dinner. We can assure you that nutrition experts have not exaggerated the woeful breakfast habits of a large number of Americans. Schoolteachers com¬ plain of irritability in children who have skimped at breakfast, and most employees can tell when the boss has skipped his. Midmorning snacks may restore your amiability, but if, as often, they are high in calories and low in nutrients, they also may help add on extra pounds. To stay at your desirable weight once you have reached it, you must use up in energy calories equal to the number you have eaten. Of course, if you’re reducing, you must eat fewer calories than you expend. But a big breakfast high in protein will help you eat more lightly the rest of the day, diet or no. No one can say how much an average person — if one exists — should eat during the day, but let’s say 2,500 calories is about right for you if you get normal exercise and don’t have a serious reducing problem. You could eat quite a large breakfast — fruit juice, cereal and milk, poached egg on toast, toast and butter, milk and coffee — and still have no trouble eating regular, moderate amounts at the next two meals. Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 639

55 red Just dimy hunts and coffee aren't enough. .\ntl in the end. then may add pnuinls If you arc on an 1 .800-calorie-a-day diet, which is not a severe one. here's a sample breakfast that would simplify your daily dieting problem and keep that appestat from working too often: tomato juice, two fried eggs, toast, butter, milk and colTee. Applying the quarter-or-morc rule to a diet of 1,200-1,400 calories a day would allow you to have this 400-calorie breaklast: unsweetened fruit juice, cereal, whole-wheat toast, butter, solt-boiled egg, glass of milk or coffee. These are just examples. The chart on this page shows you the protein content and caloric count of most breakfast foods. You can put together your own morning meal, with as much protein and as few calorics as you want or need. While most experiments with food are better left to nutrition experts, you may want to try — within reason — some tricks on your own appestat, particularly if you are on a diet that has been giving you trouble. Now' as to nibbling between meals, which many consider the royal road to added pounds: mothers long have been saying to their children, “Don’t eat that or it will spoil your supper!” And usually mother is right. Most nibbling shoots up the child's blood sugar level, and his appetite is momentarily spoiled, but by the time his supper has grown cold, he’s hungry again. Now' obviously if you’re on a 1,600-calorie daily diet and you sneak halt a box of chocolates ihirini* the day. you're not sticking to the diet, and yotue not going to get thin. But it would be well worth your while to experiment with scientific nibbling enough nibbling shortly before mealtime to keep the appestat off. but not enough to add too many calories. Your weight is your best clue to whether you’re eating too many calories. It probably makes little difference what foods you nibble — cand> , fruit juice, cookies, crackers, cheese. Try them all and see what helps you most. But keep an honest record of your calorics. The kinds of protein food in a reducing diet can be left pretty much to the individual’s taste. Unu¬ sual or exotic foods that are high in protein— such as yogurt or wheat germ — are all right, but, so far as we know, serve no purpose other than to give you variety. Every food has its specific caloric content and the number of calories we cat and expend each day normally determines whether we gain or lose weight, or even stay within our own desirable range. Breakfast is still the most neglected and misun¬ derstood meal of all. But for all of us, overweight or normal, it should be as important and carefully planned a meal as any other. And millions of American families are setting breakfast habits that almost certainly will lower their children’s morn¬ ing effiucncN and nuiy m ike then ovcrweit! t their adult years We here at the Depirtrnci t i f N. trim n at Harvard believe the school is the bevt ^ t t at¬ tack the pr >blcm of pu per eat .r g pr .vro I n v can and should be learned d iring the Ju* I vg is it we are to have a healthy adult pi pu ai u n ( » i d nutrition can be taught not as a speck c i» e h it as a part of the regular school currico n Si me progress has been made Copies of our Hide f rn Let's I each Better N uti ition, explaining ( ur pub school studies, are already booked up well in ad¬ vance by parent-teacher associations and other interested groups. Public and private awareness of the importance of nutrition is ol lairly recent ongin however Researches that make possible advances in <d« fields of medicine and health cost money and. as taxpayers through our Public Health Service and as contributors to voluntary health organizations, wc support many of them. Some food industries, through direct gifts to institutions such as our own. and indirectly through the Nutrition Foundation. Inc,, in New York, also have done and arc doing a good job. In time, when all American families automatically sit down to a substantial, leisurely, high-protcin breakfast our money will appear to have been well spent. a. a ^ Choose Your Own Iligh-Protein Breakfast from This Chart If you have trouble sticking to your present diet or are bothered by hunger pnngs at midmorning, make up a uew breakfast menu from this table showing calorie and protein count of most breakfast foods. Try to consume at least a quarter of your total daily calories and proteins at this meal. Food values are from U.S. Agriculture Department FOOD MEASURE WEIGHT (grams) CALORIES PROTEIN (grams) orange juice Vz Clip 123 54 1 grape j nice Vz cup 127 85 1 tomato juice Vz cup 121 25 1 stewed fruit (apricots) 5 halves 57 48 1 grapefruit Vz medium 285 75 1 corn flakes 1 cup 25 96 2 oatmeal 2/t eup, cooked 157 99 4 bacon 1 slice 8 49 2 ham 1 slice 29 1 13 i sausage 3 links 3" long 60 282 11 Vz" diameter egg; 1 medium 54 77 6 waffle 1 waffle 4W' by 5 Vq" by Vz" 75 216 7 toast while, enriched, 1 slice, Vz" thick 23 63 2 pancake I cake 4" diameter 27 59 2 roll 1 roll (16 per pound) 28 86 3 doughnut 1 (cake type) 32 136 2 blitter 1 put 7 50 _ sirup 1 tablespoon 20 57 — jam 1 tablespoon 20 55 — cocoa (made with milk) 1 eup 250 236 10 milk 1 cup, fresh whole 214 166 9 cream 1 tablespoon (light) 15 30 — sugar 1 teaspoon 4 16 — tea aiul coffee — no calorie or protein value unless taken with cream, milk or sugar Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 640

56 GUN JOB 11m* new inaohal vas spineless. Jeff Anderson had t«'0 Hr \\ AS married in June, and he gave up his ,ob as town marshal the following Septem¬ ber, giving himsell time to get settled on his little r. r eh belore the snows set in. \ -v. . with summer still in the air, he walked lo.vn the main street ol the town and thought of h<s e vs r . problems a fine feeling after fifteen years thinking til the problems of others. He wasn’t Marshal Jell Anderson anv more. He was JefT Anderson. private eiti/en. He w, s a tall, well-built man who was nearing fortv and beginning to think about it. Every build¬ ing and everv alley of this town held a memory iur him It had a Sunday -morning peacefulness now. a peacefulness Jeff Anderson had worked lor It hadn't always been this way. He inhaled deeply, a contented man. and headed for the mar¬ shal s cilice, where the door was closed, the shade draw n I his was his Sunday -morning pleasure, this tour of the town. It was the same tour he had made every Sunday morning lor fifteen years, but now he By THOMAS THOMPSON could enjoy the luxury of knowing he was making it because he wanted to, not because it was his job. He was like a man who had built a bridge or a building, he could sit back and look at his finished work, remembering the fun and the heartache that had gone into it. In front of the marshal’s office, Jeff Anderson paused, then turned and pushed open the door, the familiarity of the action strong on him. He grinned at the new marshal and said, “Caught any criminals lately?” The man behind the desk glanced up, his eyes worried. He tried to joke. “How could 1?” he said. “You ain't been in town since last Sunday.” He kicked a straight chair toward Jeff. “How's the cow' business?” “Good,” Jeff said. “Mighty good.” He sat down and stretched his long legs, pushed his battered felt hat back, and made himself a cigarette. A feeling of well-being filled him. The marshal’s job was another man’s responsibility now, not Jeff Anderson’s. “How’s it with you, Billy?” he asked. The answer came too quickly. “You ought to know% Jeff. The mayor and the council came to see you, didn’t they?” That was true, and Jeff Anderson hadn’t liked the idea. He felt the city fathers had gone be¬ hind the new marshal’s back. If they didn’t like ♦ the job Billy was doing, they should have gone to Billy, not to Jeff. They seemed to think that be¬ cause Jeff had recommended Billy, the job w'as still Jeff’s responsibility. “They made the trip for nothing, Billy,” Jeff said. “If you’re worried about me wanting your job, you can forget it. I told them that plain.” “They’ll keep asking you, Jeff.” Billy Lang stared at the drawn shade of the front wandovv, the thumb of his left hand toying nervously with the badge on his calfskin vest. He was a small man with eternally pink cheeks and I he cattleman curbed and twisted in the saddle. “You forgetting you ain't a law man any more?" he said. “You decide. Hank,” Jeff said

Page 641

57 > !* you a drink.” Billy Lang stared at the drawn shade and thought of Hank Letter- man, a man who was big in this coun¬ try, waiting over at the saloon. Hank Fetterman knew there was a warrant out for his arrest; the whole town knew it by now. And before long people would know who the law was in this town. Hank Fetterman or Hilly Lang. There was perspiration on Billy’s forehead. “You go ahead and have your drink, JefT,” he said. “I’ve got some paper work to do.” He didn’t look up as JefT went out. JEFF went outside. The gathering heat of the day struck the west side of the street and brought a resinous smell from the old boards of the false- fronted buildings. He glanced at the little church, seeing Rudv Svitac’s spring wagon there, remembering that the church hadn't always been here, and then he crossed over toward the saloon, the first business building this town had erected. He went in. Two of Hank Fetterman’s riders were standing at the piano, leaning on it, and one of them was fumbling out a one-finger tune, cursing when he missed a note. Hank Fetterman was at the far end of the bar, and JefT went and joined him. A little cow talk was good of a Sunday morning, and Hank Fetterman knew cows. The two men at the piano started to sing. The bartender was nervous. He wiped his cloth across the dry bar, and it made a squeaking sound. “Tell your boys to quiet down, Hank,” the bartender said. “I’ve been getting a lot of complaints about staying open Sundays.” “They’ve been working hard,” Hank said to the bartender, “They've got to let off steam.” His smile was brief. “How are you, JefT?” “Good enough,” JefT said. “Buy you a drink?” “You twisted my arm,” Hank Fet¬ terman said. Hank Fetterman w'as a well-built man with a weathered face. His brows were heavy, and they came to¬ gether over his nose. His voice was quiet, his manner calm. JefT thought of the times he had crossed this man — enforcing the no-gun ordinance, keeping Hank's riders in jail over¬ night to cool them ofT. He saw that Hank was wearing a gun again. That was like Hank. Tell him he couldn’t do something, and that was exactly what he wanted to do. “Didn’t figure on seeing you in town,” JefT said. “Thought you and the boys were on roundup.” “I had a little personal business come up,” Hank Fetterman said. “You hear about it?” JefT shrugged. The smile left Hank Fetterman’s lips. “Rudy Svitae is telling it 1 ran a bunch of my cows through his corn. Claims I’m trying to run him out of the country.” “You’re used to that kind of talk. Hank.” “You pretty friendly with the Svi- taes, JefT?” Hank asked. He was standing with his back to the bar, his The Challenge of Perfection Has Sired These Shoes . . . Nunn-Bush would never be content to make common shoes. We prefer the uncommon . . . shoes so superbly made that they earn your loyalty by sheer excellence, flattering your appearance while conserving both your energies and your purse. You owe yourself Nunn-Bush comfort and Ankle-Fashioning, which pre¬ serves the smartness through many, many extra miles! See Your Local Nunn-Bush Merchant NUNN-BUSH SHOE COMPANY • MILWAUKEE I. WISCONSIN ILLUSTRATED BY MATT CLARK

Page 642

58 m Excessive liquor taxes have made bootlegging a hugely profitable “big city ” racket This man is a bootlegger. There are thousands of him around these days, and there'll be thousands more unless the f ederal Excise Tax on distilled spirits is reduced, because of tw o hard, simple facts : The first fact is that his kind of crime docs pav, and the penally upon conviction isn’t stiff enough. Bootlegging pays such tremendous profits that b in¬ cite criminals, backed by gangster bankrolls that can finance huge stills, warehouses, trucks and sales¬ men have moved in. It can't help but pav. . .with a “tax advantage” of S2V49 a case*. Thai's o\tr half the average retail prue of a case of Icxalh distilled whiskex ' The second fact is that this highly profitable crime breeds other crimes. Prohibition proved that graft, corruption, bribery, gang wars, disregard for law and order, all inevitably follow in bootlegging’s wake. No sensible American wants to return to the tragic farce of 1920-1933. No sensible American wants to pay a tax rate so high it keeps crooks pros¬ perous. The legal distilling industry' advocates bigger pen¬ alties, more law' enforcement agents, and a fair and realistic tax rate of S6.00 a gallon as the most effec¬ tive means of making bootlegging less attractive to the criminals engaged in it. The present S10.50 per gallon Federal Excise Ta> on distilled spirits, the seventh increase since Repeal became effective November 1, 1951. For what hap¬ pened during its first full year, read the “Tax Arith¬ metic” column at the right. Then ask yourself— “Who really won?” You’re looking at his picture, up above. si c N'£«£ST»* LICENSED BEVERAGE INDUSTRIES, INC., 155 E. 44th ST . new YORK 17, N Y , IN BEHALF OF THE PRODUCERS AND MERCHANTS OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGI

Page 643

TAX ARITHMETIC When you pay around $4.27* fora “fifth” of your favorite whiskey, you actually pay about SI. 89 for the whiskey itself, about $2.38 more in Federal, State and local taxes. That’s like paying a “sales tax” of 125% on the merchandise! Taxes take over half of your liquor dollar! Today, after a full year of this highest of all U. S. tax burdens, here’s the record . . . . . .You paid $237 million more in liquor taxes when the Federal rate was increased from $9.00 to $10.50 a gallon. . . . Your Federal Government did not gain the $188 million that advisors to Congress pre¬ dicted, because consumption of legal liquor went ’way down. It gained only $30 million in liquor excise revenue ... an increase of less than 2%. . . . Your Federal Government lost about $40 million in corporate income taxes as profits declined with drastical ly falling liquor sales. . . Your Federal Government lost additional millions in personal income taxes as dis¬ tillers, wholesalers, retailers and suppliers cut their payrolls and dividends. . . . Your State Governments lost approxi¬ mately $35 million in liquor tax revenue . . . money badly needed for welfare and other vital state programs. Bootleggers had additional reason to flout the law. In 1951 alone, authorities with lamen¬ tably inadequate staffs were able to seize 20,402 illegal stills. No one knows how many thousands more escaped seizure. A Tax Increase oj 854% Since Repeal! The $10.50 Federal tax, effective November I, 1951, plus an average of $2.80 a gallon more in other taxes, makes whiskey the high¬ est-taxed of all merchandise. Distilled Spirits vs. All Other Excise-taxed Products— 1939-1951 Chart above shows what’s happened to dis¬ tilled spirits vs. all other excise-taxed products and services since 1939. The $6.00 rate pro¬ posed by the distilling industry is still higher than the average increase imposed on other excise-taxed products. *The average national retail price LICENSED BEVERAGE INDUSTRIES, INC. elbows supporting him 11 is position made the holstereJ gun he wore ob¬ vious. ’’They’re hard to know. But I think a lot of their boy. He’s a nice kid.” Slowly the smile came back into Hank Fetterman’s eyes. He turned around and took the bottle, and poured a drink for himself and one for J elF. “1 hat forty acres of bottom land you were asking me about for a call pas¬ ture,” he said. ‘’I've been thinking about it. 1 guess I could lease it to you.” “That’s fine, Hank,” Jeff Anderson said and lifted his drink. It didn’t taste right, but he downed it anyway. The two cowboys started to scuffle, and one of them collided with a table. It over¬ turned with a crash. “Please, Hank,” the bartender said. “They’re gonna get me in trouble . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes wid¬ ened. A man had come through the door. He stood there, blinking from the bright sun outside. “Morning, Mr. Svitac,” the bartender mumbled. Rudy Svitac was a thick, dull man with black hair and brows, and a fore¬ head that sloped. Jeff saw the rusty suit the man wore on Sundays, the suit that had faint dirt stains on the knees, because this man could not leave the soil alone, even on Sundays. He had to kneel down and feel the soil with his fingers, feeling the warmth and the life of it, for the soil was his book and his life, and it was the only thing he un¬ derstood completely, and perhaps the only thing that understood him. He looked at Jeff, not at Hank Fetterman. “Is no good,” Rudy Svitac said. “My son says 1 must talk to Billy Lang. I talk to Billy Lang, but he does nothing. Is no good.” THERE was silence in the room, and the two cowboys who had been scuf¬ fling stood looking at the farmer. Hank Fetterman said, “Say what’s on your mind, Svitac?” “You broke my fence,” Rudy Svitac said. “You drive your cows in my corn and spoil my crop.” “Maybe you’re mistaken, Svitac,” Hank Fetterman said. “My boy says is for judge to decide,” Rudy Svitac said. “My boy tell me to go to Billy Lang, and Billy Lang will make a paper and judge will decide. My boy says is fair. Is America.” Rudy Svitac stared unblinkingly. “You broke my fence.” “You’re a liar, Svitac.” Hank Fetter¬ man walked forward and gripped Rudy Svitac by the shirt front. Then, pulling him close, he shoved, and Rudy Svitac stumbled backward, out through the door, and his heel caught on a loose board in the sidewalk. He fell hard, and for a long time he lay there, his dull, steady eyes staring at Jeff Ander¬ son. Then he got up and stood looking at the dust on his old suit. Jeff Anderson saw the blind on the window of the marshal’s office across the street move and then drop back into place. Immediately the door opened, and Billy Lang came hurrying across the street. He came directly to Rudy Svitac. “What’s going on here?” Billy Lang asked. “Svitac was looking for trouble,” Hank Fetterman said. “1 threw him out.” Hank was standing in the door¬ way, directly alongside Jeff. For a brief moment Fetterman’s eyes met Jeff's, and Jeff saw the challenge. If you don’t like it, do something about it, Hank Fetterman was saying. There was a dryness in Jeff Ander¬ son’s mouth. He had backed Hank Fetterman down before; he could do it again. But there came a time when a man had to live his own hie lie looked up tow.ud ihe church, and the doors were just opening and people were coming out to st.md on the porch, a small block o! humanity su i denly aware ol trouble Jelf saw his wile 1 lame, and he knew her hand was at her throat, twisting the fabric of her dress, lie thought ol the little ranch and ol the things he and Maine had planned lor the future, and then he looked at Billy Lang, and he knew Billy wasn’t going to buck Hank Fetterman. So Jeff could mak * \ stand, and it would be his own stand, and he would be right back into it again, just the way he had been for fifteen years. 'I here were heavy beads of perspiration on Jeff's upper lip. “That’s the way it w;is, Billy,” Jeff said at last. He saw the quick smile cross Fetter¬ man’s face, the relief in Billy Lang’s eyes. “Get out of town, Svitac,” Billy Lang said. “If Hank’s cows got in your corn it was an accident.” “Is no accident,” Rudy Svitac said. “Is for judge to decide. My son says — ” “It was an accident,” Billy Lang said. “Make your fences stronger.” He didn’t look at Jeff. He glanced at Hank Fet¬ terman and said, “Sorry it happened. Hank.” Rudy Svitac stared at the star on Billy’s vest, remembering that this star somehow had a connection with the stars in the flag. His son Anton had explained it, saying that Jeff Anderson said it was so, and that meant it must be so. But it wasn’t so. Hank Fetter¬ man wasn’t in jail. They weren’t going to do anything about the ruined corn. He could not understand. For thirteen years he had lived in America, but still he could not understand. He turned and walked slowly up the street toward his spring wagon. His wife, Mary, w?as there, a thick, tired w'oman who never smiled and never complained. Watching them, Jeff 59 s.iw Anton 0 s >n tf b v . who had .i w , he c'-t-d ol\ w r d Jelf Ander o' id V t n h .1 w , listened u I and t >■ ’. into Bohcriii r * »r • ; mi f ’ Jelf had s. d 1l, r ' the i P w because Jell An'uri 'n ^ I it w . 1 le wax a b id f H >v w i i ua • • belief in the lot n • *n a hi •*, L where there a -is n n\>re steps. Now Billv was savir e someth ng and Rudy lowered his head and el h^ chin lie on his chest \s the hoy ume running up, Billy took the rifle out of Rudy's hand. Jeff felt the tnumph come into Hank Fetterman. He didn't need to look at the man. There was a slow, wicked anger in¬ side Hank Fetterman goaded by his ambition and his sense ol power, and there was a catlike eagerness in h-x eves. “No bohunk tells lies about me and gets away with it,” Fetterman was say¬ ing. “No bohunk comes after me with a gun and gets a second chance.” His hand dropped and rested on the butt of his holstered six-shooter, and then the thumb of his left hand touched Jeff Anderson’s arm. “Have a drink with me, Jeff?” Jeff saw Elaine standing in front of the church, and he could feci her anxi¬ ety reaching through the hot. troubled air. And he saw the boy there in the street, the gun in his hand, his eves, be¬ wildered, searching Jeff Anderson’s face. “1 reckon 1 won’t have time. Hank,” Jeff said. He walked up the street, and now a feeling of being two Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 644

60 >p: w.iS •* ng if* him, and there was . |. inN n tv to Bil v Tang that he C. .. 1 i du \ He had talked Bi v into t k. . '\h ii h It was a lonelv |oh and th rt was never a lonelier time than ur'Oi a nvn was h\ himselt in the rn d- 1 c ct tic stieet He came close to Bi \ and snd "1 ook. Billy, it \ou can t kv u g.in awav from one man. vou e.ih tike a cun , u.*\ Irom another H. k I ettei man *’ B" \ s t ands were shaking. “A two- \etr old \ «d could have taken that gun w*v "jm K u el v , * he said. He reached witiv and unpinned the badge from vest ' 'i on w ant it?*’ Jet t oked ,.t that tanuliar piece of ? i€ t ,t . ar d he eou’d teel the bov s eves • ■ hun, and then he looked up and he viw Elaine on the church porch, and • • thoujht ol their dreams and plans. No. Bills,*’ he said “I don't want it.” “ I hen »et it lav there** Bills Bang s .id He diopped the badge into the d ist of the street and hurried olT, a man wh • had met deteat and accepted .t a man who could now go hack to selling shirts and suits and overalls, be- c iuse th put up the buggs top. Hank Fetter- i. an and hi> two riders passed on their was back tv> their ranch. JefT got back into the b jggv and unwrapped the lines rom the whipstock, and Flame said, It there s anvthine sou want to say, JeT .” Whit could he sav "* He was not * 1 1 m k m g v l H. nk Fetterman or ot Ruds Vr -c. but vt a colored lithograph, a p orlioti in poster issued bv the railroad. T showed wide tree-lined streets, a 1 mdsomc tv>wn hall with a Hag half as large as the building flving from a mast, **nd three sleek trains chulling lmpa- tientlv at the station I he railroad had put on an active promotion campaign when the Hacks were first laid through the town, and had handed out bv the 1 hel these lithos ot the proposed com- i*« mtv lien the dream had burst. .» d New C an** an settled back to what it w *s before a place cal ed Alkali at the vice ol open cattle range. And when "he \nton Sv it aw had come to see Marshal Jeff Anderson tv)r the first * "me f e ii.ul come . bout that picture. He h. cl cv ne to JefT Anderson be- c use Jei Andc r son w , s .*j thoi ltv . “My I atl cr anvl mother do not under> and,” he n id ” 1 hcv dv> not speak 1 lglish vc v tii ch He i n rolled the litho¬ graph -iiwi indicated the town ot A kali. “K no tl e s one he said. “Is not so ’* 1 herc vuie J earns in the bov N eves th. t were a1' t tv he shiiffed out “Sure it's no \ -or lefT heard himselt sav¬ ing “Its not wh t it is todav it‘s what's going to he tor otnwv It's I ke Amer¬ ica. see’ Viii-e ot the thmgs aren't right where vo i touch them Mavbe some ot the tl 1 *.n voi see aie uglv But the pictiu n . . vs there to look at, and \ou ku ) t ,f kjt ’ j\ ut the pic¬ ture, and vou kewo wo n g .md m .king things better a the t * e ^ ou never stop working .1 *vl n.i\ V w the job is done,’ because t never n hi under¬ stand that. Ante The bov rollee the ' the ewinh care¬ fully. “1 see. Is good 1 w <1 te mv ta- ther. We will keep the ; . u r e “i want you to find out if Abe Lincoln ever knew any daine that might have collier s remotely resembled Marilyn Monroe . . .M jqhn ruge 1 hose were JefT Anderson’s thoughts, but how- could he tell them, even to Elaine, for they had so little to do with the matter at hand, and yet they had everv thing to do with it. “Maybe the Svitacs would be better of! someplace else,” Elaine said. “They never have made their plaee pay,” It was an argument he could have used on himself, but now, hearing it put into words, he didn't like the sound of it. His voice was rough. “1 reckon they look on it as home,” he said. “The boy was born there. I reckon it sort of tics you to a place if your first one is born there.” She closed her eyes tight and then opened them. “I suppose we'll feel that wav too, JefT,” she said. “It will always be our town after our baby is born there. I talked to the doctor yesterday.” He felt a eoldness run up his spine, and it was surprise, and fear, and a great pride. There was a hard lump in his throat. He turned to Elaine. “You feel all right, honey?” he asked. “Any¬ thing I can do?” She didn't laugh at him any more than Anton had laughed at him that day in the office. She reached over and put her hand on his hand, and she smiled. As they drove down the lane, the great pride made him feel he could not sit still any longer. He lifted her out of the buggy and helped her up the front steps. JefT came into the house later, into the cool living room, and sat down in his big chair, and pulled off his boots and stretched his legs. “Good to be home,” he said. “Good to have nothing to do.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. COLLIER S ’Hah! (Jet tli i - character — ‘Bang. hang, you're dead!' ” STAN FINE and they both knew he was lying. There was always something to do. The moment he was sure she knew, it was easier for him, but he still had to be positive that she understood. Once he made this move there would be no turning back. She had to see that. An hour ago the town had been just an¬ other town, nothing more, and Jeff An¬ derson hadn’t needed it. It was a place to shop, nothing more, and a man eould shop as well with Hank Fetterman run¬ ning things as he could with Jeff Ander¬ son running them. But now, suddenly, that had changed, and there was tomor¬ row- to think about, and it was exactly as he had explained it to Anton. One day soon, Jeff Anderson might be ex¬ plaining the same things to his own son, and a man had to show his son that he believed what he said, for if he didn’t there was nothing left. “I was wrong about Billy Lang,” Jeff Ander¬ son said. “He’s not going to stand up to Hank Fetterman.” Elaine looked into his eyes, and then she said, “I have some eurtains I prom¬ ised Mary Svitac. Will you take them to her when you go?” When Jeff went, she didn't give him her usual lingering embrace; she pre¬ tended to be busy. She turned her head so that his lips just brushed her tem¬ ple, and it was as casual as if he were only going to his regular day’s work. “And thank her for the pickles, Jeff,” she said. He stalked out of the house as if he didn't like having his Sunday disturbed by sueh feminine nonsense, hut when 1 he was halfway to the barn, his stride lengthened. He stiffened his back and set his shoulders; he knew that she was sitting in the house, cry ing. ANTON, the boy, was pouring sour milk into a trough for the pigs when Jeff rode into the Svitae yard. The world eould collapse but pigs had to be fed. The door of the little house, which was half soddy, half dugout, opened, and Mary Svitac called something in Bohemian. The boy looked up at Jeff then and Jeff smiled. “Will you ride my horse over and tie him in the shade, Anton?” Jeff dismounted quickly and took the bundle of curtains from behind the saddle. He handed the reins to the boy, and then walked on to where Mary Svitac stood. He handed her the curtains. “Those pickles you gave us were fine, Mrs. Svi¬ tac. Elaine wanted me to bring these curtains over.” Mary Svitac let her rough fingers caress the curtain material. “I will give you all the pickles,” she said. “We don’t need the curtains. We don’t stay here no more.” In the dark interior of the sod house, Jeff could see Rudy sitting in a whair, a man dulled with hard w'ork and disap¬ pointment. Rudy looked up. “We don’t stay,” he said. “Can 1 eome in for a minute, Mrs. Svitac?” Jeff asked. “I make coffee,” she said. He stooped to pass through the low door, and he took off his hat and sat down. Now that his eyes were accus¬ tomed to the darkness of the room, he saw the big lithograph on the wall, the only decoration. Rudy Svitac stared unblinkingly at the floor, and, una¬ shamed, he let a tear run down the side of his nose. “We don’t stay,” he said again. “Sure, Rudy,” Jeff Anderson said. “You stay.” Mary Svitac started to cry. There Collier’s for February 23, 1953 j

Page 645

61 were no tears, for the land had taken even those away from her. There were just sobs — dry, ehoking sounds as she made the coffee — but they were woman i sounds, made for her man. “ I hev will fight us,” she said. “T hey put cows in my Rudolph’s corn. Soon they come to break my house. Is loo much. Rudolph does not fight. Rudolph is for plant the ground and play violin.” “You stay, Rudy,” Jeff Anderson said. ‘‘The law will take care of you. I promise you that.” Rudy Svitac shook his head. “Law is for Hank Fettcrman,” he said. “Is not for me.” ‘ It’s not so, Rudy,” Jeff said. “You ask Anton. He knows.” ’‘I ask Anton,” Rudy Svitac said. “He says I am right. Law is for Hank Fct- terman.” THE boy came to the door, his face white and drawn with worry, but hope was in his eyes, and a confidence was there too. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Jeff could hear the sound of approaching horses. Jeff stood up, and the feeling that was in him was an old and familiar feeling, a tightening of all his muscles. He went to the cor¬ ner of the room, and took Rudy Svitae’s rifle from its place and levered in a shell. Then he stepped through the door. “You explain again to your father about the law,” he said to the boy. “You know, Anton, like we talked before. Always, no matter what happens.” “I know,” Anton Svitac said. “Yes.” ' Jeff saw Hank Fettcrman and the same two riders who had been with him at the saloon coming toward the soddy. Only Hank was armed. That way, if Hank should have to talk to the judge later on. he could say, “It we had ex¬ pected trouble, all three of us would have been armed. Judge.” I hey rode stiffly, holding their horses in. Jeff An¬ derson stood the cocked rifle by the fence post, placing it carefully. He pushed his hat back on his head and felt the sun on his back as he leaned, with one foot on a fence rail, watching the pigs cat. He knew when the riders were di¬ rectly beside him, and then he turned, his elbows resting on the top rail of the fence behind him. His face was shad¬ owed, for he had moved so that his back was toward the sun. Hank Fettcrman said, “We’re seeing a lot of each other, neighbor.” “Looks that way,” Jeff said. Hank Fctterman’s eves never left Jeff Anderson’s face. “I asked you once to¬ day if you was a friend of the bo- hunk’s,” lie said. “Maybe I better ask it again.” “Maybe it depends on what you’ve got on your mind, Hank,” Jeff Ander¬ son suggested. “The bohunk’s been eating my beef,” Fettcrman said. “I’m sick of it.” “You sure that’s it, Hank?” Jeff asked. There were small, white patches on either side of Hank Fcttcrman's mouth. “I said the bohunk was eating my beef,” Hank Fettcrman said. “You doubting my word?” “No, Hank,” Jeff said. “I’m calling you a liar.” He saw' the smoldering anger in Hank Fettcrman — the sore, whisky- nursed anger. The cattleman cursed and half twisted in the saddle, blinking COLLIER’S “As long as Tin with you, darling, it doesn't matter where we live ... on a yacht, or a penthouse, or a country estate. I don't care! WILLIAM VON RIEGEN directly into the sun Yo rgetting you ain’t a law man any more 1 ' “You decide. Hank ” Jeff said. They looked at each ( iher. two men who had killed before 1 hey said noth ing, hut they understood each other Jeff's expression said, “I m telling vou to back down, Fettcrman,” and the other man’s look said. ‘ You’ll have to he big enough to make me ” No words had been exchanged, and yet they un¬ derstood, and now they faced each other and appeared at ease. Jeff An¬ derson had dealt himself into the game, and he had checked the bet. Hank Fettcrman saw the rifle by the post. He knew it was cocked and loaded. But he had to make his move, because if he backed down now, all was over for him. He jerked his horse around, trying to avoid the direct glare of the sun, and his hand went for his gun. Jeff had plenty of time. He had placed the rifle carefully, and now he held it, hip high, gripping it with one hand, tilting it up and pulling the trig¬ ger all at the same time. He didn't hear the sound of the rifle's explosion. You never did, he remembered, but he saw the thin film of gun smoke, and he saw Hank Fcttcrman’s mouth drop open, saw the man clawing at his chest. Jeff didn’t feel the sickness, not yet. Time passed as if through a haze, and nothing was real. Then the twro riders were gone, and a canvas was stretched over the still form of Hank Fetterman, and Rudy Svitae was whipping his team toward town to get the coroner. Only then did the sickness come to Jeff An¬ derson. He stood by the barn, trem¬ bling, and he heard the boy come up behind him. The hoy said, “This was in the street in town, Mr. Anderson.” The boy held out the tin star. “I told my father how the law was for every¬ body in America. Now he knows.” Jeff took the star and dropped it into his pocket. ELAINE saw him through the front window. She had been watching a long time, and she had been praying, si¬ lently, and now she said, “Thank God,” and went and sat down. That was the way he found her when he came into the room. She wanted to ask him what had happened, but her throat was tight, and then he was kneeling there, his head in her lap, and he was crying deep in¬ side himself, not making a sound. “It’s all right, Jeff,” she said. “It’s all right.” That was what he had to know — that it was all right with her. He had to know that she loved him for the man he was, and not for the man he thought he had wanted to become. He couldn’t change any more than Billy Lang could change. She had never told him to take off his gun — not in words — but she had wanted him to, and he had understood, and he had tried. No woman could ask for a greater love than to see her man try to change himself. And no woman need be afraid when she had such love. Later, w'hcn she picked up Jeff’s coat and laid it across her arm, the tin star fell to the floor. For a long time she looked at it; then she bent down and picked it up and put it back into the coat pocket. She went into the bed¬ room then and hung the coat up care¬ fully. From the bureau drawer she took a clean, white, pleated-front shirt and laid it out where he could see it. Marshal Jeff Anderson had worn a clean, white, pleated-front shirt to the office on Monday mornings for as long back as Elaine could remember, and she didn’t expect him to ehange his hab¬ its now. IMPORTANT NEWS , FOR SMOKERS! . . . IS A SPECIAL DENTIFRICE MADE AND GUARANTEED BY A DENTIST SPECIFICALLY FOR TEETH HARD TO BRYTEN. SAFELY ERASES “SMOKER S SMUDGE*' The safe. v.,ty • • r \c Mill, ’ce from v ar "ce . c • *e . : aturai sparkle .s tl • »• e • v. t use tj I ,n FIGHTS TOOTH DECAY! For over •>() years. 1 :e: f N _ ; -.s't posvdtr has been pre'er-e hv m.. * men am* women as the yuisranumc lentUr e to brmhten teeth and f r oth jeca\ YOU LI ENJOY ITS CLEAN, LIVELY FLAVOR! Glenn Branson, Grand Rapid*, Mich . hotel manager, *ay»: "There are plenty of figuring chores around a hotel. But with my Victor Champion add¬ ing machine I get them done without extra help or specially-trained operators. This wonderful machine makes short work of all my billing and invoices and taxes.” Specially designed for merchants, farmers, doctors, lawyers, investors and home users ' Easy to operate— no training needed. Light¬ weight, compact, modern design. Totals columns. See Your Office Machine Dealer — ar Writ* Today VICTOR ADDING MACHINE CO. 3900 North Rockwell Street, Chicago 18 World's Larges! Exclusive Monufaclurer of Adding Machines Collier’s for February 28, 1953

Page 646

To illustrate the basic pattern* of nightclub chorus routiner the dancers on comic Jackie Gleason9* CBS-TV show execute the straight line (right) and the circle (below) Collier’s COLOR CAMERA How to \V A Chorus The dance of the chorus girl isn't as simple as you may think. It even has some geometry in it Triangle (above) is enhanced b having girl* change sides several times The rectangle is usually formed last so girls ran fall Into line easily for their exit

Page 647

CHORUS girls arc not always the main attraction in the nation’s 3,200 night clubs. Though you can always see them, they don’t always get top billing. For long spells, club advertisements will feature everything from talking dogs to crooners; then, overnight, the star position goes to “Girls! Girls! Girls!” No one knows why. It just happens — like the migration of salmon. Early indications are that 1953 will be a year of the chorus girl. If it is, don’t be fooled. The novice chorus- watcher assumes that he ought to watch the girls. That, say the experts, with perfectly straight faces, is wrong; you should watch the dance, one of the best examples of standardization on the American scene. The connoisseurs’ analysis may help you appre¬ ciate this apparently curious point of view. Basically, the chorus dance is built around four simple, geometric patterns — the straight line, the circle, the triangle and the rectangle. In most clubs it is performed by eight to ten girls. They start by coming together in a straight line. Then they swing into the three remaining patterns. The sequence of the tri¬ angles, circles and rectangles is not fixed, and any order is permissible. But imagina¬ tive directors can mix the patterns so elabo¬ rately that audiences see little but curves all evening. Most directors, though, keep their routines simple enough for a careful ob¬ server to spot the basic figures. Easiest to follow, of course, is the lighthearted final movement — a straight line in which the girls shuffle or trot off into the wings, leaving the last dancer to blow a kiss to the audience. A complete show requires the chorus to execute the sequence of patterns at least three times: to open the show, to separate two specialty acts and for the finale. With the above information you can now be an expert chorus-watcher. All you need in addition is a steady eye. AAA Fantastic costume is often the nio*t daring, weirdly lighted PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY BRADLEY SMITH

Page 648

64 A VI.P In ten short years, \ irjril Partch has become a Very Important Person in the cartoon field A little more than a decade ago, today’s top expo¬ nent of inspired pen-and-ink lunacy was an assist¬ ant animator in the Walt Disney studio. In 1941, when Vip (or Vipper, or just Partch) went on strike with his fellow workers, most were fired. Shortly thereafter, Vip shyly offered Collier’s his first batch of magazine cartoons, which were en¬ thusiastically purchased. His initial appearance in this magazine (at left, February 14, 1942) made no great ripple in our sea of readers: but succeeding drawings, as Partch stretched his muscles and roamed into the grotesque, brought outraged howls from many customers. Through the ensuing years, however, . this comic craftsman settled upon a technique that has made him unique in the ranks of more than 200 periodical professionals, and he has be¬ come famous for his delineation of the catch phrase and the literal ex¬ pression (upper and lower left, opposite page). Compare the style of his first Collier’s drawing with that of his latest output, here presented as a small bonus to the host of Vip devotees who long ago learned that Partch can break all the laws of art, nature and society and still make a lot of sense. Seven volumes of the best of his cartoons have been as¬ sembled by editors and by Partch himself, and his experience as a cor¬ poral in the infantry duiing World War II has served him well in the creation of his Collier's feature, Vip’s War (see page 50). Our subject toils without fanfare in southern California, seemingly unimpressed by his eminence; and although his prodigious production for publication would tax the talents of any cartoonist, 75 per cent of his drawings are made purely to amuse friends and utter strangers.

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65

Page 650

66 LOlili'S OF LOADON- Where the Shoes Choose Vrlhur Samler-*. 69, brief* apprentices on care of shoes. Five-year apprenticeship is required by Lohb's for mo-t of the bootmaker jobs Like many of firm's 50 bootmakers, 65-year-old John Willis works at ^ home. Called a closer, his job is to mold roughly cut uppers to last ' ft PHOTOGRAPHS FOR COLLIER’S BY BILL STAPLETON

Page 651

67 You By NOEL BARBER ran buy a pair of shoes in a Lohh's usually takes a v(»ar ✓ 4 l) an age when jieojile ninute, delivery from Ix>ndon DNE day in 1892 a sturdy nine- tcen-year-old named Billy Bower, whose father had told lim he could make shoes better than ny man alive, walked into Lobb’s of it. James’s Street, London, bootmak- rs for some of the world’s most fa- nous people, and asked for a job. He got it, and has worked for obb's ever since. But the eurious >art of his story is not his length of ervice. It is the fact that not since hat day over 60 years ago has Bovver ver been to the shop, a mere five- rent ride from where he lives. He produces shoes only in the downstairs oom of the dingy $9-a-week house le rents on Albany Street, near Re¬ gent’s Park. Billy Bower — now a cocky sev- fnty-ninc, a short, talkative man with { waxed mustache and an ever-pres- ;nt smell of leather about him, his ingers hard and corrugated from us- ng the awl — is typical of Lobb’s 50 iootmakers. Almost to a man they lave stood fast against the machine ige, adamant against the daily chore if going to and from a factory. Instead, their lives are spent in lome workshops, where they are sur- ounded by the morning papers, the adio and hourly cups of tea while hey turn out internationally cele¬ brated shoes for kings, commoners, ^ind now more than ever for men in he U.S.A. with a taste for footwear anging from velvet slippers at $30 a lair to eroeodile brogues for $100. By American standards, the wages if Lobb's craftsmen are not high. The last-maker earns $28 a week; a ;loser — who makes the uppers of the ihoe — can, if he works hard, earn £45, which in England is a lot of money. Most of Lobb’s staff have ichieved financial independence. At east one owns his own home, a tele- /ision set, two radios (one in his workshop), a refrigerator, a little gar¬ den and a car — all common enough n the U.S. but miles out of reach of he ordinary British workingman. To a man, Lobb’s craftsmen gen¬ erate the impression of having got ►vhat they’ve wanted out of life, and 10 one begrudges them such foibles is insisting on working at home — east of all Eric Lobb, the firm’s gen¬ eral manager and grandson of the nan who founded it almost a cen- :ury ago. “Why change?” he asks. “Private bootmakers have worked this way for hundreds of years in England. The iroof is that the shoes wear well and :hat people come back for more,” Not only British customers come back, but also a vast number of U.S. faithful — like the Bostonian who hasn’t set foot in Lobb’s for 34 years, put orders three pairs of shoes a year Ito be made from a last reposing in khe shop’s cellars. Collier’s for February 28, 1953 Not all clients are that regular, for a pair of Lobb’s shoes, repaired occa¬ sionally. can serve its wearer for a decade or more, with an all-time rec¬ ord claimed for one pair which has lasted for 30 years. In an age where a press can slice a hundred toecaps in a seeond and ma¬ chines stitch soles to uppers by the hundreds while a factory hand twid¬ dles a lever, Lobb’s produces shoes with the use of knives, a sewing ma¬ chine for the uppers, big bristle for stitehing, an awl, waxed thread and bristle for soles. When shoes made by men like Billy Bower are finished and collected (Bower refuses to deliver his work as a matter of principle), likely as not they will stay in the shop for a year, being polished twice a week, before the customer gets them. A New “Servicing” Offer Lobb’s clients are in no rush, and neither is Lobb’s, which takes life easily, relying for its continued suc¬ cess on pride of craftsmanship and attention to detail — the sort of detail exemplified in a recent new offer of “a service to preserve the appearance of shoes” at a fee of $17 per half year. The service includes “the cleaning of shoelaces.’’ Lobb’s craftsmen — almost all sons and grandsons of men who worked with father and grandfather Lobb — are hale, hearty, elderly men who have nicknamed one colleague Boy Johnson because the lad is a mere fifty years old. They are held to Lobb’s by tradition and friendship. Nobody can give them an order; they can only be asked to do work. They know, from the shape of the shoes or the last, every one of Lobb’s 15,000 customers in every quarter of the globe, ineluding one skillful gentle¬ man who, by a strictly secret route, has his shoes sent regularly behind the Iron Curtain. Each Lobb’s bootmaker has a spe- Billy Bower hasn’t been in Lobb's since he got his job there in 1892 COLGATE Chlorophyll Tooth Powder i Releases The Full Benefits of Active Chlorophyll InYourMouth! And only Active Chlorophyll does you any good! M!oiiMii)8 Water-Soluble Chlorophyll tn« New Colgate Chlorophyll Tooth Powder re¬ leases active chlorophyll before your eyes . . . you actually see it turn from white to green as you use it ! GIANT SIZE 33< V Fights Tooth Decay. Attacks harmful acids recognized by dentists as a cause of tooth decay! V Chocks Common Gum Disorders! (lives you the effective benefits of chlorophyll to help you care for sore, tender gums’ . < - r~ - *• V Destroys Bad Breath originating in the Mouth. Quicker-acting . more thorough' Keeps your mouth fresh and sweet longer * " The mystery is why he tried to cash any cheque except an American Express Travelers Cheque." Be dead sure you get American Express Travelers Cheques to protect your tTavel cash — they're the only cheques instantly recognized and accepted everywhere ! American Express Travelers Cheques are just as spendable as cash — and they’re a lot saferl That’s because if they’re lost or stolen you get a quick refund. 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Page 652

At a morgue to identify a patron he’d never met , a Lohh’s man studiv 68 “You don't know what you’re missing!” Want to enjoy the finest, dearest tele¬ vision ever built? Then take a hint from Mrs. H . V. Woodruff of Raleigh, North Carolina. She writes, "People don’t know what they are missing without SylvaniaTV and its eye-pleas¬ ing feature — HaLOLight*. ” No won¬ der Mrs. Woodruff is happy! Only Syl- vania TV brings you the world-famous feature— HaLOLiGHT— the frame of light for greater viewing comfort. Make sure your home enjoys the best. Your nearest Sylvania TV Dealer is now displaying a wonderful array of new Sylvania models. See them today. Sylvania Electric Products Inc. , Radio and Television Division , Buffalo , N . Y . TrodvmarK ** f ArncCAU0USES VVI 1 1 BUNIONS PUTS YOU RIGHT \_/ BACK ON YOUR FEET I Super-Soft Ur. Scholl'a Zino-pada are 3 ways better. ( 1 ) They relieve pain In a jiffy . . . ease new or ti^ht ahoea. (2j Stop corns, callouses before they can develop. (3j ltemove corns, callouttea one of the quickest ways known to medical science. No other method does so much for you. Get Dr. Scholl's today. For FKKK sample, write Ur. Scholl ’a, Chicago 10. 111. FLORIDA HIGHWAY ESTATES — S395 . 5 > I' -- a.t' !'■> •• J.-ti 1 uct> li fi . ' r.CW.iA ( l I Y 1*. _i . It.—, t Any U-rhl- •• Mu' 1 J. .!•••' \\ • .1 -fu- funt* I.k MW'.uit err. m t.»' l.v r users hH 1.1 l(y i « U - - t u d« & introduced himself, begged the officer [ not to be offended, and handed him a * signed card, ‘‘This card is a voucher for l a pair of handmade shoes at Lobb’s.” !■ I can personally vouch for the story. \> The German stopped me one night l when I was an R.A.F flier, and that’s how I came to be a customer of Lobb’s. i: Author’s Feet Are Measured My first visit there was a grave occa- ^ sion, as befitted the turning point in £ the life of one’s feet. William Moore, in his tattered gray alpaca coat with jjj the frayed edges, greeted me. He and : Frank Lovesey, then the last-maker, took my measure. ;i First my foot was drawn in the last- * maker’s pattern book. There are 84 J pattern books at Lobb’s, in which are ^ included such outlines as the small, deli¬ cate foot of American dancer Vernon i Castle, dated 1916; the strong, forceful .j foot (plus a bunion) of the singer, Fe- L dor Chaliapin, and the medium-sized foot of the inventor, Guglielmo Mar- coni. Kings and maharajas, as well as the less mighty, have all had at one time l to stand on the pattern book and let p William Moore or his Uncle Charlie outline their feet, then measure the £ depth of each foot by means of a paper t] tape nicked for every measurement. xMoore’s trained fingers can sense all the foot’s distinctive features, about w’hich c, he describes in notes on the sketch. The last-maker is one of the few ' skilled craftsmen who wrork right on Lobb’s premises; that’s because he has ( to be near his lasts, for when a custom¬ er’s feet change he must alter the last. Collier’s for February 28, 1953 £

Page 653

69 shoes and said: “That le makes the necessary change by stick- ,ig on pieces of leather, then whittling nd beveling them where indicated ) make the last conform to the new utline. The last is made from hornbeam, eech or maple — all good hardwoods, irst it is roughed out with a special |nife, then rasped and filed to more ccurate measurement and finally sand- apered to the desired shape — includ- lg the underside of the foot. A Lobb’s ist is considered a pretty poor effort it doesn’t show all the skin wrinkles f the sole of the foot. The lasts are stored alphabetically in ae cellars — 15,000 of them in a maze ■f racks forming corridors as narrow nd dusty as the wine cellars at Maxim’s. The last-maker is rapidly disappear- ag from the trade. When Lovesey re- ired seven years ago, it took Lobb’s wo years to find a suitable successor, ndeed, Lovesey’s long-delayed retire- nent precipitated a crisis in the firm — or without a last-maker it would have >een impossible to carry on. It was hen that William Lobb’s own early raining as an apprentice proved inval¬ uable. “There was nothing else for it,’’ Wil¬ iam sighs. “Though I owned a third hare of the business and my son was etting ready to go to a public school, or two years 1 had to put on my apron very morning and make lasts.” After a couple of years, Lobb’s man- ged to locate a fine last-maker in Jack Yuer. Looking to Lobb’s future, Fruer ound a couple of youngsters who are iow apprenticed to the last-maker’s rade. After the last is made, four jobs are equired on a pair of Lobb’s shoes. The licker must cut roughly the eight pieces >f leather needed for a normal pair of ippers. The closer must make the pat- ern and the uppers. The maker must >ut the soles on. Finally, of course, here’s polishing. Meet Lohb's Best “Clicker” The best clicker Lobb’s ever had is landy man Charlie Moore. Now sev- nty, Charlie has an instinct for his vork, which is backed by years of ex- >erience. In choosing the best leather or the uppers, he must bear in mind the veight and character of the owner, vhich he can evaluate from the last. It s typical of all Lobb’s craftsmen that Tharlie, who could have retired years go and is financially independent, still vorks two days a week. “Can’t stop,” he grunts. “I don’t have o earn any money. But you know how t is. Life smells wrong if there isn’t eather in it.” With an incredibly sharp, worn knife, Charlie cuts the leather — and promptly Lt eleven each morning uses the same mife to cut up the sandwich he brings o eat with his tea at “elevenses,” the ime-honored British morning break rom work. There’s always tea going iround somewhere at Lobb’s. Charlie — who has added an inch to he height of a vain Indian potentate md taken an inch off of a too-tall actor —works in the shop in full view of cli¬ ents. When he has rough-cut the pieces )f leather, the uppers are made by a doser, like John Willis. Willis is sixty-five, has worked 40 ears with Lobb’s, always in his own tome in the London suburb of Thorn- 's jWr. Carmichael. I'd know him anywhere" ton Heath. His father 'worked for Lobb’s for 40 years too, and lots of the tools and knives Willis uses were used by his father before him. Willis first cuts a pattern for the up¬ pers on thick paper. Like all good clos¬ ers, he takes infinite care with the leather itself. I hc prospect of a slight stain or even a small scratch brings shudders to any Lobb’s man. Though it takes John only two hours to close a pair of uppers, he usually protects the leather by putting on a clean white apron for every new pair. Detail of the “Closer's” Job John’s job is to mold the eight pieces of roughly cut material to a last. He stamps in by hand the holes for the brogue and, using a sewing machine with an extra strong needle, sews the eight pieces together. He then tacks the uppers lightly to the last to make sure everything fits, puts the work in a canvas bag, and drives down to St. James’s Street every Saturday morning. Closing is a straightforward job un¬ til an eccentric customer gets busy with an idea. Willis’ trickiest problem was to make a rich Britisher a pair of elastic¬ sided boots which the customer insisted had to look exactly like ordinary boots, with laces in front which were never to be undone and with proper eyelet holes which were never to be used. There was a curious sequel to this pair of boots when its owner was killed in a London car crash. Being eccentric, he carried no wallet. Identifying him seemed hopeless until police noted the boots, and went right to Lobb’s. John Willis was able to go straight to the morgue and say of a man he had never seen in his life: “Why, that’s Mr. Car¬ michael — I’d know him anywhere.” After the closing job, Lobb’s uppers go next to the maker, the man who puts the soles on them. Billy Bower, at sev¬ enty-nine, is one of Lobb’s makers, and Eric Lobb considers him one of the finest in the world, an opinion Billy modestly endorses on every conceivable occasion. His father was with Lobb and so are his fifty- four-year-old son and twenty-four-year-old grandson. It takes Billy — considered fast at his job — 11 hours to “make” a pair of brogues, for which he gets approxi¬ mately $7.50, and seven hours for a pair of pumps, for which he gets $6. Billy leaves the leather for soles in water overnight to make it pliable, then molds it to the bottom of the last after drawing the uppers taut, so that there will be no give in the final shoe. He stitches on the sole by hand with a waxed thread consisting of strands of either hemp or flax. Finally he builds up the heel piece by piece with rivets. If Billy does a good job, his hardest task is getting the last out of the shoe when his work is done. Bower is more cantankerous than the average Lobb’s craftsman, but no more independent. Their lives aren’t trou¬ bled by agitators urging them to strike. All the men who work for Lobb’s are members of the West End Shoemaker’s Association, but it isn’t a very fiery in¬ stitution. It has fewer than 200 mem¬ bers, who pay dues of approximately 15 cents a week. Polishers are about the only people who don’t have to serve a five-year ap¬ prenticeship, but even polishing is an art. Lobb’s has five men working full time, doing nothing hut “hone" and pol¬ ish. First they bone the shoe regularly with a deer bone, stroking it very gently in order to make the leather smooth and supple, then blacking, then boning again. Polishing they do with their fin¬ gers, rubbing the polish round and round, in and in, with a circular move¬ ment, then using a brush near the welt. “1 like to polish with my hands and a cloth,” one told me, “but you've got to use a brush near the welt to get any grit out. Otherwise,” a note of alarm crept into his voice, “a bit of grit might scratch the leather.” Thanks largely to Eric Lobb, Lobb’s has in recent years enjoyed an upsurge in American business. Naturally, the firm does not expect to build a big busi¬ ness in America, where high-quality shoes sell at prices within the reach of the average purse. (Collier’s Nov. 3, 1951.) But right after the war, Eric made a personal coast-to-coast tour, visiting old and wealthy clients. He found business good, so he engaged a full-time representative, A. W. Bore- ham, who might be mistaken on a dark night for John Bull himself. Mr. Boreham recently visited New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Wash¬ ington, Cincinnati, Chicago, Detroit and — “Naturally,” says Eric — Boston. Complete with umbrella, English clothes and Lobb’s shoes, Mr. Boreham puts up at only the very best hotels. Clients and their friends are warned in advance of his arrival. Mr. Boreham carries a vast selection of boots and shoes, a choice of leathers, and can himself, of course, draw patterns for Fruer, the last- maker. Business has zoomed lately, partly because of Mr. Boreham’s activities, but also because of the devaluation of the British pound. Giving an Idea of the Prices Even so, the tariff is not one within the bounds of the average youngster struggling up the ladder. The lowest-priced item on the Bore¬ ham list is a pair of velvet slippers at $30 plus, if desired, a monogram on each toecap for $6 extra and lamb’s- wool lining for $9.50. His most costly item (and one very popular with Amer¬ icans) is crocodile shoes at exactly $100 a pair. In between are such items as doeskin shoes at $55 a pair — the price has shot up since the Reds took over Manchuria, where the best doeskin comes from; or a plain black or brown shoe at $48, or brogues for $3 a pair more. Shoes for evening wear are $51 a pair, and riding boots around $90. Lobb’s has very few women customers, but occasionally supplies them with golf shoes or riding boots. “Most Americans pay in three months,” says Eric, “while some of our English clients consider two years’ credit not unreasonable.” One of Lobb’s customers — and a good one at that — takes 12 years’ credit. Lobb’s now exports roughly half of its output, most of it to the U.S., and expects to step up this figure consider¬ ably. But its major problem is not so much selling its wares as persuading Billy Bower, John Willis, Charlie Moore and the rest to make them and, more, persuading them to stay alive until the young apprentices — what few there are — can step into the shoes of the world’s finest bootmakers. JkJkJk, Smart copy cats follow the fashion in travel funds NCB TRAVELERS CHECKS A most mportant par* zl yOuf ’rave wardrobe s a wa e* No* orc City Bonk Trove ers Checks %er buy anything you need on y o u r journey, anywhere. Safer *han cash, because if they are lost or sto en their volue s prompt1/ refunded Cost 75c per $100. n denom na¬ tions of $10, $20, $50, $100 Gocc until used. Buy them at your B ork The best thing you know wherever you go NATIONAL CITY BANK TRAVELERS CHECKS Bocked by The Nationol City Bonk of New York Member Federol Deposit Imuronce Corporation AMAZING PAZO ACTS TO RELIEVE PAIN OF SIMPLE PILES INSTANTLY Speed amazing relief from miseries of simple piles, with soothing Pazo*! Acts to relieve pain and itching instantly— soothes inflamed tissues — helps prevent soreness —reduce swelling. You get real comforting help. So don’t suffer one moment of need¬ less torture from simple piles. Get Pazo for fast, wonderful relief. Ask your doctor about it. Suppository form — also tubes with perforated pile pipe for easy, thor¬ ough application. *Pazo Ointment and Suppositories ® FLORIDA... I Nice homesites $‘J4‘» at $10 monthly Now develop¬ ment adjoining Oeala National FureM Be>t h.*hing. hunting Folder free Webb Writer. Del.and. FI rida The wo y thowiondt of phyikionk ond dentists recommend Here's Why . . Anacin® is like a doctor's prescription. That is, Anacin contains not one but a combination of medi¬ cally proved active ingredients. Anacin is specially compounded to give FAST, LONG LASTING relief. Don't wait. Buy Anacin today. Collier’s for February 28, 1953

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Collier's Editorials ries on the Canadian and Mexican borders. Last I year an estimated 1,500,000 aliens — the so- called “wetbacks” — entered illegally from Mex- | ico. How many of them were Communists we don’t know. But we do know that none paused to discuss the question with the border guards. For that reason we are inclined to dismiss the Communist howls against the new immigration act as phony window dressing. But we do take i seriously the complaints of non-Communists on I both sides of the Atlantic, for they reflect a i shame here and a resentment abroad which can only result in international disunity and, even- j tually, a serious damage to relations with our j friends overseas. This unfortunate provision of the law is bad enough. But its defense by one of its co-sponsors, Representative Walter of Pennsylvania, is even j worse. He dismissed the complaints against the detention of the Liberte’s men with the extrava¬ gant, unsupported and uncalled-for remark that “a finer crew of throat slitters couldn’t be found anywhere.” And he defined the opponents of his bill as “professional Jews” who were “shedding i crocodile tears for no reason whatsoever.” (We wonder what Mr. Walter might say if a French ■ legislator were to defend a similar French law in the same words.) If Mr. Walter and Senator McCarran read ' their newspapers and their mail, they know that their bill has been called unwise, unfair and dis¬ criminatory by Americans, both clergy and laity, j of all faiths. And for Mr. Walter to inject re¬ ligious bigotry into his defense is to compound deliberately what we trust was originally an in¬ advertent error of legislative judgment. It would be a different matter if the question¬ naire section of the 1952 immigration law gave promise of strengthening our defense against Communist aggression. In that case, we could run the risk of angering some of our non-Com- j munist friends. But it doesn’t. It simply creates a wholly righteous resentment in countries and ; governments which are members of the mutually reliant association of free nations. And it cre¬ ates that resentment to no avail. We can only hope that the Eighty-third , Congress will reconsider the decision of its predecessor, clear away the litter of bias and prejudice, make some emergency repairs, and eventually enact a new immigration law which is as fair as it is necessary. Seems Practical to Us SOMEHOW WE can’t share the apprehension with which a Washington clergyman viewed the opening of a new Republican club across the street from the Capitol. The club has dining rooms, conference rooms and — well, we might as well come right out and say it — a bar. The existence of the grogshop led the minister to \ christen the new drink-and-eatery “a sin, a shame and a blight on the country.” We incline toward the less agitated notion that the Capitol Hill Club is merely an extravagant, though practical, gesture of celebration by the Ins, after 20 years of being the Outs. Maybe the Republican legislators will now duck across the street for a quick one, but we don’t look for any really significant change on the Hill. We, feel confident that numerous members of the now minority party will continue to maintain the old Congressional tradition of keeping a bottle of sour-mash bourbon in the lower right- hand drawer of the desk. Collier’s for February 28, 1953 HARRY DEVLIN If This Be Liberty . . . THE IMMIGRATION and Nationality Act of 1952, more familiarly known as ’he McCarran- W alter Act, is a complex and controversial piece of legislation How much, if any, of it will be re¬ written is a question that the new Congress will decide in its own good time. But there is one section of r which we believe demands imme¬ diate attention. As it stands now, it is one of the most inept, insulting, militantly chauvinis¬ tic and obviously ineffectual items in the whole ca logon of federal legislation. We refer, as y ou may have guessed, to that por¬ tion of the law which requires incoming visitors from foreign countries to submit to questions by an immigration officer concerning their politi¬ cal beliefs, personal behavior and other matters of in trite te information. This is the section of the act which first gained public attention when its application resulted in the detention aboard ship of more than one quarter of the crew of the French liner Liberte during the vessel’s Christ¬ mas visit to New York. The purpose which prompted this legal regu¬ lation is fine Every loyal American is in favor of keeping Comm mist agents, criminals and other undesirable characters out of the country'. 70 But we can’t possibly see how the McCarran- Walter quiz program, however noble its intent, can achieve that purpose. In the first place, no Communist agent is go¬ ing to give a truthful answer to a question about his political affiliation. At the same time, a good many non-Communists are going to clam up in resentment when they are asked to do a lot of soul-baring as the price of putting foot on Amer¬ ican soil. Surely most of the American passen¬ gers and crew of an American ship would balk if a French or British official made the voyage with them and demanded to know their domes¬ tic politics, their view's about the government in the country of their destination, and so on, be¬ fore they would be permitted to land. Furthermore, if we were a Communist big shot in Western Europe, we don’t think that we would be too concerned about this particular provision of the McCarran-Walter Act. There are other ways of getting subversives into the United States than having them lie about their political leanings. The Soviet diplomatic mis¬ sion is one obvious avenue of approach. Also, this country has almost 13,000 miles of thinly guarded coast line, as well as long land bounda¬

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