The Years The World Went Mad

the

$4.95

year
the world

went MAD

Allen Churchill

Illustrated with photographs

1927 peak of the age of wonderful non-
sense, era of Prohibition and peepholes,
jazz babies and ukuleles, Clara Bow and
Ramon Navarro, tabloids and portable vic-
trolas. It's the year the world went mad, the
year Allen Churchill describes in a book -as
effervescent and tantalizing as the era it
depicts.

New Year's Day, 1927, dawned mild
and mellow, and it is from this point that
the author begins his nostalgic portrait
of the Year of the Big Shriek. A fascina-
ting run-down of current theatre, motion
pictures, actors and actresses, magazines,
night clubs, politics, slang, advertisements,
newspapers, songs, and writers sets the
scene. Al Capone was in Chicago, Coolidge
in the White House; Gertrude Lawrence
and Victor Moore were starring in Oh Kay
on Broadway; John Barrymore kissed fe-
males 143 times in the silent film Don
Juan, and New York's mayor James
Walker was "as visible in the night spots
as in his City Hall office." It was the period
of the catchy advertising slogan: "They
Laughed When I Sat Down at the Piano";
and "Doo Wacka Doo"; of slang expres-
sions like "You're the nuts" and "Don't

(Continued on back flap)
Jacket design by HERB STOLTZ

Jacket photo of Charleston dancers
by United Press International

973.91 G56y 60-0728^ 34.95
Churchill, Allen, 1911-
The yeai' the world went
mad. dwell [I960]

973.91 C56y 60-0728^ $4.95
Churchill, Allen, 1911-

The year the world went
macU Crowell [I960]

3Hp. illus.

3 1148 00484 7257

17 WS

ALLEN CHURCHILL

Thomas Y. CrowZZ Company

NEW YORK ESTABLISHED 1834

Copyright 1960 by Allen Churchill

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced in any form, except by a reviewer,

without the permission of the publisher.

Designed by Laurel Wagner

Manufactured in the United States of America

by the Cornwall Press, Inc., Cornwall, New York

Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 60-8251

1 Prelude to Madness 1

2 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 24

3 A Night with the Padlock Queen 51

4 The Sash-Weight Murder 77

5 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 111

6 "Here Comes the BOY/" 145

7 The Big Parade in the Air 171

8 Twelve Little Words 198

9 Sdcco-Vdnzetti 219
JO The Greatest Year in Sport 250
11 End of the Big Shriek 274

Bibliography 303

Index D r 305

D* i\

If-

:HE Nineteen Twenties have been called
the Era of Wonderful Nonsense, the
Golden Age of Nonsense, the Golden Twenties, the Roaring
Twenties, the Whoopee Era, the Lawless Decade, the Age of
Hoopla, and many other things. "The whole pattern of the
Roaring Twenties in America was that of a gigantic play-
ground/' according to Abel Green and Joe Laurie, Jr. in Show
Biz. Of these happy, hoopla years, the biggest and best was
1927. In it the Era of Wonderful Nonsense reached its peak
and also its moment of transition. Herbert Asbury, looking
back, calls 1927 the "Year of the Big Shriek" and says:

It was a year which produced an amazing crop of big news
stories. Scarcely had one stupendous occurrence been emblazoned
in journalistic tradition as the greatest story of the age than an-
other appeared in its place, to goad frenzied editors and reporters
to new heights of hysteria and hyperbole, while above the din of
competition rose the mellow baying of the publicity hound and
the raucous bleat of the politician as he knelt in adoration before
the glory of the front page and welcomed the heroes returning
from the scenes of their exploits.

Follows the story of the Year of the Big Shriek the Year
the World Went Mad . . .

to. MadtteM.

HE first day of January 1927 the Year the
World Went Mad brought seasonable
weather to most areas of the country. In Florida, where the
multimillion-dollar boom in local swampland had burst un-
happily the year before, the Miami temperature climbed from
48 degrees to a pleasantly warm 71 at noon. In Chicago, the
city where the gambling-plus-vice empire of young Al Capone
raked in an illegitimate $105,000,000 a year ("A fine opportu-
nity for smart young guys like myself/ 7 was the way Scarface
Al viewed Prohibition), the first day of the year started at 24
degrees and reached 31 at noon. In Los Angeles, where the
silent film industry legitimately earned far more money than
Al Capone, temperatures rose from 52 degrees to a midday 77,
so that anyone drawing weather comparisons between California
and Florida as in those days people did was forced to award
honors to California on this fine New Year's Day.

In New York City, traditionally the show spot of the na-
tion's New Year's Eve revels the night before, temperatures
rose at noontime to 39 degrees. To those New Yorkers who
had actively celebrated the advent of the New Year this mellow

1

2 Prelude to Madness

weather seemed justified. For in New York and other spots
along the eastern seaboard, the night before had been a period
of downpour. Nonetheless, the usual large crowds had gath-
ered in Times Square to welcome in the New Year. In the
New York Times of January i, 1927, police were quoted as
giving the accustomed estimate of one hundred thousand cele-
brants in the Times Square area on New Year's Eve, and the
paper headlined:

CITY WELCOMES NEW YEAR
WITH LAVISH CELEBRATION;
GAY PARADERS BRAVE RAIN

Because of the drenching rain, large numbers of those who
ventured out in New York City on New Year's Eve did so
in private car or taxi. Thus New York, a town which eventually
would become a perpetual traffic jam, had enjoyed what was
possibly its first grave traffic snarl on this New Year's Eve
of 1926-27. Such a profusion of cars, taxis, and limousines
jammed Broadway and offshoot streets that traffic came to a
complete halt. Some of the cars locked in this prodigious jam
were Model T Fords (one of the rich promises of the year
1927 was that during it the Model A Ford would be cere-
moniously unveiled). Others were such popular makes as Chrys-
ler ($1175 for roadster with rumble seat), Buick, Chevrolet,
and Packard ("Ask the Man Who Owns One") .

The year 1927 arrived in the midst of an era of golden
prosperity, with a fine richness of everything, and still other
of the cars bore such forgotten names as Willys-Knight, Frank-
lin, Hupmobile, Oakland, Pierce Arrow, Essex, Locomobile,
Marmon, Star and that sportiest of contemporary vehicles,
the Kissel roadster with wire wheels. The one thousand extra
police on duty for New Year's Eve charged frantically about
among these vehicles but, inexperienced in unscrambling such
confusion, succeeded only in compounding it further. Then,

Prelude to Madness 3

as the hands of the clock on the tower of the new (opened
six months before) Paramount Theatre touched midnight,
the horns of a multitude of cars caught in the rainy traffic
jam set up a dreadful cacophony in tribute to the New Year.

"Private parties greeting the New Year" the Times went
on _ "had been merry and wet." The nation lived under the
confining law of Prohibition but this wetness did not stem
from rain. Indeed, it is safe to say that on New Year's Eve
1926-27 any citizens of the United States willing and able
to afford a celebration already knew an urban or roadside
speakeasy in which to celebrate. Or if not this, at least the
identity of a bootlegger who would supply liquor (usually gin)
of an inferior quality which all at the New Year's Eve party
would deem superior.

In New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington, and
other major cities, hotels reported a record attendance foi
New Year's Eve. New York night clubs, where a bottle of
Prohibition-time champagne (mixed carbonated cider and
grain alcohol) might cost one hundred dollars, had been
booked solid for weeks in advance despite the fact that Pro-
hibition-time Broadway was a lawless spot with gangsters con-
trolling most places of after-dark pleasure.

The Main Stem's hit play of the moment was a taut melo-
drama called Broadway. Lee Tracy played the lead and his
understudy a young man who never got a chance to go on
was an actor named James Cagney. In Broadway no less than
two gangland murders took place backstage in a speakeasy-
night club called the Paradise. This rang so true to life that
the critic Alexander Woollcott hailed Broadway in these words:
"Of all the plays that shuffled in endless procession along
Broadway in this year of grace, the one which most perfectly
caught the accent of the city's voice was this play named after
the great Midway itself."

New Yorkers able to raise throbbing heads from pillows dur-

4 Prelude to Madness

ing the course of New Year's Day 1927 learned from news-
papers that the city's first baby of the new year had been a
girl where is she now? born to Mrs. Mary Stein in Lincoln
Hospital, the Bronx. Four other children had been born during
the night and before New Year's Eve was officially over revelers
had turned in sixteen false fire alarms. Those who read the
newspapers could also learn that, despite plentiful evidence that
New Year's Eve had been the country's wettest of the Prohibi-
tion Era, Dry forces were publicly radiating optimism. The past
year, the Woman's Christian Temperance Union announced,
had seen a tightening in enforcement of the Volstead Law.
Only in the South, where moonshiners flourished, had the situ-
ation worsened.

Such optimism was so tremendously far from the truth that
most readers quickly turned to other news stories. One of these
stated that Secretary of the Treasury Andrew Mellon, under
whose jurisdiction enforcement of Prohibition fell, had vetoed
the idea of inserting poison into wood alcohol so that those
truly desperate for a drink would never be tempted to im-
bibe this substance. Other news stories concerned the pend-
ing dispatch of United States Marines to Nicaragua for the
protection of American property and investment; the approach-
ing eightieth birthday of Thomas Alva Edison; and the night-
riding activities of the hooded Ku Klux Klan in Georgia. Presi-
dent Calvin Coolidge, fondly known to the country as Cautious
Cal, broke his usual silence to speak out in favor of World
Disarmament, then under debate at The Hague. National
stories decried the rise in the divorce rate, stating that the past
year had seen the filing of five thousand more divorce suits
than ever before in the country's history. Monday, January 3rd,
would be the day on which many doughboys of World War I
would be entitled to collect a Soldier's Bonus, and a few
pundits feared that this would deal a shattering blow to the
nation's soaring economy.

Prelude to Madness 5

This, however, was almost as farfetched as the claims of
Prohibition forces. For 1927 came at a prosperous time, with
the rich odor of profits filling the air. Plumbers arriving to fix
faucets discoursed on how much money they had made on
paper during the previous week. Rich men had the discon-
certing experience of being driven by chauffeurs who seemed
to know everything about the stock market. "Prosperous and
with all confidence in the future," was the manner in which
the New York Times pictured the national mood on the first
day of January 1927. And why not? Under the canny aegis
of multimillionaire Treasury Secretary Mellon the United
States had just declared itself able to cut taxes by $387,000,000.

Such splendid prosperity had been the story for almost seven
years and newspaper readers in search of unusual news might
turn from it to the sport pages to find that Gene Sarazen had
won the Miami Open Golf Championship and that Tommy
Armour had finished first in a California Open. From the Madi-
son Square Garden office of fight promoter Tex Rickard came
the eagerly awaited news that during 1927 the heavyweight
champion, James Joseph (Gene) Tunney, would fight the win-
ner of a series of elimination bouts. Tunney had defeated Jack
Dempsey in September 1926 and for his next bout was guar-
anteed $750,000 to $1,000,000. Among those who would be
taking part in the eliminations for the honor of meeting him
would be Dempsey, Jack Sharkey, Paul Berlenbach, Jim
Maloney, and Jack Delaney.

For those not addicted to sport, there was news in the en-
tertainment columns. In those happy days, some seventy-five
Broadway plays were spread before a public which now, even
in holiday time, is lucky to have fifteen. On Saturday, January
i, 1927, a revue called Gay Paree was to be seen at the Winter
Garden with that celebrated Parisian Charles "Chic" Sale;
Gertrude Lawrence and Victor Moore were starring in Oh Kay!
a musical comedy with music by George Gershwin ("Clap Yo'

6 Prelude to Madness

Hands/' "Do Do Do"); Beatrice Lillie and Charles Winninger
displayed themselves in a musical called Oh, Please; Ethel
Barryniore was starred in Somerset Maugham's The Constant
Wife; Sacha Guitry and his lovely wife Yvonne Printemps,
speaking only French, brought Gallic culture to the United
States in Mozart; Queen High boasted Luella Gear and Charles
Ruggles; Chicago, a searing drama of a jazz-baby murderess,
starred Francine Larrimore; The Ladder, a play about reincar-
nation, played nightly to audiences of only ten or fifteen, since
a Texas millionaire-backer, Edgar B. Davis, had a fanatical
faith in its message; Joe E. Brown and Ona Munson cavorted
through Twinkle, Twinkle; at the Republic Theatre on Forty-
second Street Anne Nichols' Abie's Irish Rose continued its
amazing five-year run; Lenore Ulric appeared in Lulu Bette,
Blanche Yurka was Nubi in The Squall, and Mae West was
Margie LaMont in Sex. Temporarily absent from Broadway
was Florenz Ziegfeld, the celebrated showman who had pro-
duced a series of gorgeous Follies "Glorifying the American
Girl." But George White's breezy Scandals and Earl Carroll's
sumptuous Vanities endeavored to make up for the absence
of the master.

Despite such seeming robustness, the American entertain-
ment world was in the process of enormous change. Suddenly
radio the kind of entertainment-for-free which showmen al-
ways dreaded had appeared on the scene. People no longer
needed to stir from their homes for an evening's entertain-
ment. By turning a series of knobs, it was now possible to
bring Jessica Dragonette, Harry Reser's Cliquot Club Eskimos,
Harry Horlick's A & P Gypsies, the Happiness Boys, or Uncle
Don into a living room. Simultaneously motion pictures were
making a new bid for attention. No longer content to be called
a stepchild of the legitimate theatre, films were becoming more
sophisticated, even using the word art to describe some produc-
tions. Picture palaces like the Capitol and Paramount in
New York featured stage shows which, together with radio,

Prelude to Madness 7

would sound the death knell of vaudeville. But the most im-
portant change in films was in the films themselves. Epics like
Ben-Hur (Ramon Novarro, Carmel Myers, Francis X. Bush-
man) and The Big Parade (John Gilbert, Renee Adoree, Karl
Dane) held as much drama as any Broadway play and were
visually far more exciting.

In 1927 the screen was still silentor nearly so. Background
symphonic music had been heard on a sound track of Don
Juan, a film in which John Barrymore kissed females 143 times
by actual press-agent count. The Warner Brothers, attempting
to bolster a tottering company with a new gimmick called
Vitaphone, had at the Don Juan premiere presented "Talk-
ing" shorts with such outstanding singers of the day as Marion
Talley. John Barrymore was also one of the busiest actors of
the era and in January 1927 could be seen on Broadway in
When a Man Loves with Dolores Costello. The Big Parade
still played two performances a day at the Astor; Harold Lloyd,
next to Charlie Chaplin the most popular comic of the time,,
was appearing in Big Brother; Corinne Griffith starred in Lady
in Ermine with Francis X. Bushman; and Pola Negri was the
star of Hotel Imperial at the Paramount, soon to be rivaled
by the Roxy at Seventh Avenue and Fiftieth Street.

Other films of the day were D. W. Griffith's Sorrows of
Satan with Adolphe Menjou, Lya de Putti, and Carol Demp-
ster; Beau Geste with Ronald Colman, enjoying a record run
at the Criterion; Marion Davies in TUlie the Toiler and Para-
dise for Two with Richard Dix and Betty Bronson. In addi-
tion to this, newspapers on January ist carried announcements
of the imminent arrival of Flesh and the Devil starring John
Gilbert and Greta Garbo. Garbo was billed as the possessor of
"the most beautiful face in the world/ 7 Flesh and the Devil
would introduce the so-called soul kiss to a palpitating movie
public. As a result some would call it "Gilbo Garbage" and
the film would be assailed by pious groups.

In Hollywood, polls indicated runaway popularity for Clara

8 Prelude to Madness

Bow as the top box office attraction of the day. Flaming
haired, peppy, shingle-bobbed, flat-chested, high-skirted, Clara
Bow personified the headstrong flapper of the period. In her
latest film, The Plastic Age, she had been billed the "Hottest
Jazz Baby in Films." In it she did a frenetic Charleston, drank
out of a hip flask, and by every action indicated insistence
upon the freedoms denied for centuries to her sex. Clara Bow's
most successful film had been Elinor Glyn's It, which was the
word Mrs, Glyn applied to the indefinable sex appeal in the
female personality that attracts men. "You either have it, or
you don't/' the exotic-looking authoress stated coolly when
asked to define It further. But whatever It was, Clara Bow had
it. She was the 1927 jazz baby: hungry for thrills, heedless of
consequences, promiscuous with kisses and perhaps much else.
Restless, self-centered, vain, she was the Flapper of Flaming
Youth.

For her work in motion pictures Clara Bow was paid three
thousand dollars to four thousand dollars a week. As a result
she typified far more than high-voltage fiapperdom to her fel-
low citizens of the United States. In 1927 she was twenty-two
years old and over the last four the flapper with the bright red
hair had personified, more than anyone else in Hollywood,
the phenomenal rags-to-riches rise of so many stars of the silent
screen. Miss Bow had been born in the Bay Ridge section of
Brooklyn, into a background described as "rotten/* Of her
barren childhood, she herself recalled, "I never even had a
doll." But she had "It" and, at seventeen, flaming red hair,
a lovely round face, and a body to match. Someone sent her
photo to a beauty competition run by a movie magazine and
soon, by a series of happy chances, the teenage girl found her-
self playing a tomboy gamin in Down to the Sea in Ships.
Next came Rough House Rosie, Redhead f The Fleet's In,
Children of Divorce, Three Weekends, Mantrap, and Ladies
of the Mob. By 1927 ecstatic fans were writing Clara Bow

Prelude to Madness 9

some twenty thousand letters a week. Naturally, the flaming-
haired star made the most of such fame and fortune. "I did
exactly as I pleased/' she has recalled of her days of flapper
fame. "I stayed up late. I dressed the way I wanted. I'd whiz
down Sunset Boulevard in my open Kissel flaming red, of
course with seven red chow dogs to match my hair."

Ramon Novarro, the most popular male star of the moment,
was far more sedate in his behavior. The mantle of popularity
had fallen on Novarro with the shattering death of Rudolph
Valentino in August 1926. But Novarro would not remain in
this top slot for long. With Flesh and the Devil, dashing John
Gilbert became the number one movie idol.

Other film stars of 1927 were Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pick-
ford, Antonio Moreno, Colleen Moore, Monte Blue, Reginald
Denny, Rod La Rocque, Vilma Banky, Esther Ralston, Lois
Wilson, Jack Holt, Bebe Daniels, Leatrice Joy, Lew Cody,
Thomas Meighan, Dorothy Mackaill, Louise Brooks, Betty
Compson, Lon Chaney, Agnes Ayres, Richard Dix, Ben Lyon,
Marie Prevost, William Haines, Anna May Wong, Sally
O'Neill, and Wallace Beery, who had just begun to switch
from movie villainy to comedy.

Upcoming in the ranks were Gary Cooper, Mary Brian,
Buddy Rogers, Nancy Carroll, Gilbert Roland, Richard Arlen,
Alice White, and Betty Bronson.

The January issue of Motion Picture, a fan magazine that
brought cultivated tone to Hollywood, featured an article titled
"A Sunday Afternoon with Mrs. Falaise." Translated, this
meant an afternoon with Gloria Swanson, for that star of stars
had just delighted the industry by returning from Europe mar-
ried to the Marquis Henri de la Falaise de la Coudray a mar-
riage which caused her rival Pola Negri to writhe with envy.

The same issue of Motion Picture carried a breathless inter-
view with Joan Crawford, one of Hollywood's newest stars. As
Lucille Le Sueur, Miss Crawford had (little more than a year

10 Prelude to Madness

before) been a flapper Charleston dancer at the Club Richman
in New York. Practically every girl in the United States envied
the high-stepping girl, but in the best fan magazine tradition
of the day the fortunate young thing confided to interviewer
Doris Denbo that she had found success empty: "Would you
think it possible that in the midst of plenty friends, love,
success, everything perhaps a girl could wish for that I could
be lonely? But I have never been anything but lonely for real
love and affection."

For stay-at-homes on New Year's Day 1927 the entertain-
ment news lay in the new gadget radio. The pioneering day of
the crystal set had become the era of twisting dials, gooseneck
loudspeaker, and radiotron tube (RCA Radiola, 8 tubes, $275).

January ist was to feature still another radio innovation-
the nationwide hookup. At three in the afternoon nineteen
stations across the land would join to broadcast the Rose Bowl
game between Leland Stanford and Alabama. The multitudes
listening to this exciting game would hear it broadcast by the
silver tonsils of Graham McNamee, the nation's super-broad-
caster. The great McNamee seemed able to make everything in
his broadcasts infectiously exciting ("And he did itl Yessir, he
did it! It's a touchdown. Boy, I want to tell you, this is one
of the finest games . . .") and as a result he was one of the
best known of contemporary Americans.

Radio in 1927 was such a startling innovation that some
folk were concerned about the content of broadcasts. Cultural
groups objected to the hullabaloo made over such programs as
the Rose Bowl game. Consequently, the networks had rather
self-consciously scheduled another nationwide broadcast for
eight o'clock that night. This would be a performance of the
New York Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Dr. Walter
Damrosch. With him would be a galaxy of musical luminaries,
among them John McCormack, Rosa Ponselle, and Mischa

Prelude to Madness 11

Elman. In New York, this would be carried on station WEAF,
which with WJZ was the important outlet in the area. In
Pittsburgh, it would be heard on station KDKA, over which
the first radio broadcast was made on November 2, 1920,

On the afternoon of January ist as Alabama came from
behind in the last minute of play to tie Stanford 7-7 Gov-
ernor Alfred E. Smith of New York entered his name in the
1928 Presidential race by declaring in his New York State in-
augural address: "I will try to earn the nomination/' Radio
of the day was so much in its infancy that news broadcasts
were all but unknown. Thus the world had to wait until the
Sunday newspapers of January 2nd to find that Al Smith's
brown derby had floated into the Presidential arena.

In Washington, D.C., President and Mrs. Calvin Coolidge
were, to the surprise of no one, described as spending the
quietest of holidays. In truth, America of the mid-Twenties
was a bit bewildered by its thirtieth President. Dutifully his
countrymen tried to find admirable the President's taciturn re-
fusal to chat with newspapermen, White House callers, or
diplomats from other nations. At all times Coolidge remained
silentlooking down his nose, William Allen White said, as
if trying to locate that evil smell which seemed forever to
affront him. The same point was made in fewer words by
Alice Roosevelt Longworth who said that Coolidge looked as
if he had been weaned on a sour pickle. "Whenever Coolidge
opens his mouth to speak, a moth flies out," another contem-
porary said, and a newspaper had just asked Coolidge to write
a feature article on "How to Get By on Ten Words a Day/'

If Calvin Coolidge preserved his usual silence over the New
Year's weekend, a firebrand Representative named Fiorello H.
La Guardia provided news from the nation's capital. La
Guardia delivered a blast at the country's law enforcement ma-
chinery, pointing out that on New Year's Eve there had been
almost no raids on Prohibition law violators. He reminded the

12 Prelude to Madness

country that in many urban localities law enforcement officers
were under arrest for conniving with bootleggers (NEW PRO-
HIBITION CHIEF SEEKS HONEST STAFF, a recent headline read)
and that any man could easily find a speakeasy in any sizable
town in the land. He finally charged that in eleven cities 1,738
people had died over the past year as a result of drinking in-
ferior or poison liquor. Newspapers across the country imme-
diately headlined 1,738 RUM DEATHS CHARGED, for the word
rum fitted so neatly into story-heads that a visitor from Mars
might deduce from the press that the United States was a
nation of rum drinkers. Gin was also a neat headline word,
but more specific and confining. In private conversations of
the time prohibition liquor was always hooch or booze.

In the course of his statement Representative La Guardia
took several swipes at his constituency city of New York. Not
a single raid had been staged there during this wettest of wet
weekends, yet it was known that at least five thousand speak-
easy-night clubs nestled among the bright lights of Broadway,
with some twenty-five thousand more in the entire city of New
York. La Guardia heaped scorn on the city's playboy mayor,
James J. Walker. In the words of Gene Fowler, his future
biographer, Mayor Walker wore New York on his lapel like
a boutonniere. He was a laughing Mayor, rather than a smiling
one, as visible in night spots as in his City Hall office. La
Guardia branded Mayor Walker's recent 3 A.M. curfew for
night clubs a farce, since many clubs had taken newspaper
space to advertise that they would stay open until 8 A.M.
despite the edict. In no way did La Guardia reflect the light
views of H. L. Mencken, who had just stated, "The business
of evading Prohibition and making mock of it has ceased to
wear any aspects of crime, and has become a sort of national
sport."

On January ist, those interested in matters other than Pro

Prelude to Madness 13

hibition, or the lack of it, could read popular magazines like
the Delineator, which contained fiction by Sophie Kerr, Arthur
Train, John Erskine, and Kathleen Norris. The stories of F.
Scott Fitzgerald often appeared in the Saturday Evening Post,
and the New Yorker, now in its third year, carried the by-lines
of Ernest Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Ben Hecht.

Advertisements of the era seem in retrospect more read-
able than the serious prose. It was the time of the catchy
slogan "Ivory Soap, It Floats" "Often a Bridesmaid But
Never a Bride" "There's Something About Them You'll Like"
(Herbert Tareytons)"Even Your Best Friend Won't Tell
You" (halitosis: Listerine)~-"Be Nonchalant, Light a Murad"
-"Lucky Strike, It's Toasted' -"I'd Walk a Mile for a Camel"
"Four Out of Five Have it" (pyorrhea). A full-page adver-
tisement for piano lessons by mail featured perhaps the most
memorable of all advertising slogans: "They Laughed When I
Sat Down at the Piano But When I Started to Play!"

It was also the moment of the inferiority complex and am-
bitious ads set out to exploit the hideous deficiencies latent in
everyone. "I Was So Embarrassed," a young wife informs a
cringing husband in one full-page spread. "You sat there like
a dummy, you didn't say a word all evening." The solution?
Buy the Elbert Hubbard Scrap Book and commit it to memory.
It was also the era of the testimonial, with celebrities insin-
cerely plugging cigarettes, bedsprings, and other commodities.
At the same time ordinary folk testified: "For Years I Was
Always Tired Now I Take Fleischmann's Yeast 3 Times a
Day."

Lighter aspects of the national culture were to be found in
the humor magazines Life and Judge, as well as in that for-
gotten pacesetter College Humor, which carried jokes, pictures
of cuddly flappers, and breezy, sexy fiction. In College Humor
the stories of Katharine Brush and Lynn and Lois Montross
gave Joe College and Betty Coed a pattern of behavior for all

14 Prelude to Madness

situations. Life was edited by Robert Emmet Sherwood, who
was also writing playshis Road to Rome would be a hit of
1927.

Life especially featured the John Held drawings which so
successfully caught the flavor of the Jazz Age. The flapper of
1927 was angular, thin legged, slat bottomed, and displayed no
visible breasts. She was such an odd creature that the John
Held caricature bore a great resemblance to the real thing. Her
male counterpart, as seen by Held, had a vapid face and wore
bell-bottom trousers. He parted his hair in the middle and
greased it back on either side in emulation of the lamented
Rudolph Valentino. For the John Held male the world had no
perfect word like flapper for the female. He was called the
sheik, the cake-eater, or the jelly bean the last deriving from
the glossy hair of Held drawings. When the 1927 male was re-
ferred to as a sheik his female counterpart was often called a
sheba.

In Life, Judge, and College Humor, the curious slang of the
era could best be found. A good-looking girl was the cat's
whiskers, or the cat's meow. She was also, more respectfully, a
beaut, or a peach. An ordinary girl was a jane "Who was
that jane I saw you with last night?" To say something clever
was to crack wise, or wisecrack. Anything a flapper or jelly bean
liked was nifty or "It's the nuts/' "For crying out loud" was
the favored expression of incredulity or wonder. Rapture was
expressed by "Hot diggity dog." A tough guy was a hardboiled
egg, a stupid girl a dumbbell or Dumb Dora. Since the 1926
best seller Gentlemen Prefer Blondes there had been much talk
of sugar daddies and gold diggers. At a wild party a flapper
hoisting her skirts above rolled stockings to do a mad Charleston
would be egged on by cries of "Get hot!"

One sure way of winning a laugh at a crowded party was
suddenly to yell "Don't step on it, it might be Lon Chaney!"
In a slightly different sense, Step On It also meant Hurry up,

Prelude to Madness 15

we're late. An expression of scorn was "So's your old man."
Does She or Doesn't She? meant Does She Pet or Does She
Neck? At the end of a happy date a sheba might say to her
sheik "Thanks for the buggy ride." If he made an improper
suggestion she might say, "Go fly a kite," "Go jump in the
lake/' or "Go cook a radish." If he made her laugh she'd say,
"Ooo, you slaughter me!" An expression of disbelief was "It's
the bunk."

Liquor, (bathtub gin or bootleg hooch) was giggle-water or
giggle-soup, even in the sophisticated pages of the New Yorker.
Speakeasies were whoopee-parlors. Making Whoopee meant
getting tight, doing the Charleston, or playing a does-she-or
doesn't-she in the rumble seat of a car. Anything strange was
goofy, anyone strange a goof. To add emphasis, a flapper might
breathe fervently, "I should hope to tell you," or "And ftowl"
Finally, a flapper never said Yes or No to anything. It was
always "Absolutely" or a long draw out "Pos-i-tzve-ly." Or a
mixture of both which was "Abso-#v0-ly" or "Pos-a-Zoot-ly,"

Young people of the age were conveniently divided into
Flaming Youth and the Younger Generation. Neither had the
full approval of older folk, but Flaming Youth was regarded
with outrage and horror, while the Younger Generation got a
patient "we-were-all-young-once" treatment.

To the comparatively sedate members of the Younger Gen-
eration, the song writer of the decade was Irving Berlin
("What'll I Do?" "All Alone," "Blue Skies," "Remember,"
"Always," "The Song Is Ended But the Melody Lingers on)."
Even so, the overwhelming song hit of 1927 was Walter
Donaldson's "My Blue Heaven (Just Molly and me-e-e, and
baby makes three-e-e)." Paul Whiteman, Vincent Lopez, Fred
Waring, Ben Bernie ("The Old Maestro") and Roger Wolfe
Kahn were the popular dance band leaders. Whiteman, after
functioning as a jazz catalyst, had turned to dispensing what
was called dansapation silken renditions of such melodies as

16 Prelude to Madness

"Among My Souvenirs/ 7 "In A Little Spanish Town/' and
"Valencia."

Collegiate, collegiate. Yes! -we are collegiate! so rollicked a
contemporary song hit, and Flaming Youth found such
whoopee melodies vastly superior to Irving Berlin. It was the
day of the ukulele, or uke. No less than rolled stockings and
knee-length sheath dresses for shebas, or bell-bottom trousers
and hip flasks for shieks, the uke was standard equipment for
joy rides and petting parties. On this simplest of instruments,
jazz babies strummed accompaniment to the nonsense ditties
so dear to the hearts of the Jazz Age. From "Barney Google"
(1923) and " Yes, We Have No Bananas" to the sentimental
"Bye, Bye, Blackbird" (1926) each silly song had its brief,
countrywide life. Still tingling in the ears of 1927 were "When
the Red Red Robin Comes Bob-Bob-Bobbin Along"; "It Ain't
Gonna Rain No Mo' "; "Hay, Hay, Farmer Gray (Took an-
other load away)"; "Show Me the Way to Go Home (I'm
tired and I want to go to bed)"; "Did You Ever Hear Pete?
(Go tweet-tweet-tweet on his piccolo)"; "Who Takes Care of
the Caretaker's Daughter? (When the caretaker's busy taking
care?)"; and the saxophone-player's song "Doo-wacka-doo
(Made a hit with the girls. They had their hair bobbed and
gave him the curls) ."

Serious songs of the day, such as "Just a Cottage Small By a
Waterfall (A place where dreams come true)" and "I'm Sitting
on Top of the World (Just rollin' along and singin' a song)"
were sung over the radio by Jessica Dragonette, Vaughn De
Leath, Gene Austin, and the Silvertown Masked Tenor (Joe
White) . But the Happiness Boys, the Cliquot Club Eskimos,
the A & P Gypsies, and others made merry with numbers like
"I Miss My Swiss (My Swiss miss misses me)"; "She Lives
Over the Wiaduct (Down by the Winegar Woiks)"; "I Faw
Down an' Go Boom"; "When It's Nighttime in Italy It's
Wednesday Over Here"; "There's No Hot Water in the

Prelude to Madness 17

Bronx"; and "Does the Spearmint Lose Its Flavor on the Bed-
post Overnight"?

In January 1927 the song hit of the moment and the non-
sense song of the second were conveniently the same. This was
a "bouncy number called "Crazy Words, Crazy Tune." To its
simple lyric, topical words could quickly be added and a nation
concerned with Eskimo pies, raccoon coats, plus fours, cross-
word puzzles, hip flasks, back-seat petting, ukuleles, and other
innovations found many a snappy couplet to insert in "Crazy
Words, Crazy Tune":

Crazy words, crazy tune

I think that 111 go crazy soon

Vo-do-dee-o

Vo-do-dee-o-DO.

Culture was also rampant, and the nifty new Book-of-the-
Month Club was considered a sure bet to make the masses
book conscious. Non-fiction best seller of 1927 was Will
Durant's The Story of Philosophy. In fiction John Erskine was
attempting to duplicate the success of his trail-blazing Private
Life of Helen of Troy with a somewhat similar book called
Galahad. Warwick Deeping, author of Sorrell and Son, was
represented by Doomsday. Also in bookstores (or about to be)
were Tristram, by Edwin Arlington Robinson; To the Light-
house, by Virginia Woolf; Marching On, by James Boyd;
Young Men in Love, by Michael Arlen; Revolt in the Desert,
by T. E. Lawrence; and The Glorious Adventure, by Richard
Halliburton.

But most of all, Americans in 1927 read newspapers. This
is hardly surprising: events of the day seemed to rival fiction
and add new dimension to fact. From early in the Twenties
newspaper readers had been treated to a series of smash sensa-
tions. Abetting this was the success of tabloid journalism in
New York. The New York Daily News began in 1919 and, after

18 Prelude to Madness

initial floundering, achieved a huge circulation. With one cir-
culation success, the newspaper axiom runs, there is always
room for another. William Randolph Hearst's tabloid, the
Daily Mirror , started in 1922, and attempted to outdo the
News in sensationalism. The Mirror did not fare as well, but
this did not deter the redoubtable physical culturist Bernarr
Macfadden from conceiving the idea of an evening tabloid-
both News and Mirror were morning papers which he called
the Evening Graphic.

In the green-tinted pages of the Graphic, American journal-
ism reached cesspool status. In no time New Yorkers were
calling the paper the Porno-Graphic. By January 1927, the
Graphic's major distinction was the notoriety of Walter Win-
chell, ex-vaudeville hoofer turned gossip columnist, whose
column "Your Broadway and Mine" was adding what has been
called keyhole journalism to the newspaper concept.

Though the New Yorfe Times, the New Yorfe Herald
Tribune, the Chicago Tribune, the San Francisco Chronicle
and other newspapers of high reputation would never admit it,
they had been influenced by the raw excesses of tabloid journal-
ism. The fact that so many millions eagerly read the tabloids
could not be disregarded and concessions were accordingly
made. The New Yorfe Times, printing meaty details of divorce
scandals and love-nest slayings, strove to retain dignity by
always referring to those involved as Mr., Mrs., or Miss. On the
other hand, the tabloids instantly placed everything on a cosy
front-name basis. Any girl named Dorothy who got in trouble
immediately became Dot. At all times the tabloids' prose
bordered on the heartthrob. Tabloid euphemisms were mis-
leading and vaguely salacious. An illegitimate baby was always
a love child. Infractions of the Seventh Commandment were
illicit love or illicit romance. Couples involved were too
friendly, indiscreet, or intimate. A naked girl was never nude
in the tabloids. She was undraped, partially attired, or scantily
clad, depending on the mood of the city editor.

Prelude to Madness 19

The excesses of the tabloids were best to be seen in the
numerous trials-of-the-century with which the Twenties were
studded. On close scrutiny, these may become merely trials of
the moment, but lurid newspaper coverage made them seem
stupendous events. At the same time, the Twenties were an
era of real news. It is safe to say that almost any reporter alive
in 1960 would give a lot to have been in his prime in the year
1927. Big stories, classic stories, occurred then as often as war
scares today.

The first of the decade's unique thrills came in 1922 when
the Reverend Edward Wheeler Hall and a pretty parishioner
named Eleanor Mills were discovered dead in a lover's kne out-
side New Brunswick, New Jersey. A bizarre note was added by
torn love letters of the pair scattered over the bodies. The
frantic press coverage of the Hall-Mills case brought new
dimension to newspaper coverage of an American murder.

As the Whoopee Era built, so did its sensations. Came the
Fatty Arbuckle and William Desmond Taylor scandals in
Hollywood. A trial of the century arrived in 1924 when two
Chicago youths, Richard Loeb and Nathan Leopold, were
found guilty of the aptly called thrill murder of Bobby Franks.
Sensation merged into sensation as year passed into year. In
Chicago, the multimillionaire Stillrnan family was rent by an
ugly divorce, while New York's upper crust reeled from the
Leonard Kip Rhinelander case. In Dayton, Tennessee, the
Scopes trial the intellectual trial of the century played itself
out as Clarence Darrow and Willam Jennings Bryan battled
over the letter of the Bible in a summer of hellish heat. Charlie
Chaplin married a sixteen-year-old child bride named lita
Gray, and Al Capone began his rise in Chicago.

In 1926 the sad-eyed Broadway producer Earl Carroll decided
to throw an exceptional party on the stage of the theatre where
his Vanities played. At the peak of the evening's merriment an
ordinary-looking bathtub was wheeled center-stage. Waiters
filled it to the brim with Prohibition champagne. Then from

20 Prelude to Madness

the wings strode showgirl Joyce Hawley, wearing a green bath-
robe. Reaching the tub, the girl dropped the robe, exposing the
fact that she was naked. She daintily stepped into the cham-
pagne-filled tub. "Step right up, gentlemen/' Carroll called.
"The line forms at the right." Men and some women lined up
self-consciously for a glass of nude-in-the-bathtub champagne.

Most of New York's top echelon newspapermen and col-
umnists were present at the party, and all had been requested
by Carroll not to reveal the story of his nude bather. One
newsman present was Philip Payne, an inspired young man
who had recently been made editor of the Daily Mirror. Payne
would later claim that he had spoken to Carroll during the
bathtub episode, saying in effect, "Earl, this story is so big,
you've just got to let me have it." Carroll always denied this
and it may be that, busy with the details of the party, he mis-
understood Payne or merely nodded assent to get rid of him.
Whatever the reason, Payne believed he had permission. The
Daily Mirror broke the sensational story and for several edi-
tions was the only New York newspaper to cany the news of
Earl Carroll's Bathtub Party.

It was a glorious scoop, earning Payne an accolade from
William Randolph Hearst. It also sent Earl Carroll to the
Federal Penitentiary, since he was hauled into court for serving
liquor on his premises. There, for obscure reasons, Carroll chose
to deny that the party had ever taken place. On the witness
stand Joyce Hawley clinched the case against him by admitting
that she had caught cold reposing in the champagne bath.
Carroll's plight was considerable, but Philip Payne had prob-
lems too. On the one hand his fellow editors reviled him for
lack of integrity in breaking the story. On the other, he had
earned a powerful pat on the back from William Randolph
Hearst. Which was more important? After much soul-searching
Payne decided he had most enjoyed the pat on the back.

Now he learned that the Evening Graphic had been investi-

Prelude to Madness 21

gating the still unsolved, still untried Hall : Mills case of 1922.
Unable to find grounds for reopening the case, the Graphic
had dropped its investigations. The euphoric Payne dashed in
where the Graphic feared to tread. In July 1926 the Mirror
headlined a story charging that the widow Hall had used
money and social prestige to bribe witnesses and otherwise in-
fluence the prosecutor's office. HALL-MILLS MURDER MYSTERY
BARED, the Mirror screeched, and of necessity the other papers
followed. Reluctantly, the New Jersey authorities opened the
Hall-Mills file, setting a trial date for several months in the
future.

While the wheels of justice ground in the Hall-Mills case,
newspaper readers found much else of a stimulating nature. In
the summer of 1926, Commander Richard Evelyn Byrd flew
over the North Pole. Byrd was a handsome, storybook hero who
at the age of twelve had gone around the world alone. After
that, his life had included graduation from Annapolis and in-
vention of the bubble sextant. On his return from the North
Pole flight, Byrd together with pilot Floyd Bennett was given
one of the resounding keys-to-the-city welcomes for which New
York City had become widely famed.

No sooner had Commander Byrd been royally received than
Gertrude Ederle succeeded in her second attempt to swim the
English Channel. The tabloids immediately dubbed her Trudy
and headlined SHE DID IT! On August 27, 1926, New York City
went wild over a returning Trudy. Fifty thousand yelling, mill-
ing people crowded the Wall Street area as she was greeted by
Grover Whalen. She rode in triumph up Broadway while ticker
tape, torn paper, and strips of telephone books streamed down
from office building windows above. Miss Ederle's official wel-
come became a mob scene, with mounted policemen charging
into the crowds. For the first time it became apparent that the
American people weary perhaps of sensationalism and sordid-
ness might be searching for something clean and honest to

22 Prelude to Madness

worship. But in Trudy Ederle, the public had a heroine perhaps
too levelheaded and pragmatic. Asked by a female reporter,
"Did you do any shopping in Paris?" Trudy looked blank.
"Why should I?" she wanted to know.

So rapidly did events move in the Teeming Twenties that as
Trudy returned to her home on the West Side of Manhattan
she skirted territory being hallowed by a different kind of mob
scene. Rudolph Valentino, the Sheik of Sheiks, had just died
of peritonitis and the loss of America's number-one movie idol
had produced a hysteria of mourning in New York and else-
where. Some thirty thousand of the morbidly curious had
descended on Frank E. Campbell's Memorial Chapel where
Valentino lay in state, clad in impeccable evening attire. Plate
glass windows in the vicinity were broken, and mounted police
charged into the crowds. When finally order was restored one
hundred and fifty persons a minute began pushing by Valen-
tino's coffin, and the line of mourners never seemed to dwindle.

As Valentino lay in state, President Eliot of Harvard died,
giving editorial writers an opportunity to view with alarm the
mighty coverage given Valentino as compared with the small
obituaries given the learned educator.

The busy tunesmiths of Tin Pan Alley had quickly produced
a song dedicated to Valentino. It was called "There's a New
Star in Heaven Tonight." The Evening Graphic, inspired by
"There's a New Star in Heaven Tonight," photographed two
actors in heavenly robes in the act of shaking hands. With the
photograph developed, the heads were snipped off and in their
place the Graphic editors pasted heads of Rudolph Valentino
and Enrico Caruso. The picture was photographed again. Thus,
in what it dubbed a Composograph, the Graphic pictured
Rudolph Valentino Entering the Kingdom of Heaven,

Next, Queen Marie of Rumania arrived in the United States
on a grand tour. Her Highness proved that she had caught the

Prelude to Madness 23

spirit of the Twenties by signing with two different newspaper
syndicates for her personal observations on the trip. The royal
party included almost as many press agents as court aides. Per-
haps because of this, the tour was treated with some irreverence
by the press, PRINCE NICHOLAS LOSES PANTS, the News head-
lined, detailing a shipboard contretemps involving the Queen's
son. HERE COMES THE QUEEN! the Daily Mirror trumpeted on
the day she arrived.

Queen Marie's first taste of the United States came with a
parade through New York streets. Seated beside her in the open
back seat of an imposing car was Mayor James J. Walker. His
unique place in the city's heart was demonstrated by a window
cleaner who peered down at the passing cavalcade and shouted,
"Hey, Jimmy, did you lay her yet?" Queen Marie, whose knowl-
edge of English was of a formal variety, waved upward in
friendly response.

While the Queen toured the United States becoming in-
creasingly tangled in press agents and news syndicates the
Hall-Mills trial ran its course in Somerville, New Jersey. During
late November and early December some twenty million
words of testimony and sob sister description flooded news-
papers the country over. Readers panted over the dramatic, hos-
pital bed testimony of Mrs. Jane Gibson, the Pig Woman.
They debated whether Willie Stevens could be as crazy as he
looked. Art Applegate's bluefish became a national catchword.
The end result was acquittal for Mrs. Hall and her brothers.
The much-beset family pondered, then decided to file a million-
dollar libel suit against the Daily Mirror and editor Philip
Payne.

This was done on December 28th and suddenly the nation
had reached 1927, the Year the World Went Mad.

3. "Wltat 5bid
to.

HE big year wasted no time in getting
under way. Indeed, those welcoming 1927
did so secure in the awareness that its first sensation would be
precisely the kind the public adored in the Era of Wonderful
Nonsense. It would be a trial but fortunately for a country
gorged on the deep dramas of the Hall-Mills case there were
no corpses involved. Rather its huge appeal lay in a Cinderella
aspect: the latent desire in all of us for the appearance of a
Sugar Daddy who would miraculously banish all financial cares.
To this age-old formula something new had been added. In
1927, the doctrines of Dr. Freud had traversed the Atlantic.
Where the world once whispered about Sex, it now clamored
to know more even to the extent of so-called perversions
and elderly men who lusted for the bodies of young girls.

At the same time, the United States had become condi-
tioned to the fact that not all girls were chaste or spiritually
beautiful. For all its amusing illiteracy Gentlemen Prefer
Blondes, the best-selling book of the previous year, had dealt
24

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 25

with the tribulations of a pair of gold diggers who were also
kept women. In the lively new slanguage of Walter Winchell,
Lorelei Lee and her friend Dorothy were keptives.

The public found the same type of broadminded female in
contemporary plays. In Broadway, hoofer Roy Lane (Lee
Tracy) said to one of the chorus girls, "It pays to be good/'
"Sure," she snapped back, "but not much." Other plays of the
time stressed lack of chastity in the female. In Wise Virgin a
memorable line was: "It's a wise virgin who knows her own
boiling point." In The Barker, starring Walter Huston, the
carnival girl (Claudette Colbert) was graphically described as
being in her early twenties, but in experience about 120.

So the country was prepared to relish the greatest sensation
of all: the story which when it erupted as it frequently did-
could kick any other story, be it Commander Byrd or Queen
Marie, off front pages. In the thrill-happy Era of Wonderful
Nonsense, the story of Daddy Browning and his chubby
Peaches remains the undisputed champion in the division of
sex-sensation and foolishness.

Edward West Browning, a native New Yorker and bigtime
real-estate dealer, was a sporty looking gent who bore a close
resemblance to the comedian Leon Errol. A dangerous red lit
up Mr. Browning's face at all times and his eyes glistened as if
he were on the verge of tears. Across his features there often
spread a wide, foolish grin. Browning's most attractive feature
was the white curly hair which clung tightly to his pink scalp
and brought him the distinguished look of an elderly matinee
idol. He was well aware of this and always carried a pocket
comb which he ran at frequent intervals through the sofl, uavy
hair. Also he was one of those red-faced men whose collar
seems too tight; he kept running the fingers of his left hand
around under the collar as if it choked him, but apparently he
never thought of buying a larger size. In 1927, the year of his
greatest fame, Browning claimed to be fifty-two years old. Even

26 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

though his energy remained that of a bounding youth, the
whiteness of his much-combed hair, his wattles, and generally
depleted appearance made him look at least ten years older.

In true Horatio Alger fashion, Browning had gone to work
as a penniless office boy and over long years accumulated a con-
siderable fortune by buying and improving and selling New
York real estate. This had put him well into the millionaire
class. In addition, Browning boasted a convenient three hundred
thousand dollars annually from apartment rentals. In this field,
he was -truly inspired-. His precept for success was: "Always
show a client the sunny rooms first/'

A man who had reason to be proud of his rise in the world,
Browning seemed to crave much wider attention. He wore
flowered waistcoats, a rarity in those days. Once he appeared in
a suit with twenty pearl buttons sewn on the sleeves. To those
he met the sartorially conscious man boasted that he owned a
thousand neckties, all gaudy as summer sunsets. Because of his
business interests Browning was on friendly terms with men
like Mayor Walker and Joseph P. Day, the top auctioneer of
the time. Browning's overweening desire to be noticed worried
some of these friends and one came up with this tolerant
reasoning:

He dearly loves the spotlight and when it is turned in his direc-
tion it thrills him to the point where his balance, so evident in
business dealings, becomes wholly upset. He must be seen. When
he attends dances he always wants to be the master of ceremonies
and offer loving cups to the best dancers. He is absolutely harm-
less, as free from guile as a new-laid egg and as innocent of evil
thinking as an unshucked scallop.

Until 1925 the wide world was hardly aware of the beet-faced
real estate millionaire. In 1915 Browning had married a suitable
bride and after several years the childless couple adopted two
five-year-old girls named Dorothy and Gloria. Then Mrs.
Browning suddenly put the family on the map. She demanded

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 27

a divorce, the circumstances of which were particularly humiliat-
ing to a man who had made millions. Mrs. Browning had
tumbled head over heels in love with her dentist. "A dentist of
all people!" Browning exclaimed. "How can any sensible
woman fall in love with a dentist, particularly with the dentist
who has done her own work? The idea is preposterous!"

Preposterous or not it was true, though it transpired that
Mrs. Browning also had complaints against her husband. "He
has always liked young girls," she charged. "I don't know why
he ever married. He would go with one set of girls until they
were older than he fancied, then he would drop them for a
younger set. The evidence on which I will base my suit has to
do with his penchant for flappers."

Despite the unusual nature of this charge, the judge granting
a divorce awarded each of the Brownings custody of one of the
adopted girls. Browning was given Dorothy, who had by now
reached the age of ten. Beaming happily at this turn of events,
he confessed to reporters another of his endearing traits. He
bestowed pet names on those he liked. To him little Dorothy
was "Sunshine." "She calls me Daddy," he added proudly, and
from that moment on Edward West Browning was Daddy to a
delighted world.

Like all true champions, Daddy Browning had a few pre-
liminary workouts before becoming Foolishness King of 1927.
His first came in 1925 when, free of confining matrimony for
just a year, he advertised in the New York Herald Tribune:

ADOPTION Pretty refined girl, about fourteen years old, wanted
by aristocratic family of large wealth and highest standing; will be
brought up as own child among beautiful surroundings, with every
desirable luxury, opportunity, education, travel, kindness, care,
love. Address with particulars and photograph.

This advertisement was so unusual that reporters on the
tabloids began to do some sleuthing. The trail led to Daddy
Browning's bustling real-estate office at Broadway and Seventy-

28 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

second Street. Daddy dropped everything to receive the press
jovially. What he really wanted, he declared, was a companion
for Dorothy Sunshine who was lonesome in his care. "Baby
wants a sister and, of course, it is up to me to find one," the
florid-faced man declared, running a frantic finger under his
collar. Recalling Mrs. Browning's divorce charges, reporters
were unconvinced. But newspapers gave a big play to the story,
with the New York Times stating that Daddy Browning
"wished to open the gates of fairyland to some poor child."

Next day mothers with girl children (and a few with boys!)
descended on the Browning office in sufficient numbers to
create a menace to traffic. Browning stated that he intended
personally to interview all applicants and ecstatic days com-
menced during which he plumped young girls up and down on
his lap, pinched rosy cheeks, received moist kisses, and dis-
cussed the fine points of anatomy with doting mothers. For
over two weeks he rapturously examined twelve thousand
children. Then he announced to waiting reporters DADDY'S
CHOICE, screamed the tabloids that he had picked sixteen-
year-old Mary Spas (or Spaas), a blond-ringleted Astoria peach
who had walked alone across the Queensboro Bridge to apply.
Even the New York Times waxed poetic about the great good
fortune of Mary Spas. Its front-page story said, "The girl's
cheeks are red as apples, her eyes are hazel, and her mass of
light hair falls in natural curls to her shoulders, It has a golden
tint when touched by the sunlight. She seems rather small for
her age. She also seems rather shy."

Daddy Browning found numerous other virtues in his youth-
ful protegee. "She plays the piano, sings a little, bakes, sews,
and between times dances on her toes," he informed scribbling
scribes. As he said this, Mary Spas smiled demurely up at him.
It set Daddy off again: "A smile means an awful lot and Mary
certainly has a wonderful smile." Inevitably, Mary Spas was
christened the Cinderella Girl and like every other female who

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 29

ever came in contact with Daddy Browning she felt an immedi-
ate urge to go shopping. In the robinVegg-blue Rolls Royce
which was Daddy's pride the two headed for Fifth Avenue
where crowds rioted in an effort to follow them into the stores.

Yet for Cinderella it was two minutes to twelve. Anxious to
do full justice to a fabulous good-luck story, reporters hurried
to Astoria to interview the Spas family and neighbors. Immedi-
ately sour notes began to sound. Mary Spas was no sweet six-
teen, neighbors declared. She had been employed for some
time, among other things working as a movie extra at the
nearby Paramount film studios. The most shattering blow of all
came when a plumber named Emil Vesalek stepped forward to
state that he and Mary Spas were engaged.

Mary may have looked the part, but she was definitely not
sixteen. School and business records, in fact, showed her to be
a ripe twenty-one. The facts were incontrovertible, but when
faced with them Mary only shook flaxen ringlets and proved
that girls could be shook-up in the Twenties. "I am sixteen be-
cause I want to be sixteen/' she declared. She said this at a
meeting attended by her lawyers and those of Daddy Browning.
As she spoke red-faced Daddy reached for his gray fedora and
quickly departed from the room.

This happened in August 1925, and it might be expected
that a period of bitterness and disillusion would follow for the
energetic oldster. But from the episode of Mary Spas he derived
some happy compensations. For one thing, Daddy received a
deluge of fan mail during his period of notoriety. He also re-
ceived reams of newspaper publicity. He bought the most
expensive morocco-bound scrapbooks possible and hired a full-
time secretary to paste his publicity in the impressive volumes.
For the mail he set aside a large room in his office, christening
it the Post Office. Here he filed and annotated every letter.
The better ones he framed and hung on the wall. Throughout

30 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

his career the Post Office remained a delight to him. Every
letter that came his way went into it, and in time the number
reached two and a half million.

All this, of course, was fine but not deeply satisfying. There
was still an emptiness in his life, and now Daddy Browning
displayed the ingenuity of the businessman whose rule of suc-
cess was ''Always show a client the sunny rooms first/' To the
world he may have seemed a silly eccentric with a red face,
tight collar, and foolish grin, but underneath Daddy Browning
was the self-made man who had amassed millions. He put his
rare business acumen to work on the nagging problem of his
empty social life and came up with* an idea which, in con-
temporary slang, was the nuts. He would become a patron of
high-school sororities. Discreetly he let it be known that he
stood ready to pay off deficits, buy club pins, and subsidize
dances at midtown hotels, as long as he himself could attend
the dances.

It worked. For Dear Old Dad there now began a period of
fun, games, and exactly the right kind of social diversion.
Hardly a weekend passed in which he did not caper like a boy
under banners proclaiming that the dance was given by this-or-
that sorority of such-and-such a high school in Manhattan.
Daddy Browning had always been a strenuous ballroom dancer,
and the athletic dance called the Charleston held no terrors
for him. When the music stopped, the elderly gent skipped
from one group of girls to another, leering joyously, chucking
chins, pinching cheeks and sometimes a derriere. The girls,
ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen, were all trying to
look like grown-up flappers in tight sheathlike dresses cut off
sharply above the knee cap. They wore heavy bobbed hair
scalloped across foreheads (the boyish bob had not yet become
popular) so that a curl fell roguishly over one eye. The childish
sorority sisters all seemed to admire the old fellow who paid
the bills, and occasionally a giggling group would accompany

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 31

him to a table where a uniformed chauffeur guarded his pile of
richly bound scrapbooks. There he proudly displayed the press
clippings of the Mary Spas episode.

But it was always back to the dance for the lively oldster.
Grabbing some lucky young thing, he frantically hopped
around the dance floor. As he did his watery eyes never ceased
watching the other girls, making sure he missed nothing. The
girls laughed at his naughty jokes, never minded how wildly he
danced, and only rarely replied with a slap when he pinched a
fetching bottom. Yet with all this there still remained a certain
emptiness. There was the great gap of years, and the fact that
none of the girls really sbemed interested in him as a person.

This unhappy state of affairs lasted until February 1926.
Then, at the Hotel McAlpin, the millionaire sponsored a Satur-
day night dance for the Phi Lambda Tau sorority of Textile
High School. Daddy had bestowed the name on this new
sorority in the belief that Phi Lambda Tau stood for Pretty
Little Things. In other ways he had nurtured its infant growth
and he expected the evening to be a special one. It actually
became so in the midst of a wild Charleston when his ever-
wandering eye saw a large, baby-faced blonde enter the ball-
room. In his mind Daddy heard a clap of divine thunder.
Abruptly abandoning his partner, he sprinted across the dance
floor to greet the new girl. "You look like peaches and cream to
me, 77 he told her, grinning his foolish grin. "I'm going to call
you Peaches/ 7

Frances Belle Heenan had no right to be present at the Phi
Lambda dance. She was not a sorority member, had not been
invited, was not wanted. In fact, her unexpected arrival even
aroused resentment among Phi Lambda Tau sisters. "Why did
you bring that awful Frances Belle? 77 the others asked the girl
with her.

For though pudgy, pettish, and only sweet fifteen, Frances
Belle had already proved herself the enviable possessor of the

32 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

mysterious something called It. Physically she was a far cry
from the ideal Clara Bow type of contemporary flapper. Where
Clara Bow was pert and thin as a rail, Peaches Browning was
hefty and over-developed. As Damon Runyon saw her: "She
is a straw blonde, one of those large, patient blondes who are
sometimes very impatient. She has stout legs and small feet. I
hesitate to expatiate on so delicate a matter, but her legs are
what the boys call piano legs. They say she is fifteen, but she is
developed enough to pass anywhere for twenty/'

Even so, this may be giving Peaches the worst of it. The
baby-faced flapper's habitual expression was one of acute dis-
taste for the world, but she was capable on occasion of break-
ing into a radiant smile which had all the breathless, moist,
inviting quality of the smile of our own Marilyn Monroe. No
doubt of it, when Peaches smiled, she was the cat's meow.

Contemporaries also disliked Frances Belle Heenan because
the petulant fifteen-year-old so obviously considered herself
superior to other girls. She no longer went to Textile High, for
where other mothers insisted that their offspring attend classes,
Mrs. James Heenan willingly cooperated with her daughter's
desire to stay home. Daddy Browning met Peaches Heenan in
February. As the result of a stream of plausible notes written
by Mrs. Heenan, Peaches had not attended Textile High since
early November.

For a time during this period, the buxom child had worked
behind the counter at a Thirty-fourth Street department store.
But the precocious social life she enjoyed interfered with em-
ployment. Peaches went out with grown men who took her to
hot spots like the Strand Roof and Cotton Club. After a late
night of Charlestoning and sipping bootleg hooch, she found
it hard to arrive at work on time. Slowly she tapered off to
become, at fifteen, a lady of leisure. Studying her problem dis-
passionately, it is possible to see that her best chance in life
was to marry a millionaire. According to some of her envious

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 33

classmates this is exactly what she decided to do after dis-
covering the identity of the elderly sport who stepped up and
called her Peaches. "Here's where I get him, he likes blondes/'
a sorority girl later quoted Peaches as saying. Another heard
her say on the first night: "If he doesn't call me, I'll call him/ 7

Peaches need not have worried. Daddy phoned. The Heenan
home was in the Washington Heights section of upper Man-
hattan on the top floor of an apartment house romantically
called Iris Gardens. Daddy's blue Rolls Royce was daily parked
at the door. To business associates he burbled enthusiastically:
"With the advent of spring, I have set forth with all the ardor
of youth and met Frances Heenan. It is a case of love at first
sight and is wholly reciprocated. Our courtship will be a
romantic one and promises to be endless/'

Peaches also viewed Daddy's attentions as dreams come
true. "He showered me with flowers, deluged me with candy
and gifts," she later recalled. "My other boy friends were for-
gotten. I had glances for none save Mr. Browning, my silver-
haired knight, his gentle caresses, his quiet dignity, his savoir
faire."

During the Mary Spas affair Daddy Browning had achieved
a chummy rapport with most of the reporters on New York
newspapers. Now he summoned the press to impart the infor-
mation that he had toppled into love with a fifteen-year-old. "I
am interested in Miss Heenan very much," he confided. "I
know her mother very well. We have talked everything over.
Frances is young, however, and it seems best to wait awhile
before doing anything as important as announcing an engage-
ment/' Asked to describe his charming discovery, he did so
like a true sensualist: "She is a lovely girl, five feet, seven inches
tall, weighs 145 pounds with her dress on, of coursehas
blonde hair, blue eyes, and is very well matured physically."

This made howling headlines, and brought down on Daddy's
silver head the wrath of the Society for the Prevention of

34 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

Cruelty to Children. This worthy outfit had first drawn a bead
on him during the Mary Spas affair. Now it stated: "Relations
between this girl and this man must not go unheeded." In
response Daddy said, "I have not done anything to be ashamed
of. I am not an old man seeking improper friendships with
little girls. I'm a young man, and I have devoted myself to
business and hard work. I've helped hundreds. Why shouldn't
I help little girls?"

If nothing else, the statement exposed Daddy's secret of per-
petual youth he felt young, and could see no reason why he
should not act like an amorous stripling when he felt like one.
But to Frances Heenan his words appeared to constitute a set-
back. In previous statements Daddy had mentioned courtship.
Now, with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Children breathing on his neck, he spoke only of help and
herein may lie the key to a baffling aspect of the saga. For the
Daddy-Peaches story, in which dirty linen was scrubbed pub-
licly as never before, contains a touch of mysterious melodrama:
a few weeks after she met her elderly admirer someone tossed
a vial of acid in Peaches' face as she slept off a hard night in
the supper clubs.

Who performed this dastardly act is not known. Eventually
Peaches called Daddy the man behind the acid throwing, but
reporters covering the pair thought it might have been done by
a rejected boy friend, or perhaps by Peaches herself in a
dramatic effort to wrench a definite proposal from Daddy.
Credence is given this last by the fact that instead of summon-
ing the police or a doctor, the screaming girl phoned Daddy at
his office. "I hurried up to their home," Daddy told the press,
"and ran up six flights of stairs. When I entered the room
Peaches put out her arms to me and cried, Daddy. Although
her mother is a trained nurse, I was surprised to find that she
had done nothing for her daughter. I rushed downstairs with-
out my hat and coat, got some sweet oil and bandages, and

"WJurt Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 35

then returned to the injured girl/ 7

In time a doctor arrived and petulant Peaches learned that
if she had tossed the acid on herself she had made a horrible
miscalculation. The acid turned out to be powerful and to her
dying day seared, puffy flesh was unpleasantly visible on her
chin, throat, and left arm. To some the scars completely
spoiled her hefty good looks. Reporter Morris Markey, cover-
ing the couple for the New Yorker, met Peaches and found
"her eyes were large and gray and utterly flat. She was un-
deniably fat but these details of her person were quite over-
shadowed by the frightful scars on her face."

Painful as the scars were to Peaches, they quite successfully
roused the protective instinct in Daddy. On April Fool's Day
1926 he told the ladies and gentlemen of the press that he
planned to marry his adolescent dream girl. PEACHES AND DADDY
TO WED! yelled the tabloids. In this, the canny oldster showed
he had done his legal homework. Had he tried to adopt Peaches
as he had Mary Spas, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children might have had a case. But with all parties in-
volved agreeing to a marriage, the forces of law were powerless
to do anything except tie the wedding knot. It was Mrs.
Heenan who dealt the final blow to the opposition. She
dramatically produced her ex-husband. "I have met Mr. Brown-
ing and I esteem him," Daddy Heenan declared.

So on April 11, 1926, a scant forty-odd days after the couple
met, Frances Belle Heenan stood at Daddy's side at Cold
Spring, New York, while a justice of the peace made them man
and child-wife. After the ceremony Daddy enthusiastically
kissed his flapper wife, then quipped philosophically: "She will
grow older and I may grow younger." This was one of the few
sane remarks made during the entire Browning story, but sanity
did not remain long. A rampaging mob of reporters, photog-
raphers, and gawkers trailed the newlyweds to the door of the
twenty-room mansion at Cold Spring which Daddy had rented

36 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

for a honeymoon. It was noted that Mrs. Heenan went inside,
too. It was also mentioned that the roof of the huge house
boasted a radio aerial radios in those days were news.

By now Daddy and Peaches had become foremost examples
of what Damon Runyon sardonically called Homo Saps. That
is, they would do anything, say anything, agree to anything that
would get their words or pictures into the public prints. It
must be said, though, that the role was pushed on Daddy and
Peaches almost as much as they pushed it. When the newly-
weds traveled to New York for the first time after the wedding,
Grand Central Station was packed to overflowing with men
and women who craned necks to view them, screaming with
excitement the while. Mounted police kept the mobs of
curious from Peaches as she shopped on Fifth Avenue, her
main occupation for the next few months. CROWDS TRAMPLE
PEACHES, the tabloids shouted.

Sob sisters, those intrepid newswomen so skilful at wringing
the emotion out of stories, dogged the steps of both principals.
When, in the early days of the marriage, Peaches turned a ripe
sixteen all the sob stops were pulled out. Nor was Daddy left
alone. Mothers with girl children continued to visit his office
in the hope that he still wished to adopt a companion for
Dorothy Sunshine who, like Mrs. Heenan, remained a member
of the menage. Browning and Peaches often rendezvoused at
the Hotel Plaza at the close of a busy day, and crowds of
shrieking women waited for them there nightly.

For a time the Brownings lived at Cold Spring. Then they
tired of this rural home, and in so doing exposed another of
Daddy's eccentricities. As a real-estate millionaire, he might
be expected to own a house. He did not. Daddy and Peaches,
together with Mrs. Heenan and Dorothy Sunshine, now began
a nomadic hotel-existence. Finally they settled at the Kew
Gardens Inn on Long Island, in the Princess Suite. Daddy still

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 37

assiduously cultivated the press and with this move obligingly
offered a list of the gifts he had given his not-so-blushing bride,
together with much that she had purchased with his money.
The grand total came to an imposing array of 200 bouquets of
flowers, 50 boxes of candy, 20 boxes of fruit, i ermine coat, i
fox-trimmed coat, i Russian sable coat, i other fur coat, 60
dresses, 15 flower vases, i fox neckpiece, 3 ensembles, 175 odd
coats, 20 hats, 30 pairs of shoes, 100 photographs of himself
and Peaches, i dozen frames, i ostrich fur, 12 hair ornaments,
8 fancy bags, 2 leather trunks, i teddy bear which played music,
100 small souvenirs, a $2500 ruby and platinum diamond brace-
let, and a $3000 diamond ring,

On the many occasions when the Daddy-Peaches story
erupted into headlines, Daddy purchased hundreds of news-
papers. Then he sent his office employees into the streets to
give them free to passersby. His love of publicity never flagged.
One night he appeared at the Kew Gardens Inn with an
African honking gander in the back seat of his Rolls Royce.
Behind him roared a carload of gentlemen of the press, alerted
to a big story. The African honking gander was led upstairs to
the Princess Suite where Peaches cast a haughty eye upon it.
"It was not housebroken," she revealed later. Shortly the
cavalcade wended its way to Long Beach, where Peaches was
instructed to pose with the gander. On the beach the swarm
of reporters and photographers caused so much turmoil that
the gander's owner feared for its sanity. He suddenly pulled the
gander away and headed for home. "The bird has been through
too much already/ 7 he told the reporters who begged him to
remain.

At the Kew Gardens Inn it seemed to avid observers of the
couple that Peaches was growing weary of Daddy's continuous
hoopla. His sexual idiosyncrasies would not be revealed to the
world until later, but for the moment anyone who saw him in
action could note that the pink-faced Lothario was a determined

38 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

practical joker. At times he gave Peaches such feminine sur-
prises as pink teddy bears. More often he brought home rubber
eggs, spoons that bent in the middle, drinking glasses with false
bottoms. At other times he teased her by leaping out from be-
hind doors shouting, "Woof! Woof!" He had dozens of pairs
of expensive pajamas, each of them the cat's whiskers, but pre-
ferred dressing up in odd bedroom costumes. It may be in-
dicative of an inner image that the costume most favored was
that of a Caliph.

Altogether Peaches' radiant smile became rare indeed at the
Kew Gardens Inn. Later she claimed that Daddy's energetic
eccentricity had given her nightmares. The breaking point
came on the second of October. On that day Peaches led a
procession of luggage across the lobby of the Kew Gardens Inn.
Everything Daddy had bought her some thirty thousand dol-
lars worth of clothes and accessories was in these bags and
trunks. Pausing dramatically in the center of the lobby, she
stated loudly: "Money isn't everything after all." Then sixteen-
year-old Peaches kept going. It was six months after her
wedding day and she was leaving Dear Old Dad.

When Daddy returned that night, he gave a look of horror
at the denuded Princess Suite. "They've taken everything but
the radiators and the varnish on the floor," he wailed. Then
he rushed to the telephone to call the newspapers. HAS CINDER-
ELLA'S LOVE DREAM CRUMBLED? the News asked next morning.
When reporters arrived Daddy poured out his side of the story
and now the Browning case really burst open!

"Nothing more sensational or fantastic has ever appeared in
newspapers," one commentator has said. Indeed, the Browning
case becomes a milestone in American journalism, since the
principals not only began telling all, but told many versions of
all. Peaches and Browning, both more than ever Homo Saps,
frantically began signing stories, any stories, in New York's
tabloids. The pattern of this was set by Peaches: on leaving

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 39

the Kew Gardens Inn with her mountain of luggage the flapper
wife did not return to Washington Heights. Instead, she dele-
gated her mother to rent more fashionable quarters in New
York while she herself hastened to the New Jersey home of a
top-flight ghost writer. With a slight assist from Peaches, he
pounded out a lurid feature called "My Honeymoon with
Daddy." Peaches later admitted that she had not bothered to
read this epic as soon as possible she grabbed a check for
one thousand dollars and hastened back to New York. Indif-
ference to the literary effort she inspired caused her to miss one
of the great ghost-written leads of the tabloid era. The story
under her by-line began: "I was a bird in a gilded cage, but
the cage wasn't so gilded/'

Stung to the quick by Peaches' unflattering series, Daddy
got his own ghost and concocted a story called "Why I Married
Peaches. 7 ' Yet neither stopped with a series in one paper. Each
of New York's three tabloids needed a circulation of 250,000 to
prosper. Since there were only 500,000 tabloid readers in the
city the papers had to depend on daily shock-sensations. It was
an epic struggle which stopped at nothing. One day Minor
delivery men hijacked copies of the Graphic and hurled them
into the East River. The bust-up of Daddy and Peaches was
made to order for such ruthless warfare.

In a mad quest for readers the News, Mirror, and Graphic
(with no small assist from the Journal) all began carrying
"true" stories written by Peaches and Daddy. Not unexpectedly,
these ghost-written accounts completely contradicted each
other. "My marriage to Peaches was in name only," Daddy con-
fessed in one exclusive account. "Yes, I anointed her back with
lotions, but her mother was always there. Never has Peaches
gone to sleep in my arms or in my bed." But by paying two
cents for another tabloid, Daddy's fans could find this con-
trasting statement: "Peaches talked in her sleep and I was
always afraid of what I might hear as I lay beside her."

40 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?' 7

Needless to say, the Porno-Graphic was the most lurid in its
coverage of the Brownings. Trotting out its Composograph
technique, it pictured Daddy fondling Peaches in a bedroom
while Mrs. Heenan cupped an ear at the closed door. This was
used to illustrate one of Daddy's stories which blamed Mrs.
Heenan for much of his marital discord. "Peaches never had
any love for me/' this intimate revelation stated. "Nor did her
mother. All they ever cared for was my money and the earthly
blessings it might bring."

Peaches, on her part, stoutly maintained through her ghost
writers that Daddy had never tried to touch her except in an
abnormal way. CHARGES RUN PERVERSION GAMUT shrieked this
headline. But in another paper Peaches wrote: "I had nightly
relations with Daddy, except when ill."

The Browning trial, most nonsensical of the great events of
the Era of Wonderful Nonsense, began on January 25, 1927.
Thus it became the first of the thrills of the Year the World
Went Mad.

It was held in White Plains, New York, since this small city
contained the only suitable courthouse near Cold Spring, where
the couple had been married. When finally the Brownings
faced each other across a courtroom, Peaches was suing for
separation and alimony, claiming, among other things, that
Daddy's eccentric antics and cries of "Woof! Woof!" had
caused mental anguish, shattering her nerves and health.
Daddy's public reply was cogent. He reminded the world that
on her wedding day his bride had weighed one hundred and
forty pounds. When she left him, her weight was one hundred
and sixty. All Daddy asked was a legal separation. No more
than that.

For five howling days this was the wonder of the world, the
true Trial of the Century. A pop-eyed, gasping horde of
humanity descended on quiet White Plains. "The show is a

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 41

sellout/' quipped the News, reporting how men, women, and
children (the courthouse was conveniently opposite White
Plains High School) milled around the snowy courthouse lawn.
What would be recalled as a first day of unutterable confusion
began when the pressure of the panting mob crashed down
one of the courthouse doors. The fortunate few thus able to
crowd into the small courtroom quickly grabbed all available
seats, barely leaving room for the thirty reporters who covered
the case. Others stood three to four deep around the walls,
while still more climbed atop radiators and windowsills.

Entering this scene of turmoil, Supreme Court Justice
Albert H. S. Seeger noted to his annoyance that women oc-
cupied the more dangerous positions atop radiators and win-
dowsills. "I warn you/ 7 he admonished, "that if anyone stands
there, it is at her own risk." Observing this incredible spectacle,
Damon Runyon reported that a cluster of unattended baby
carriages stood in the snow outside. Mothers had actually aban-
doned babies in the madness to get in. "So/ 7 he concluded, "we
have the great moral spectacle in this generation of a legal hear-
ing involving a gray-haired old wowser and a child wife attract-
ing more attention than the League of Nations."

Scenes outside were wilder than those within. A shoving
horde, envious and slightly resentful, hung around through all
the daily sessions. Females predominated: "grandmotherly look-
ing old women; stout, housewifely looking dames; and skittish
looking janes stood all morning and all afternoon on their two
feet," Runyon wrote. Altogether, the atmosphere was that of a
salacious carnival. Vendors hawked pictures of the principals,
while hastily recruited schoolboys sold copies of the Graphic
and its exciting Composographs.

Fifteen song parodies based on Daddy and Peaches were
available at fifteen cents, as was the sheet music of a song
called "Who Picked Peaches Off the Tree?" But the public
needed no new song to immortalize the event. "Crazy Words,

42 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

Crazy Tune/' the song hit of the moment, had a built-in re-
frain for such events. All over the country sheiks and shebas
were strumming ukes and idiotically chanting:

Up at White Plains the other day
What did Peaches to Browning say?
Vo-do-de-o
Vo-do-dee-o-DO.

When the principals appeared for the initial session, it be-
came apparent that Daddy Browning was the favorite. As he
descended from the blue Rolls Royce a cheer rose from the
eager throng. In the words of the New York Times: "Mr.
Browning looked pleasantly puzzled at first, then with dawning
comprehension that the applause was for him turned and
bowed slowly to those who cheered him, a smile of satisfaction
spreading over his flushed features/ 7 A battery of photographers
closed in, wildly snapping the shutters of cameras. "Wait a
minute, boys/' Daddy requested majestically. He then removed
his hat and produced his faithful pocket comb. After using it
he posed, smiling his silly grin, his curly locks exposed to the
cold winter air.

Peaches' reception was not so friendly. From the assembled
gawkers she received only a halfhearted cheer. Reporters
claimed to see her lower lip tremble as she sensed the hostility
of the crowd PEACHES SOBS AT DADDY'S OVATION, early editions
of the News stated. Inside the court sob sisters noted that
Peaches wore a sable coat, a baby blue dress, a blue felt cloche
hat of the era, a pearl choker and a blue enamel watch. One
wrote: "She smiled wanly at a couple of friends in the press
seats, crossed her stout legs and tried to compose herself. She
had a spray of orchids pinned to her coat, but she was scarcely
the picture of the forlorn child-wife ... It is very difficult to
look forlorn in a $12,000 sable coat."

The eyes of the entire country focused on the circus-like

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 43

doings in and around the courthouse at White Plains. No less
than the crowds clamoring for admittance, readers of the
nation's newspapers followed each day's testimony with lip-
licking attention. New York went newspaper-mad. For once
there were enough readers for all three tabloids. During the
trial the News reached 300,000 circulation, the Graphic 250,-
ooo and the Mirror 200,000. The New York Times, still cling-
ing to its dignity by referring to Mr. and Mrs. Browning, gave
long columns to events in court. Indeed, this pointed up a
strange journalistic incongruity. The tabloids, with jazzy head-
lines, emphasis on photographs, and sob sisters, promised the
more lurid coverage. But true connoisseurs of the case quickly
discovered the real spice of it in the thorough coverage of other
papers.

What newspaper readers wanted was sexy details of the
intimate life of Daddy and Peaches, and these were slow in
coming. Peaches herself was the first to sit in the witness chair.
She attempted to spare her own feelings and perhaps those of
the public by detailing only the more subtle tortures to which
Daddy had subjected her. She recounted her mental anguish
over his practical jokes with rubber eggs and bending spoons.
One night, she said, "He brought home a tiny white tablet
which he put in the end of his cigar and when he smoked it
would form a heavy snowflake and people would be amazed,
but it caused me a lot of embarrassment/'

Another matter which brought her excruciating inner agony
was the episode of the African honking gander. Peaches gave
the details of this after the Porno-Graphic had created a Com-
posograph showing Daddy in a suit of gaudy pajamas capering
on all fours around the floor of the Princess Suite. Walter
Winchell was called in to admire this work of art and approv-
ingly exclaimed, "Woof! Woof!" It was decided to add this to
the Composograph, so that in the type of balloon used in comic

44 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

strips Daddy would cry, "Woof! Woof!" Thus the Graphic
began astoundingly to satirize its own Composographs.

With the introduction of the African honking gander into
the case, the Graphic's satire took on a new and almost sur-
realist dimension. From then on the gander appeared in all
Composographs, commenting on the action. In his first ap-
pearance, the gander said:

Woof! Woof!
Don't be a goof!

The next Composograph showed Daddy in his favorite caliph
costume threatening a cowering Peaches. Off to one side the
gander uttered the immortal words:

Honk! Honk!
It's the bonk!

One curious revelation from the witness stand was that both
Daddy and Peaches wore size six shoes. Thus they could, and
did, slip in and out of each other's bedroom slippers. This led
to another celebrated bit of testimony in the trial, for Peaches
testified that one morning at four thirty she had been awakened
by strange sounds in the boudoir. Reluctantly opening sleepy
eyes, she observed Daddy sandpapering a pair of shoe trees.
According to her interpretation, he was doing this to waken
her. Daddy, in turn, maintained that the shoe trees were too
big and he felt like sandpapering them. Peaches testified that
despite the irritating noise she was able to go back to sleep
and for this Daddy threw a telephone book at her. When she
fell asleep once more he held a ringing alarm clock to her ear.
Between these acts he continued sandpapering. This odd scene
produced a Composograph in which all three characters spoke:

Daddy: Peaches: Gander.

Woof! Woof! Dear! Dear! Honk! Honk!

I Sharpen It Grates The Shoetree

A Hoof! On My Ear! Has Shronk!

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 45

Those in the courtroom, as well as in the country at large,
expected sexual titillation from testimony at White Plains.
Instead, the gander and the shoe trees produced gales of
howling mirth. Peaches, on the witness stand, did not relish
being laughed at. While the courtroom was convulsed, she
slumped in the chair. Big tears filled her eyes and slowly rolled
down her cheeks. She looked very much like an overgrown girl
who had been hurt and was trying not to blubber.

At the same time, she surprised the court with her apparent
intelligence. The New York Times was vastly impressed: "At
moments she showed a bit of ironic humor. Her English was
good, as was her choice of words and her ability to define
meanings. Only once or twice did she use a crude or slangy ex-
pression. She affected a broad a, like any Vassar girl. Her voice
was not unpleasant. An amazingly mature girl she was at all
times. It was a maturity which, together with her cool eyes,
gives the lie to the baby blonde curls wandering out from
under her blue cloche hat."

Yet with all her maturity, Peaches was still a typical flapper
of 1927. She seldom said Yes to questions requiring an affirma-
tive answer. Instead, she gave a long drawn out "Pos-i-tive-Iy."
For more emphasis, she said, "I hope to tell you!" In her
testimony were such gems of contemporary slang as "So's your
old man" and "Applesauce!" She referred to Daddy as a goof
and to some of his actions as goofy. One of her friends later
quoted Peaches as saying of Daddy: "Quit your kidding! You
know why I married that old bozo. I married him for his
jack."

After the hilarity of early sessions, the Browning trial
reached more serious matters when Peaches began to describe
a Dear Old Dad who wanted her to take part in what the
assembled sob sisters promptly dubbed "passion-mad orgies."

"He made me run up and down in front of him naked, while

46 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

he lay in bed/ 7 she declared plaintively. PEACHES HONEYMOON
HORROR News.

"If I refused, he became very angry and raved/' she went on.

BROWNING ENRAGED AT BALKED DESIRES Minor.

"The testimony is as full of beds as a barracks/' cracked the
New York World.

According to Peaches, Daddy had followed Dr. Freud by
using all the tricks of the elderly satyr. He had attempted to
excite her sexually by displaying French postcards and nude
photographs.

Q: When Mr. Browning would bring home these pictures of nude
women and semi-nudes in the French magazines did he ask
you to look at them?

A: Pos-i-txve-ly.

Q: What did you do?

A: I refused because those things never interested me.

However, Peaches reluctantly admitted that on several oc-
casions she had given in to Daddy's aberrant whims. After
relating in a sob-shaken voice how she had run up and clown
in the nude while Daddy sat gloating on the bed, she was
asked:

Q: What else did he make you do?

A: He wanted me to eat breakfast with him without any clothes

on.

Q: And did you?
A: (After a pause) Yes.

The hottest point in the flaming testimony came when the
chubby girl suddenly blurted out: "He tried to make me a
pervert on five different occasions." Having said this much, she
proceeded to describe the occasions in considerably more detail
than anyone expected. Women in court hid red faces, and even
Damon Runyon felt ashamed. "Your correspondent's manly
cheeks are suffused with blushes as he sits down to write/' he
commenced his story of the day. Like others present, Runyon

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 47

marveled at the continued aplomb of Peaches' mother: "Mrs.
Heenan remains the most unusual parent I have ever clapped
these old orbs on. The remarkable thing to me is that she can
sit in the courtroom and hear all this junk about her child
without having attacks of vertigo/'

Peaches' lurid testimony should have made Daddy the most
hated man in the United States. Somehow it did not he
always contrived to wind up looking ludicrous. Describing one
of her husband's attempts to turn her into a pervert, Peaches
testified: "He took a-hold of me by the back of my neck and
pushed me to the floor and said Boo! in a very loud voice."
The courtroom forgot its embarrassment to hoot with laughter.
Few heard Peaches' woeful peroration: "It frightened me very
much."

With such hilarity sprinkled throughout, it was hard to view
Daddy as a man who, in the words of Peaches' attorney, "Made
her by sheer force become partner to his sexual eccentricities."
But if Peaches was unable to present Daddy as a serious
menace to her adolescent morals, she did effectively etch a dif-
ference in bedroom attitudes. This came when Daddy's lawyer
asked her:

Q: In the seclusion of your bedroom, yoo were afraid to have

your husband look at you naked?
A: I wasn't exactly afraid. I was just never brought up in that

spirit.

When Peaches' mother mounted the stand she added to the
picture of Daddy as a harmless goof by swearing that, among
other things, he was a drunkard. She recalled in detail a night
when Daddy staggered around the Princess Suite joyously wav-
ing a bottle. Daddy's lawyer then asked:

|Q: How big was that bottle? You are a nurse and familiar with

ounces, how many ounces did that bottle contain?
A: About two ounces.

48 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

Again the courtroom guffawed. Continuing, Mrs. Heenan
vowed that she had done her best to hold the marriage to-
gether and that as a reward Daddy had called her "Mother."
Often she said to him, "Oh, Daddy, why can't you two be
happy?" She stated that it was Daddy's wish that she accom-
pany the newlyweds everywhere and continue to live with them.
As she said this, courtroom observers recall: "Daddy's counte-
nance took on a wry expression as if he had bitten into a
lemon."

Called back to the witness stand, Peaches was faced with a
diary she had kept in days before Daddy. "Your Honor,"
Daddy's lawyer pontificated, "you will find in these diaries,
unless I am mistaken, writings which show she was a woman of
the world even though young. They are extremely important as
bearing on her story that she was an innocent young girl at
the time of her marriage and knew nothing of the usual
marriage relations."

In the witness chair Peaches flushed and interjected sharply,
"I was a good girl when I married."

Soon, however, she was forced into the damaging admission
that she had doctored the diary after meeting Dear Old Dad.
"Was this done to protect boys who made love to you?"
Daddy's attorney demanded, with well-feigned outrage. "Yes,"
Peaches whispered but it is not clear from the record whether
she meant love in a sophisticated sense, or merely the rumble-
seat necking of the day.

When finally it came Daddy Browning's time to mount the
witness stand, he did so with an air of extreme eagerness, as if
he had waited all his life for this moment. To the delight of
those in the courtroom, he turned out to possess the kind of
New York accent which says boid for bird and foist for first.
His lawyer went straight to the heart of matters :

Q: You are a sane man, aren't you?
A: (Emphatically) Yes.

"What Did Peaches to Browning Say?" 49

With this settled, Daddy proceeded to answer all questions
in such a torrent of words that almost none of his testimony
made sense. On one subject, however, his answer was succinct
and heartfelt. Speaking of the extravagance of Peaches and her
mother, he said, "They wanted all sorts of things, roadsters,
Park Avenue apartments, servants. One wanted two dogs, the
other three/'

He scored again when his lawyer asked:

Q: Did you have any idea that your wife or mother-in-law was

going to leave you?
A: Not my wife.
Q: And your mother-in-law?
A: I-er-ah-er I was hoping so.

Daddy denied any abnormal acts, picturing himself as a
benevolent father-image whose worst offense was a fondness for
practical jokes. But as always he talked too much. Asked
whether he had made Peaches caper before him in the nude,
the florid-faced man answered "Absolutely not! Why, for one
thing, the weather was always too cold for that sort of thing,"

The courtroom gasped. Everyone knew the Brownings had
been married throughout a summer of hellish heat.

When Daddy stepped down from the stand his foolish grin
was intact. He ceremoniously shook hands with his battery of
attorneys before resuming his seat. A series of minor witnesses
followed, as each side attempted to blacken the other. Sud-
denly Judge Seeger, who had been criticized by the press for
not hearing the case in closed session, ended proceedings. He
announced that he would require six weeks to render a verdict.
Everyone seemed relieved that the trial was over. In five
spectacular days the Browning case had shot its wad.

Outside in the snow, the excited throng gave Daddy his
usual ovation. He stood happily on the courthouse steps, posing
for photographs, bowing, and running the comb through his
curly locks. "Three cheers for Daddy," a voice shouted. Three

50 "What Did Peaches to Browning Say?"

rousing cheers echoed in the chill air. Peaches' departure was
accorded a few isolated shouts and the customary silent hos-
tility, which some attributed to the fact that the girl was
always accompanied by her mother. The callous-seeming Mrs.
Heenan had, to most, become the villain of the trial. Also
Peaches' courtroom attire proved a disappointment. Every day
she had worn the same sable coat, blue hat and dress.

Daddy Browning rode in his Rolls Royce back to New York.
Peaches took the train after telling reporters that with the
$35o-a-week temporary alimony the court had awarded her she
planned to take Mama Heenan to Bermuda. In the fond
expectation that the $35o-a-week would continue through life
she stopped in New York to consult with physicians about an
operation that would strip some of the fat from her piano legs.

N a small downstairs supper club music
blares and patrons happily pelt each other
with cardboard snowballs. Thin paper streamers fly from table
to table, festooning everyone, and in the smoky upper air
brightly colored balloons bump against the ceiling. On the
dance floor, now rendered almost negligible by the number of
hastily added ringside tables, a near-naked girl entertainer is
swinging into the conclusion of a buoyant Charleston. As the
act ends, a large, blondine woman with a toothy smile takes
the center of the spotlight. Thumping her hands together, she
shouts in a clarion voice that hacks through the noise, "Give
the little girl a great big hand!" The patrons do so, and the
brassy woman's attention wanders. Seeing a new face at the
entrance door, her attention focuses on it. "Hello, sucker," her
raucous voice bellows. The prosperous-looking man thus hailed
allows a beatific smile of pride and pleasure to spread across
his countenance . . .

In Cicero, Illinois near Chicago a line of big, black sedans
approaches the Hawthorne Hotel moving in slow, stately order,

51

52 A Night with the Padlock Queen

for all the world like a funeral procession. But when the first
car reaches the hotel entrance resemblance ceases. One of the
occupants of the car leans out and fires a revolver shot straight
into the air. Its purpose is twofold: first, to frighten away in-
nocent bystanders; second, to draw occupants of the hotel to
doors and windows. Then from succeeding cars, now moving
farther apart, comes a lethal barrage of bullets from sawed-off
shotguns. A gunman gets out of a car, drops to one knee and
calmly empties his gun back and forth into the lobby of the
hotel as calmly, it has been noted, as another man might
spray a hose over his backyard garden. In the hotel restaurant,
where he had been stowing away a large breakfast, Scarf ace Al
Capone slides ungracefully to the floor with the sound of the
first shot. He lies unmoving under the table until the last of
the black sedans is gone, then rises unscathed. The purpose of
the bold daylight foray, as he and the world knows, was to rub
him out . . ,

The gala opening of the new musical comedy Rio Rita takes
place on the night of February 2, 1927. It is gala indeed, for
this is the first production to grace the stage of the new Zieg-
feld Theatre at Sixth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street, in New
Yorfe City. Ethelind Terry, J. Harold Murray, Gladys Glad,
Wheeler 6* Woolsey are in the cast. Sumptuous settings by
Joseph Urban. Especially it is a night of triumph for Florenz
Ziegfeld, whose name up to now has been associated largely
with the Follies. For his grand new theatre Ziegfeld has
broken tradition by presenting the lavish book-musical Rio
Rita, which the next morning will be called "a sensation" by
critic J. Brooks Atkinson of the New York Times. Before the
curtain goes up, Ziegfeld himself steps to the front of the stage
and reads a telegram of congratulation from none other than
Gdvin Coolidge, President of the United States. At the end
of the show, Coolidge's good wishes are amply justified, for a

A Night with the Padlock Queen 53

roaring ovation ends only when a slight figure in immaculate
evening clothes leaps up from an aisle seat and, graceful as any
song and dance man, makes his way to the stage. This is Jimmy
Walker, Night Mayor of the city of New York, adding a
memorable moment to a memorable event. Mayor Walker
attends all the best opening nights, and in a short, witty speech
pays gay tribute to an opening he never would have missed . . .

From the pulpit of the Calvary Church on West Fifty-
seventh Street, the Reverend Dr. John Roach Straton brands
New York "a fevefish, overwrought, Sabbath-desecrating, God-
defying, woman-despising, lawbreaking, gluttonous monster
without ideals or restraint!' Any day he chooses to walk the
streets near his church, the clergyman continues, he can see
rum-running trucks unloading wet goods at the delivery en-
trances of night clubs, in open defiance of the national law,
and on Sunday, as his parishioners walk to church, they bump
into faded revelers from these same night clubs climbing into
taxis or staggering along the streets at the tag end of a night of
whoopee. Dr. Straton has dreams of emulating Dr. Charles
Parkhurst, who in the Nineties closed down the city's brothels.
During the next week Dr. Straton dons a disguise and visits a
speakeasy where he is without question served a potent drink.
Next Sunday he reveals the tawdry episode from his pulpit and
reluctant police raid the speakeasy. Owner and waiters are
brought into court to face the charge made by Dr. Straton.
With them they bring a canny lawyer, who puts only one
question to the complaining clergyman. "You say you were
served with a Scotch highball," he begins softly. "Now, did
you ever in your life touch Scotch whiskey?" "Certainly not,"
Dr. Straton virtuously declares. The judge regards him with dis-
gust. "Case dismissed," he snaps . . .

It was a Barnum and Bailey world, as goofy as it could be!

54 A Night with the Padlock Queen

And in 1927 a considerable portion of its goofiness was fur-
nished by the raucous, middle-aged person of Mary Louise
Cecelia Guinan, known to all as Texas, or just plain Tex.
Texas Guinan was the uncrowned, undisputed Queen of Pro-
hibition Night Clubs, the Queen of the Night Club Era, and
the Queen of the Padlocks as well. "If Jimmy Walker runs
the city by day, Texas Guinan runs it by night," one com-
mentator wrote, quite forgetting that Mayor Walker also func-
tioned better after dark.

The Broadway night clubs over which Texas Guinan presided
were the most notable in the land, and were also the premises
most often raided by police. Law enforcement officers changed
frequently in New York City and seemingly the first official act
of a new one was to raid a club run by Texas Guinan. It had
reached a point where, if a customer-turned-law-officer sud-
denly rose in the midst of the revelry to shout, "This is a raid/'
the Guinan Club orchestra automatically swung into "The
Prisoner's Song/' a lachrymose song hit of the time. Mean-
while, Tex docilely allowed herself to be led to the nearest
precinct station. From then on there would be a padlock on
this night club door, but a short distance away another Guinan
Club would quickly open, with the irrepressible hostess bawling
out a song which ran:

The judge says, "Tex, do you sell booze?"
I said, "Please don't be silly.
I swear to you iny cellar's filled
With chocolate and vanilly."

Texas Guinan brought her boisterous talents to the El Fey
Club, the Del Fey, the Club Intime, Club Abbey, Texas
Guinan's, and a host of others. Each in its turn was raided,
but through it all Texas remained cheerful, for at bottom she
was a show-biz personality who thrived on publicity. It was this
fact which caused her places to be raided so frequently. The
closings of the various Guinan spots were token raids to mollify

A Nfgftt with the Padlock Queen 55

a perplexed public which could not quite understand how a
nationally famous person could so openly flout the law.

To show how she felt about the numerous closings of her
clubs, Texas wore a necklace of tastefully small gold padlocks.
From her charm bracelet dangled a tiny police whistle. Noise
was the unchanging trademark of any Guinan enterprise. Dur-
ing her nights as strident mistress of ceremonies Tex also
carried a real live police whistle, bestowed on her during a
paddy wagon ride by a sympathetic cop. If things began slow-
ing around her, Tex blew a piercing blast on the police whistle.
"Come on, suckers, open up and spend some jack/' she would
below. Ever willing to oblige Good OY Tex, suckers opened
wallets wide.

No one ever referred to the Queen of Night Clubs as Mary
Louise Cecelia Guinan except (as is traditional) her elderly
father, who spent much time around the clubs over which his
daughter presided. The name Texas came from movie days
since Mary Louise, born in Waco, had been an early cowgirl
in flickering films. There she had been known as the female
William S. Hart. Photographs of her at this point show a girl
with dark hair and a wide friendly smile. She arrived on Broad-
way at the exact moment when a powerhouse personality was
most needed, but in Hollywood the cowgirl had not been so
fortunate. The movies of her day were silent, while Tex was
loud. What her fate might have been in Talkie days is a
matter for interesting conjecture, but when middle age ap-
proached, Tex was forced to abandon her career as a stunting
cowgirl.

She had a raucous way with a song and, dyeing her dark hair
a brassy blond, journeyed east to appear with De Wolf
Hopper in a Winter Garden revue. One momentous night she
accompanied friends to a supper club speakeasy. "It was dull/ 7
she would later tell interviewers, "and someone suggested that
I sing. I didn't need much coaxing. I sang all I knew, my whole

56 A Night with the Padlock Queen

damn repertoire. Then I started kidding around. First thing
you know, the joint's alive. I feel fine, and everybody else in
the place is having a great big wonderful time."

Day or night, night or day, Tex was flamboyant. At forty,
she was buxom, yet surprisingly graceful on her feet for a
woman of girth. Brassy in manner and resonant in voice, she
radiated supreme confidence. She favored picture hats two
feet wide, from which dangled ribbons of yellow, blue, purple,
and pink. Her big teeth flashed like pearls; her laugh rattled the
rafters. The bright blond hair was tightly waved, her mouth a
smear of blatant lipstick. She wore colorful, expensive gowns,
with roses pinned to a shoulder. On occasion she encased her
still-shapely legs in scarlet hose. She was a connoisseur of furs,
diamonds and, especially, pearls. Usually two large ropes of
pearls fell to her waist. Imbedded in one of her rings was an-
other large pearl. Sometimes she wore rhinestones in the heels
of her shoes. But when Texas Guinan smiled, her fine teeth
outshone the dazzling jewelry on her.

Attired in her individual fashion, Tex now went on the war-
path for a job as hostessas numerous police blotters would
call her in a speakeasy or expensive supper club. She first
struck pay dirt in a spot called the Beaux Arts on Fortieth
Street, hardly a tome's throw from the New York Public
Library. Here she put her driving personality to work so suc-
cessfully that business doubled, tripled. One of those im-
pressed by her raucous charm was Nils T. Granlund, a native
of Lapland who had reached Broadway by way of Providence,
Rhode Island. Granlund was director of publicity for the Loew
movie chain, and as a sideline acted as master of ceremonies on
the Loew radio station WHN. This latter job was considered
so inferior that he billed himself only by initials and to thou-
sands of pioneer radio listeners he was known fondly as
N. T. G.

It was the sagacious Granlund who suggested to Tex that

A Night with the Padlock Queen 57

she back up her vivid personality with a small floor show: show
girls, dance act, singing trio. In addition to his other occupa-
tions, Granlund acted as a beauty scout for Ziegfeld and Earl
Carroll. He knew that when the Follies, Vanities and Scandals
ended at 11 o'clock Broadway babies were free to work else-
where. He hired the prettiest to work for Texas Guinan.

N. T. G. performed a second favor when he introduced Tex
to a lantern-jawed gangster named Larry Fay. An East Side
youth, Fay had been a taxi-driver and taxi-fleet owner before
turning more profitably into a rum-runner and all-purpose
gangster. Together with several nouveaux riches bootleggers he
had backed an intimate night club called Les Ambassadeurs, a
name none of the racketeer owners was ever able to pronounce.
Fay liked to mix with the fine types who patronized night
clubs and nursed a desire to have his own place. On meeting
Texas Guinan he offered to establish her in a club called the
El Fey, on Third Street in Greenwich Village.

El Fey was a tryout. Texas Guinan was made for the bright
lights of Broadway; the bright lights made for her. Soon the El
Fey moved to Forty-sixth Street. The uptown El Fey Club was
small, seating only about eighty customers. The floor show was
equally unambitious. "It was nothing but Tex and girls, girls,
girls," N. T. G. has recalled. Even so the El Fey caught on,
with such Broadway Boswells as Damon Runyon, Walter Win-
chell, Mark Hellinger, and Louis Sobol spreading the fame of
Texas Guinan as the top night club hostess of the era.

In addition to her raucous personality, Tex possessed a gift
for imaginative insult. She called male patrons suckers and
ordered them to spend money or get the hell out of her sight.
They loved it. She thrived on noise and devised wooden kleeter-
klappers which patrons waved wildly in the air to create more
noise. Her swizzle sticks had hard round knobs on one end, so
that patrons could use them to whack the table for further
racket. She was in her glory as Queen of the Night Clubs seen

58 A Night -with the Padlock Queen

by Lloyd Morris: "Seated in the midst of a nightly bedlam, her
pearls and diamonds blazing, her gown glittering with sequins,
using a Mapper to prod her guests into greater din. She wel-
comed patrons with a strident, cheerful, 'Hello, Sucker!' and
an amused world . . . delighted in the candid, contemptuous
greeting. Her inexhaustible high spirits, her flippancy and
daffiness were contagious."

In the El Fey and following clubs, Tex welcomed only
suckers whose bankrolls were hefty enough to afford $35 for a
bottle of so-called champagne; $25 for a fifth of Scotch; $20
for gin and rye; $20 for a bottle of alleged wine, and $2 for a
glass of ginger ale, soda, or plain water if the patron was crass
enough to produce a hip flask and demand a setup. Texas and
her staff developed a sixth sense in evaluating spenders, and
any who failed to resemble big ones were informed that no
reservations were available. Further discouragement was offered
by a well-publicized Cover Charge, or Convert as the more
elegant places called it. At Texas Guinan's this was often $25
per person, so that a man escorting a girl was immediately $50
down the hole.

In addition to cover charge and drinks, guests were also ex-
pected to shell out copiously for cigars, cigarettes, and what
were called favors. Tex employed a girl named Ethel who was
known as the most beautiful cigarette girl on Broadway.
Dressed demurely in blue satin trousers and crimson sash, Ethel
moved among the tables with quiet insistence, selling 15^ packs
of cigarettes for $1, subtly letting it be known that a tip of
$1 or more was in order. Next would appear the girl who sold
favors. Where Ethel was demurely dressed, this girl would be
undressed black silk stockings, tights, and scanty, open blouse.
She offered baby dolls and teddy bears at prices from five dol-
lars to fifty dollars, also with appropriate tip. "Buy a baby doll
for your cutie pie," she would whisper, bending seductively over
a table. Few suckers could resist.

A Night with the Padlock Queen 59

At such prices, a night as host to a few friends at Texas
Guinan's could cost from one thousand to three thousand dol-
lars. One who frequently paid tabs of this proportion was
Harry Sinclair, the oil millionaire who late in 1927 would go
on trial for his part in the infamous Teapot Dome scandal. An-
other big Broadway spender was the movie star Tom Mix,
whose cowboy films reputedly brought him ten thousand dollars
a week. The iron-jawed Mix had not always been a knowledge-
able playboy. On his first visit to New York, he strutted with
jangling spurs into an expensive restaurant and ordered the
head waiter to bring him the best grub in the place. After
returning to Hollywood, he described this meal to goggle-eyed
friends. "I et for three hours and didn't recognize nothin' but
a reddish/ 7 he concluded.

Most of the spenders who enjoyed paying Texas Guinan
prices, as well as the thrill of pressing fifty dollar bills into the
hands of high-kicking chorus girls, were night-after-night reg-
ulars. Others came a few times, then faded away. To Broad-
way these were men who, honestly or dishonestly, had suddenly
come into money and for a few nights wished to taste the de-
lights of being the kind of mighty spender Texas Guinan called
a sucker. The heady sensations of such men have been de-
scribed by the writer Jack Kofoed, who said, "Free spending is
the key to Broadway attention. If you're willing to throw the
old dough around, you're king of the shack for as many nights
as you peel bills off the roll. When the money is gone you can
go find yourself a place in the alley. Nobody cares how much
you had. It's what you have that counts, and nobody on Broad-
way asks where the money came from/'

Even Texas Guinan at times felt defensive about the big
chunks of money she extracted from contented patrons. Once
she complained: "There's a lot of talk about how I take the
customers for all they've got. It's not as bad as that, even if
there aren't any charity wards in my club. The boys come here

60 A Night -with the Padlock Queen

to spend, and I'm not going to disappoint them. When they
drink ginger ale in my place they are drinking liquid platinum,
and they like it."

Tex was not known as the Queen of the Night Clubs for
nothing. A night at her Three Hundred Club the Guinan
Club during the early months of 1927 was one of joy and
laughter. Together with an ability to separate the sucker from
his dough, Tex also had a flair for showmanship. In addition,
she possessed an unexpected streak of zany madness, so that a
session at the Three Hundred Club resembled the mad nights
at the Jack White Club on Fifty-second Street a decade later.
In the department of entertainment Texas Guinan gave her
suckers an even break.

On a night any nightin February 1927, the Three Hun-
dred Club opens its portals at ten-thirty in the evening. Those
unwary enough to enter at such an hour find little or nothing
going on. Texas herself never arrives until midnight or later. A
gal who keeps the festivities rolling until five or six in the
morning, she sleeps until six at night and eats breakfast while
the rest of the world has dinner. Then she goes to the theatre
or takes care of personal business. Around midnight she has a
fast lunch of melon and ice cream. After that, work.

Yet anyone arriving early at the Three Hundred Club can
examine the expensive premises. The decor is lush and restful,
for La Guinan (as Alexander Woollcott persists in calling her)
has excellent taste. A low ceiling seems lower because of velvet
hung to create a tented effect. The walls are covered with
plaited cloth of matching colors. From the ceiling swing
Chinese lanterns and the walls are decorated with designs of
parrots and other exotic birds. Close to the ceiling colorful
balloons float lazily. The place is lighted in a manner to soothe
the tired spirit. This lighting has especially won the admiration
of author Stephen Graham, who says of it in his book, New

A Night with the Padlock Queen 61

York Nights: "There is nothing to try the eyes or irritate one.
It is lighted, and yet it is not the light associated with noisy
excitement and jazz. You have come here not for a giddy hour,
but for hours and hours. That is why the illumination is so
carefully toned."

Those who expect Guinan clubs to be the acme of speakeasy
glamor find several surprises inside. One is size. The Three
Hundred Club, for instance, holds no more than fifty tables
around a minute dance floor. As the place fills up extra ringside
tables are rushed to the edge of the dance floor so that in time
it becomes almost non-existent. Entertainers working Guinan
clubs quickly find out that only stand-up performing is possible.
One who has already learned this is a lissom acrobatic dancer
named Ruby Stevens. In the course of her dance Ruby falls to
the floor and writhes artistically. On her first night at Guinan's
she did so and found herself inextricably entwined with table
legs, customers' feet, and champagne buckets. From that point
on she danced upright, but not for long. Having changed her
name to Barbara Stanwyck, she is well on the way to becoming
a top dramatic actress, the kind who enters Guinan's as a
patron.

Until La Guinan arrives, the Three Hundred Club remains
sedate and dignified. Four guitarists stroll from table to table
plucking out melodies on request. Their speciality is the re-
cently successful "Valencia," but they are equally adept at such
dissimilar numbers as "Sleepy Time Gal" and "Yes, Sir, That's
My Baby." Also on hand is Ethel the cute cigarette girl. In the
early months of 1927 Ethel's beauty has taken on a particular
radiance. Up to now her rival for the title of Most Beautiful
Cigarette Girl on Broadway has been Mavis of the Club Abbey.
A spectacular finale to this rivalry came when the Club Abbey
was shot up by gangster patrons. Mavis assisted one of the
bleeding gangsters to Polyclinic Hospital, and in the peculiar
code of Broadway lost caste by this good Samaritan deed. Ethel

62 A Night with the Padlock Queen

is now securely entrenched as tlie Most Beautiful Cigarette
Girl on tlie Main Stem.

Midnight comes and goes, and a sense of expectancy fills the
Three Hundred Club. Eyes dart to the entrance door. Those in
the know confide importantly that Tex must be stopping at her
brother Tommy's Club Plantation or at this point in history
was it Texas Tommy's? At Tommy Guinan's four musicians
named Jimmy Dorsey, Tommy Dorsey, Joe Venuti, and Jack
Teagarden labor nightly in the orchestra. At the Three Hun-
dred Club an orchestra barren of potential jazz greats takes
over from the four guitarists and a few couples slip to the tiny
floor to dance.

By twelve-thirty the fifty tables are full. Lady Diana
Manners, William Beebe, Ann Pennington (the Scandals star
with the dimpled knees) and millionaire escort, Bill Fallon
(the great mouthpiece), Mae West, Frank Tinney and Imogene
Wilson, the latter the most beautiful of all Follies girls, Aimee
Semple McPherson, the visiting evangelist these could be the
celebrities present tonight. Mayor Walker may appear during
the evening, on his arm a cute, dark-haired flapper named Betty
Compton, whom he spotted dancing in Oh, Kay! and straight-
way made his steady companion. The underworld is represented
by Owney Madden and Big Bill Dwyer, Prohibition overlords
and backers of night clubs. Lesser underworld figures are present
with jazz babies from Broadway shows. There are sugar daddies
and gold-diggers of the variety immortalized in Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes, and a sprinkling of older women in the com-
pany of young men. One such, called the Dancing Grand-
mother, is an almost nightly patron at the Three Hundred
Club.

At a quarter to one comes a stir at the entrance door and the
feeling that a supercharged personality is there. An excited
whisper runs through the room, Texas, Texas! Everything stops
as Tex greets friends at the door and tosses a brisk word of

A Night with the Padlock Queen 63

greeting to the hatcheck girl and maitre <f . Here is royalty
entering its domain. One who witnesses her splendid entrance
is Stephen Graham: "There she is like a queen, like the sun,
like a big firework, like a gorgeous tamer who has just let her-
self into a large cage of pet tigers. A kiss here, a stroke of the
hand there, an uttered Darling! there, she goes from table to
table closing the company into a unit around her personality."

The fun begins as soon as Tex arrives. She makes her way to
the dance floor, which with her appearance becomes the stage.
Taking a fragile chair, she perches atop it a highly difficult
position for one of her girth but a feat she manages admirably
every night. A waiter appears at her side with a box full of
kleeter-klappers: a small piece of wood with two wooden balls
attached which, when shaken, produces a hideous din. Tex
raises one above her head, shakes it furiously. Next she dips
into the box for others and begins tossing them to friends
around the room. "Here, Tex, here," grown men beseech, eager
to be singled out by her famous attention.

All who get kleeter-klappers shake them, yet over the racket
her clarion voice can easily be heard. In her full-throated tones
Tex now calls out, "Cohen." A waiter calls back, "Cohen." It's
a catchword of the place, by which Tex gives signals. Now it
means get things ready, the show is about to begin. Tex climbs
down from her chair, moves it to the ringside table whose free-
spending party she has decided to favor, and the Three Hun-
dred Club show Texas Guinan and Her Mob begins.

The first number is called Cherries. A group of almost naked
girls prance out from backstage to group themselves on the tiny
dance floor. One carries a basket of fruit. She starts singing a
song called "Cherries" and two things immediately become ap-
parent. One is the zany aspect of the Three Hundred Club, for
as the girls sing, the waiters begin to yell "Cherries" in time
with the music. So, shortly, does the audience, until it is all
wild, fetching, and very, very funny.

64 A Night -with the Padlock Queen

The other notable matter is the extreme youth of the girls.
For, still guided by the indefatigable N. T. G., Tex has changed
her Guinan Girls. After first using statesque Follies and
Vanities lovelies, Granlund shifted to the talented children
herded around Broadway by determined stage mothers. Now
the Guinan Girls are not only beautiful but exceedingly young,
so that there is a vague sinfulness about such dewy-eyed in-
nocence in a night club. Ruby Keeler, for instance, who does a
tap dance at Guinan clubs, was only fourteen when she began.
At seventeen, she married Al Jolson (1927 earnings $350,000)
to create one of the great lullabys of Broadway.

Texas Guinan never smokes or drinks and tries hard to rule
her youthful chorus kids with an iron hand. She even en-
courages stage mothers to hang around backstage as chaperones.
Where ordinary patrons are concerned, the Queen of the Night
Clubs can easily keep her girls in line. But when a mobster
takes a shine to one of her kids, even the redoubtable Tex dares
not interfere. Prohibition-era hoods were trigger-happy sadists
who could not bear to be frustrated over girls, or anything. "It
was rough and tough then/ 7 N. T. G. has written. "Four of my
employers, owners for whom I produced shows, were killed.
One of my girls in one of my shows was shot and another was
with a gangster when he was bumped off ."

Even so, it may not be fair to picture all gangsters as vicious
destroyers of night-club virginity. It is said that one of the
toughest gang lords set himself up as the Nobody-Touches-Her-
Not-Even-Me protector of little Ruby Keeler. And sometimes
the Guinan kids of tender years and angelic appearance actually
desired the life offered by gangsters. "Where except in New
York can you find the pretty, wilful kids who [date] the racke-
teers?" inquires the writer Jack Kofoed. "Slim thighs and bud-
ding breasts and wet, provocative lips . . . The pay is high and
the life fancy while it lasts, but I suppose it does get tiresome

A Night with the Padlock Queen 65

to be bawled out by the dance director and go through the
same routines night after night."

Singing and kicking bare legs in a dance, the Guinan kids
look happy, fresh, and delightfully wet behind the ears. In
songs like "Cherries/' they fan out among the audience while
the girl with the basket of cherries prettily slips one into the
mouths of the more important suckers present. A girl behind
her ruffles up the man's hair, if he has any. Those who are com-
pletely bald get a lipsticky kiss on the shiny dome. In turn, the
suckers push fifty dollar bills into tight brassieres and hot little
hands.

While this goes on, Tex is providing her own show. She
tosses kleeter-klappers and passes out remarks. "Take care of
him, kids," she bawls, when a man shouts something at her.
The girls converge on him and begin taking off his tie, un-
buttoning his vest, slipping oft his coat. His watch is handed
to Tex who holds it up, making disparaging remarks about size
and quality. After emptying his pockets, and keeping the
change found there, the girls forge on to another table. They
keep it up riotously until Tex suddenly bellows, "Give the little
gals a great big hand." The Cherries girls dance off, still trilling
their song.

Follows a procession of torch singers, adagio teams, girl and
boy dancers. Among the last is a slick-haired jellybean doing a
whirlwind Charleston. It is such a spectacular dance that
columnist Mark Bellinger has been moved to call it "the
weirdest, maddest dance that anyone has ever seen. The cus-
tomers sit in silence as he fixes his eyes on one spot and whirls.
Faster. Faster. It is fascinating almost uncanny."

The whirling dancer finishes, panting proudly, and Tex
shouts, "Give the little guy a great big hand." Next she tells
the room that the young dancer, who looks like a callous Valen-
tino, is Georgie Raft. The ambitious Raft works hard these

66 A Night with the Padlock Queen

days, and makes a neat one thousand dollars a week as a result.
After doing his dance at the Three Hundred Club, he dashes
up the street to Tommy Guinan's Playground, where he does it
again. After which he races to the Parody or Silver Slipper and
does it there too. Weary but still ambitious, he hastens back
to the Three Hundred Club in time for the second show. Such
heroic activity, it has been noted, gave him scant time to return
the affections of a sixteen-year-old Guinan kid named Hannah
Williams, who would become Mrs. Roger Wolfe Kahn, and
Mrs. Jack Dempsey, as well as the inspiration for the song
"Hard Hearted Hannah, the Vamp of Savannah.' 7 At the
Three Hundred Club Hannah worships George Raft from afar
and, as in a thousand backstage movies, watches adoringly as he
dances. "You work too hard, Georgie," she tells him when he
finishes, but the preoccupied Raft pays no attention, only
rushes off to his next appearance.

After this turn, the Guinan kids reappear. In scanty tights
they prance out with baskets of cardboard snowballs with which
to pelt the crowd. As they do, a cute girl appears in the spot-
light. Pointing first to her eyes, to her breasts, and other inter-
esting features of her anatomy, she begins to sing, "She has this
and she has that" Again, with the refrain, the waiters join in,
shouting, "And she knows her onions!" The audience starts
singing too this is the most popular song of the night and it
sets Tex off like an explosion. "Encourage her!" she brays. "En-
courage the kid, give the little girl a great big hand," The
audience does. "She has this and she has that, AND SHE KNOWS
HER ONIONS!" patrons howl back. By the time the song ends,
everyone is standing, singing lustily, pelting each other with the
cardboard snowballs. Once more the girls caper off, and two
middle-aged drunks grab a girl as the line passes by. Tex shouts
"Cohen" and moves over quickly to restrain them, as do a
bouncer and several waiters. For a moment the situation seems

A Night with the Padlock Queen 67

ugly. Then it's over, with Tex turning it into a laugh. "A fight
a night or your money back/ 7 she yells at the room.

Comes intermission time: end of the first show, long pause
before the second. The limpid saxophone begins to moan "Do,
do, do, what youVe done, done, done before, baby/ 7 Couples
slip to the postage stamp floor and, holding each other tight,
begin to dance. A few Guinan girls slip out to sit at tables with
glowering, sharp-suited gangsters. Others join husbands or Joe
College boy friends. But most remain backstage with mothers
or chaperones, for Tex allows no general fraternizing. She her-
self seizes the opportunity to munch a chicken sandwich and
gulp a glass of milk. Then she remounts the fragile chair in the
spotlight. Blowing a piercing blast on the police whistle, she
signals that her personal part of the entertainment will begin.

Chiefly this is wisecracking and exchanging lusty badinage
with patrons. "Three cheers for Prohibition/ 7 she bellows on
mounting the chair. Those who wonder why she begins in this
startling way are immediately enlightened, for she goes on,
"Without Prohibition where the hell would I be? 77 From one
table an experienced sucker shouts back, "Nowhere! " "You're
right, sucker/ 7 Texas howls, giving her mighty laugh. Texas
Guinan's brand of night club humor is entirely lacking in
subtlety and a commentator explains it this way: "It's sledge-
hammer humor. It must go through the heads of well-soaked
customers. She must bellow above the confusion of the revelers.
This hostess business is a raucous calling . . , 77

Some of the sledgehammer humor is chauvinistic. "Who's
the greatest flapper in the world? 77 she asks from the chair top.
From parts of the room come suggestions: "Clara Bow 77 "Col-
leen Moore 77 "Ann Pennington. 77 Each time the blondined
head shakes an emphatic No. Finally she pulls a small Amer-
ican flag from her ample bosom and waves it. "There's the
greatest flapper in the world/' she shouts exultantly.

68 A Night with the Padlock Queen

Other jokes are topical. "Why does Peaches sit on the beach
so much?" she demands of the room. "I don't know/' the
orchestra leader obligingly shouts back, "Why does Peaches sit
on the beach so much?" Tex jubilantly yells, 'To keep her tail
from Browning."

Champagne corks pop, kleeter-klappers klap, swizzle sticks
smack, the police whistle blows its shrill blasts. Joy at the Three
Hundred Club is unrefined and unconfined. Every male wants
to be singled out for special attention. It makes him a member
of the Suckers Club, perhaps the most exclusive in the world
of 1927. "Hello, suckers," Texas bawls at newcomers entering.
She browbeats those at the tiny tables to buy more drinks.
"You're all suckers, so you might as well act like it." Seeing an
oldster lost in drunken sleep beside a lush blonde, she grabs a
trumpet from the orchestra and sashays over to the table. There
she blows a fearful blast into the sleeping man's ear. "Come on,
you old goat, rise up and buy," she orders.

Always the emphasis is on Spend, Spend, Spend. In public at
least, the road to Texas Guinan's heart is paved with hundred
dollar bills. One night the ideal sucker showed up in a Guinan
club. A meek-looking little man, he paid the cover charge for
the entire house, distributed fifty dollar bills to girls in the show
and members of the band. After this, the mild Maecenas
bought champagne for every table. Even Tex was impressed by
such prodigious largesse. "Say, sucker, who are you anyway?"
she demanded. The little man refused to give, his name. "Well,
you can at least tell us what you do," Tex insisted. "I'm in the
dairy-produce business," he answered modestly. Tex flung back
her flamboyant head. "He's a big butter-and-egg man," she in-
formed her assembled guests. From the exclusive confines of her
club, the phrase Big Butter and Egg Man went out to succeed
the word Babbitt in the national vocabulary. In time a play
called The Butter and Egg Man opened on Broadway.

Again Tex takes a breather. "Doo-Wacka-Doo-Wacka-Doo,"

A Night with the Padlock Queen 69

wails the sax-led orchestra, for dancing. A customer is crass
enough to complain to Texas that his check has been padded.
"It's one hundred dollars too much/' he states. Tex grabs the
check angrily for to her a man who gripes over a hundred bucks
is beneath contempt. Nevertheless, she scans the check, finds
he is correct about the overcharge. "Who's your waiter?" she
demands. The waiter is called front and center. "You're fired!"
Tex shouts.

It's a dismissal the waiter takes with surprising docility. He
disappears into the kitchen while the sucker pays the amended
check and fades into the night. Then the waiter reappears.
Momentarily, though, the incident takes the starch out of Tex
she sits down at a table and complains. "It happens all the
time around here," she says. "That waiter and the cashier are
in cahoots, they'd a split that extra hundred. But I can't fire
any of 'em. They're all related to Larry Fay or some other
gangster."

Depression is fleeting "My sweets," she once wrote Mark
Hellinger, "why will you insist on taking life seriously? Give
me plenty of laughs and you can take the rest." Stars from
Broadway are coming in now, show folk whose lives permit
them to stay up late enough for the second Guinan show of
the night. A Vanities showgirl enters on the arm of a new
husband. Tex signals the band, which slips into the Wedding
March. A waiter scoots out from the kitchen with a large bag
of rice which he gives to Tex. She tosses handfuls at the happy
pair. The trumpeter moves out from the bandstand and Tex
pushes the newlyweds behind him. Guests from the tables leap
up to join the procession which snakes in and out around the
room, for all the world like a wedding in a nightmare.

Suddenly, it's over. The trumpeter slips back on the band-
stand, mutes his instrument and joins with the throbbing
saxophone to sob out "Here in my arms it's adorable, It's de-
plorable that you were never there." Tex returns to the spot-

70 A Night with the Padlock Queen

light, and guests go back to tables. "Let's give the little girls a
great big hand/ 7 she howls, bringing forth a few Guinan kids
from backstage. She wheedles dignified men into playing leap-
frog with them on the tiny dance floor. She rumples the hair
and unties the ties of prominent men, smacks the backs of
dignified dowagers in bluff, cowgirl greeting. The hilarity em-
boldens one man to pull a Guinan kid to his lap, where he
tries to fondle her. Tex gives a sharp look; he's a nobody, not
even a butter-and-egg-man. "Cohen throw him out," she
orders the bouncers who materialize. The throwing-out process
has two steps. First to the cashier's desk, where the sucker
settles his bill. Then the sidewalk.

Tex considers it a personal affront when anyone starts to
leave. "Don't go!" she begs an important party. They look un-
certain and Tex plunges on, "Stick around, we'll have a show
now." The police whistle blasts. It is four-thirty and lights dim
for the second show, which begins with the line of baby-faced
Guinan kids kicking heels high and nasally chirping "Baby
Face, youVe got the sweetest little baby face." It soon becomes
apparent that the second show is slightly less raucous, more
sentimental than the first. Perhaps this is a tribute to what
Damon Runyon calls the "tubercular light of dawn," which is
close to breaking over the city outside.

Again the girls hop among tables, rumpling hair and jump-
ing from lap to lap. A man who has been drunkenly dozing
wakes up to find a cute, all-but-nude girl on his lap. He paws
her roughly. The girl shrieks. Tex, the one-time cowgirl, ma-
terializes at the table. This is an important customer, one who
can't be heaved out. There is no cry of "Cohen." Tex puts a
warning hand on the man's shoulder, disengages the girl with
the other. With the girl gone, she kisses the top of the man's
bald head. "You're still my sweetheart," she tells him, "but you
gotta behave."

In the spotlight, the whirling George Raft does his second

A Night with the Padlock Queen 71

Charleston of the night. After him the girls prance out, "Yes,
sir, that's my baby, No, sir, don't mean maybe/' The youthful
kids still seem fresh and eager, but the waiters are beginning to
look waxy and spent. So do the customers, though the lively
tune stirs some excitement. The night's gaiety is beginning to
wear thin. Even Tex feels it. She's human, and like everyone
else sits reverently silent as three of her kids in tight velvet
trousers and skimpy blouses come out, take three chairs from
ringside and, sitting side by side in a demure line, harmonize
softly, lingeringly:

Make my bed and light the light,
I'll be home late tonight.
Bye, Bye, Blackbird.

At the song's end Texas turns to a friend and begins, "I'm
so" She's about to say tired, but catches herself in time. The
legend of inexhaustible energy is her prime asset. Bravely she
smiles the gleaming smile and the brassy voice urges as before,
"Give the little girls a great big hand." The fingers that twist
her ropes of pearls look ancient and clawlike now, but who
cares? Tex is in and out of the spotlight, ever the figure of
picturesque vigor, the gigantic voice commanding everyone to
have a great big time. She's the Queen of the Night Clubs. It's
been another big night without a raid for the Padlock Queen.

Texas Guinan, with her brashness and emphasis on the fold-
ing green, typified the Night Club Era to the country. Yet in
another club were to be found Clayton, Jackson, and Durante,
Broadway's own favorite entertainers. Tex herself, anxious to
wind down after a night's work, frequently stopped off to enjoy
these three before going home to bed. For such was the mad-
ness of the zany trio that the clubs they worked often stayed
open until noon the next day.

In the early months of 1927, Clayton, Jackson, and Durante
were appearing at the Parody Club. But they had first scored

72 A Night with the Padlock Queen

at the Club Durant, at Fifty-eighth Street and Sixth Avenue.
This historic club had largely been promoted by Jimmy
Durante, a gentle young man with a huge nose and a sense of
fun stemming from the great clowns of Italy. Durante had
opened his night club on a financial shoe string so much so
that just before the opening he was unable to afford an outside
sign to advertise the joint. Hearing of his plight, a golden-
hearted sign painter offered to provide one gratis. The sign
emerged Club Durant, and so it remained until Prohibition
forces ended its lusty life.

Durante, piano player and slam-bang buffoon, had already
joined forces with Eddie Jackson, one of the great coon-shout-
ing singers of all time. The two worked well together, but
Durante felt that somehow the act could be improved. A reason
for flaws in performance was that the gentle Durante was dis-
tracted by the problems of running a combination night club
and speakeasy. One night a Broadway gambler and sometime
hoofer named Lou Clayton entered the Club Durant. He did
so as a patron, but in the general hilarity rose and blandly per-
formed an expert soft-shoe dance. Conversing with him later
Durante sensed that in Clayton, a Main Stem toughie with an
unflinching exterior, lay the ingredient lacking in the Club
Durant. Clayton was hard, though in the best show business
tradition he occasionally unveiled a sentimental side. He had
faced down such gangland celebrities as the psychotic killer
Vincent "Mad Dog" Coll. Further, he could strut and dance
almost as well as George Raft, while the expressionless dead
pan he had cultivated through years as a gambler could be
excruciatingly funny in moments of comedy.

Clayton agreed to go to work, and so Broadway's all-time
favorite night club act of Clayton, Jackson, and Durante was
born. Clayton's first official act was to rule that gangsters check
guns at the front door. Clayton then took the guns from the

A Night -with the Padlock Queen 73

hatcheck girl and buried them in the ice-bin behind the bar
"frapped artillery/' he called this.

On stage, Clayton, Jackson, and Durante worked by inspira-
tion. Starting with Durante songs like "Jimmy the Well
Dressed Man," they roughhoused in all directions. Always the
act had two staples noise and destruction. While Eddie Jack-
son brayed his songs, Clayton did his fast dead-pan dance and
Duante beat the piano. All three then rampaged the room,
pulling things to bits. After Clayton, Jackson, and Durante any
night club was a shambles.

Once a curvaceous girl with a French accent applied at the
Club Durant for a job. "You should hear me seeng," she cooed.
Durante thought her accent might be an amusing foil for the
wild antics of the three men. He dubbed her Mademoiselle Fifi
and for three nights she tried to join the fun. It was no go, and
the hardboiled Clayton was instructed to fire her. An outraged
Fifi insisted on seeing Durante, saying to him accusingly, "You
nevair hear me seeng." Soft-hearted Jimmy decided to give her
one more chance. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began that night,
"at great expense to the management we have imported direct
from Paris none other than that great int'national entertainer,
Mam'zelle Fifi."

Fifi, it transpired, was a coloratura. Stepping forward, she
bravely began. But her great gift lay less in vocalizing than in
determination. No matter what went on around her, Fifi pierc-
ingly reached for high notes. Coloraturas, of course, were out
of place in the Club Durant and, after a few bars, Durante
began to clown. He marched around the room in military style,
while the band abandoned Mademoiselle Fifi to swing to the
"Stars and Stripes Forever."

Fifi continued with her aria no mean musical feat. "The
Americans are coming!" Durante shouted nonsensically, still
marching in military time. The quick-witted Clayton took up
the cry. "The Americans are coming!" he shouted back. From

74 A Night with the Padlock Queen

some forgotten episode of his youth, Durante dredged up the
cry, "Viva La Ponza!" "The Americans are coming Viva La
Ponza," Clayton yelled back. So "The Americans are coming-
Viva La Ponza!" became the rallying cry for the nonsense
through which Mademoiselle Fifi single-mindedly sang.

I can do -without Broadway, but can Broad-way do without
me? the frenetic Durante demanded in the course of every eve-
ning's rumpus. It seemed at first that Broadway could not.
Then one night Jimmy noticed a trio of well-dressed men filling
a hip flask from a bottle of liquor served them at a table. In
those days, Prohibition agents were required to produce in court
evidence of the intoxicants purchased on raided premises. The
guileless Durante decided that the men were chemists conduct-
ing an innocent experiment with prohibition hooch. Then one
of them rose importantly. "All right, folks, it's a raid," he
announced.

It was the end of the Club Durant, of tenderest memory.
The Three Musketeers of Broadway, as Clayton, Jackson and
Durante had been dubbed by Sime Silverman of Variety,
moved on to the Parody Club. This was a cellar room seating
some four hundred tight-packed patrons, with only a single
street-level window for ventilation. Nonetheless, prices were
high and the Clayton, Jackson, and Durante madness grew
madder. Mademoiselle Fifi was still in the act, and here was
born the sketch, "Wood," during which all kinds of wooden
objects, including a full-size privy, were hauled onstage, whjle
the three men horsed noisily about. "I'm in a hotel room,"
Durante would reminisce insanely, as wood was dumped on his
feet, "and there's a knock at the door and a voice says, This
is the house detective, you got a woman in your room? And I
says No, so he trows one in." Through this, Jackson would be
singing and Clayton performing his expert, expressionless dance.
"You know," he'd call to Durante, "my girl's being held for

A Night with the Padlock Queen 75

ransom." "What's the matter with Ransom?" Durante shouted
back. "Can't he get his own wimmin?"

In other Broadway night clubs, the sucker also got an even
break. Prices were high, but entertainment was good. Joan
Crawford was not the only talent to rise from the Club Rich-
man. Helen Kane, the Boop-Oop-a-Doop Girl, was an alumna
of the same place. This club featured Sc^nddZs-star Harry Rich-
man ("Birth of the Blues/ 7 "Puttin' On the Rite," "Singing a
Vagabond Song"). With his meaty personality and vehement
voice, Richman symbolized the male side of Prohibition Era
Broadway, as Helen Morgan and Ruth Etting, the street's
treasured girl singers, symbolized the female.

Harry Richman was something of a phrasernaker and once
referred to the downstairs Club Richman as "an upholstered
sewer." It was a description which could aptly be bestowed upon
other Prohibition spots where talent was born. Ginger Rogers
(age sixteen) made an initial appearance at the Silver Slipper,
as did Ray Bolger. Morton Downey was a youthful singer in
night clubs. A comedian named Ben K. Benny worked in Broad-
way night clubs before deciding that his name sounded too
much like that of Ben Bernie, the Old Maestro. Ben K. Benny
changed his name to Jack Benny, and by 1927 had risen from
night clubs to vaudeville at the Palace. Others stuck faithfully
to the night-life circuit. Established entertainers like Ben
Bernie, Ukulele Ike Edwards, and Ted Lewis appeared in clubs
whose very names sound a Broadway melody: Frivolity, Hotsy
Totsy, Fifty-Fifty, La Vie, Cotton Club, Club Rendezvouz,
Napoleon, Parody Club, Lido, Casa (Vincent) Lopez, Will
Oakland's Terrace, Cafe de Paris, and Roger Wolfe Kahn's
the club opened by the bandleader son of millionaire Otto
Kahn which was so surpassingly elegant that even Broadway
was awed by it.

In all these 'upholstered sewers' be it Texas Guinan's, the

76 A Night with the Padlock Queen

Club Durant, or Roger Wolfe Kahn's~-the spender was king.
"How we love to see the big spender come rolling in/' Jimmy
Durante once said. "The fella who throws his money around.
He's the answer to a prayer." With writer Jack Kofoed,
Durante wrote a book called Night Club and in it he tried to
give the reading public a picture of the big butter-and-egg man
in action:

You're sitting at a ringside table. All around are girls . . . pretty
girls whose slim legs are lustrous in silk, and whose lips are
carmined and eyebrows penciled. Out on the floor a dance team is
working, feet moving deftly . . . The band is hot, the sleek heads
bob and dip. The man swings his partner high in the air. Everyone
applauds.

A man at a ringside table, calls the hoofers over and presents
them with a Sioo bill. Gee! There's a big shot! A sort of thrill
goes over the room. Here's a guy who'll spend. There's champagne
on his table. The orchestra leader wants to know if he has any tune
he'd like to hear. He does. They dig up In the Shade of the Old
Apple Tree for him . . .

It was Broadway in 1927 the Year the World Went Mad!

ELL aware that the future held at least
one predictable sensation in the immedi-
ate offing, the United States of America simmered contentedly
through the six weeks while Judge Seeger pondered his verdict
in the case of Peaches and Daddy. And this being the Era of
Wonderful Nonsense there would assuredly be more sensations
to come many more!

Another reason for contentment was the so-called Coolidge
Prosperity. In the contemporary words of Elmer Davis: "Pros-
perity still sheds its benignant glow upon us." This ballooning
prosperity was largely automatic, or even accidental, for Pres-
ident Calvin Coolidge had reduced the duties of the Presidency
by an amazing seventy per cent. Asked by funnyman Will
Rogers how he had succeeded in doing this, Coolidge replied,
"By avoiding the big problems/'

In Senate cloakrooms no less than at Rotary Club luncheons
across the country arguments over the 1928 political campaign
had already begun. Would Calvin Coolidge run again, and if
he decided to run was he entitled to do so? Vice-President
Calvin Coolidge had become President on the death of Warren

77

78 The Sash-Weight Murder

G. Harding in August 1923. He had finished out Harding's
term, then run on his own in 1924. Did this constitute two
terms, or one? The distinguished Nicholas Murray Butler, pres-
ident of Columbia University, thought Coolidge could not run
again. Others thought he could, but no one had the slightest
inkling how Cautious Cal felt. If he failed to run, the names
of Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover, Vice-President
Charles ("Hell and Maria") Dawes, Senator Charles Curtis,
and Speaker of the House Nicholas Longworth were strong pos-
sibilities.

In the Democratic camp was small optimism. Coolidge Pros-
perity made 1928 look like a Republican year. Only Governor
Alfred E. Smith of New York seemed confident of chances.
Strangely enough, the living symbol of Republican Party suc-
cess did not seem to be President Coolidge. Rather it was icy
Andrew Mellon, the multimillionaire Secretary of the Treasury.
"If we could only take Mellon away from the Republicans we
could win easily," opined Clem Shaver, chairman of the Demo-
cratic National Committee.

Occasionally a voice rose to forecast economic peril. "A per-
sistent over-production is the cornerstone of American indus-
try," warned the farseeing Elmer Davis. "It is absorbed by over-
consumption on the instalment plan." Few listened. There
were some irritants in this best of possible worlds, but to the
average person economics was not among them. Prohibition
was, however the Eighteenth Amendment seemed to be head-
ing the nation into a gigantic gang war. One who spoke out on
this subject was Senator Tom Heflin of Alabama, a man widely
reviled as a racist blabbermouth. Yet on Prohibition the
Senator's words rang clear and true. "There are so few real
Wet advocates here in the Senate that they could all fit in a
taxicab," he orated.

In news columns, the United States could be observed avoid-
ing entanglement in the World Court, just as it had remained

The Sash-Weight Murder 79

out of the League of Nations. Good relations between France
and the United States seemed far more important to Americans
than good relations with England. BOBBED HAIR SPLITS BEAUTY
SPECIALISTS, a headline read, while the story underneath went
into details of the new boyish bob and the shingle cut. Madame
Ernestine Schumann-Heink made news by becoming the first
woman to lend her name to a cigarette testimonial. "I recom-
mend Lucky Strikes because they are good to my throat/' she
declared, while American Tobacco Company officials beamed.

On March ist few troubled to notice a tiny announcement
in newspapers saying that a young airmail pilot named Captain
Charles Augustus Lindbergh, Jr. the Associated Press spelled
it Lindberg -had filed entry in the New York-Paris flight for a
$25,000 prize offered by Raymond Orteig, owner of the Hotel
Brevoort in New York City. The Orteig Prize had stood since
1919 and, though rapid advances in aviation had lately been
made, a non-stop flight to Paris was still considered a remote
possibility. Nonetheless, the famous Commander Byrd had
announced plans for such an attempt this year. So had a wiry,
likable barnstormer named Clarence Chamberlin, who would
fly a Wright-Bellanca plane. With him as co-pilot might be
Bert Acosta, a rakish daredevil, the sort who flew his plane
under bridges, looped the loop, and turned corkscrews in the
air. From Paris for the Orteig Prize worked either way came
word that the two French war aces, Nungesser and Coli, were
grooming themselves for an early west-east flight. With such
stellar figures prominent in the public eye, the filing by an un-
known named Lindbergh or was it Lindberg? seemed of
small moment.

And why should it, with the Roxy Theatre opening on March
i2th! Here was one of the real events of the age, an eight mil-
lion dollar movie house designed for the utmost in lavish com-
fort and lush elegance. It was the brain-child of Samuel L.

80 The Sash-Weight Murder

Rothafel, an energetic pioneer who had taken over the Capitol
Theatre on Broadway, there to introduce elaborate stage shows
and ushers in military uniforms. With the coming of radio,
Rothafel began broadcasting from the Capitol, urging the
world to call him Roxy. Soon Roxy and His Gang rivaled Dr.
S, Parkes Cadman as radio entertainment.

The Capitol had become a true picture palace, but Roxy
wanted a cathedral of the motion picture. In 1927 the mighty
little man's dream came true. Mounted police held back
milling thousands while the Roxy Theatre was unveiled: "A
vast, bronzed, Spanish renaissance interior, imposing in its
Moorish splendor. Golden brown, pagan-like in its florid adorn-
ment." Those at the opening found three Kimball organs play-
ing as the audience found seats. Followed an Invocation, and
a Dedication. The Roxy Symphony, led by Erno Rapee, played
"The Star Spangled Banner." Mayor Walker made a speech of
welcome. Came preliminary tableaux, song solos, more tableaux,
symphony music, ballet, and the superbly styled Roxyettes. All
this led up to a feature movie presentation, Gloria Swanson in
The Love of Sunya, one of the cinematic lemons of all
time.

As the Roxy opened Ask Me Another was supplanting the
Crossword Puzzle Books as the national game-book sensation.
Emil Ludwig's hugely successful Napoleon had just been pub-
lished. Time, the weekly newsmagazine stating pretentiously
that "There is no room in Time for the second-rate, the incon-
sequentialrecommended as good reading Tar by Sherwood
Anderson; Go She Must, by David Garnett; The Plutocrat, by
Booth Tarkington; Power by Lion Feuchtwanger; The Orphan
Angel, by Elinor Wylie; Tomorrow Morning, by Anne Parrish;
Palmerston, by Philip Guedalla; and Personae, by Ezra Pound.

Most book readers, however, would bypass this advice, wait-
ing to see what Billy Phelps recommended in Scribner's and
his other outlets. Dr. William Lyon Phelps was considered by

The Sash-Weight Murder 81

many the soundest of critics, a no-literary-nonsense Yale pro-
fessor who cheerfully liked cheerful books. He was the nation's
number one literary guide, though such youngsters as Pulitzer
Prize novelist Louis Bromfield (The Green Bay Tree 7 Posses-
sion, Early Autumn) accused Dr. Phelps of being a Rotarian
among the literati. A matter of speculation was how Dr.
Phelps would greet Elmer Gantry, a novel teetering on the
verge of publication. Sinclair Lewis, its author, was one of the
few prominent Americans alive (another was H. L. Mencken)
who didn't seem wholeheartedly satisfied with the country as it
was.

On Broadway Robert E. Sherwood's Road to Rome had just
opened. This was one of the first plays in which historical
characters in this case Hannibal talked in modern style.
Wrote critic Larry Barretto: "The lines are sly, often risque, and
amused a sophisticated audience/ 7 Equally ultra was Her Card-
board Lover with Jeanne Eagels and Leslie Howard. A superior
thriller was The Spider by Fulton Oursler and Lowell Brentano,
which began stunningly with a murder in the midst of the audi-
ence. On the verge of opening were the jazzy musicals Good
News and Hit the Deck, the latter with the rousing "Halle-
lujah" and the gay-tender "Sometimes I'm Happy."

Out in Hollywood a perky blonde named Phyllis Haver was
the toast of the film world. A luscious graduate of Mack
Sennett bathing-beauty comedies, Miss Haver had climbed
from a lively farce called The Perfect Flapper to The Way of
All Flesh, with the great Emil Jannings. Such versatility caused
one critic to say, "She will soon be counted among the most
vigorous personalities of the screen."

Also in Hollywood the Warner Brothers* cameras were set to
grind on The Jazz Singer, film version of a Broadway play
which had starred George Jessel. Broadway critics had not liked
The Jazz Singer and in one of the monumental miscalculations
of all time Jessel had decided not to appear in the film. His

82 The Sash-Weight Murder

role had been given to Al Jolson, the top singing star of the
day, and it was reported that in this new film Jolson might sing
and (was it possible?) talk.

In such a world, laughter came easy. College boys in raccoon
coats raced the roads in battered Model T flivvers, the sides of
which were covered with such slogans as Rattle of the Century,
Girls Wanted, Stop Me If You've Heard This One, Plus Four
Brakes, and Handle With Hooks Use No Care. High school
girls and boys wore bright yellow slickers on which were sten-
ciled contemporary catchwords like "Cra2y Cat," "Black Bot-
tom," "Ain't She Sweet?" "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby," "Cat's
Whiskers," "So's Your Old Man."

Everywhere, it seemed, the sheiks and shebas of Flaming
Youth were petting in the rumble seats of cars or swigging
giggle-water from hip flasks. One of the top vaudeville songs of
the time pictured an angry Irish mother facing a flapper
daughter as she reeled home with gin on her tonsils. "Oh,
Bridget O'Flynn," the outraged mother demands, "where have
you been? This is a fine time for you to get inYou went to
see the Big Parade, the Big Parade, my eyeYou never saw any
parade that took so long to go by!" On Broadway the hit song
of a musical comedy was called "Was I drunk? Was he hand-
some? Did my mother give me Hell?" All of which caused Dr.
Clovis Chapel, a Southern revivalist, to inform a group of
startled Betty Co-eds that "Flappers are Hell-cats with muddy
minds. The average seventeen-year-old girl would not greatly
object to appearing nude if she had any excuse to do so.
Modesty ... is dead."

From St. Louis came word of Alvin "Shipwreck" Kelly, who
was rapidly becoming a telling figure in the Era of Wonderful
Nonsense. Shipwreck Kelly was a flagpole sitter, a dauntless
fellow who at the drop of a check allowed himself to be hoisted
to the top of a flagpole on a building. Usually the building was
a hotel, which considered that Shipwreck Kelly's presence at its

The Sash-Weight Murder 83

apex brought favorable publicity. Kelly strapped a rubber-
covered wooden seat., eight inches in diameter, atop the round
flagpole ball and remained there "Etched in magnificent lone-
liness/ 7 the New Yorker said as long as possible. If it rained or
snowed he was in a most uncomfortable situation. Once, during
a sleet storm, he had been forced to chop ice from his legs and
body with a hatchet.

Thirty-three-year-old Shipwreck Kelly billed himself as The
Luckiest Fool Alive. He charged fifty cents to those who rose
to the hotel roof to observe him at close quarters. "After forty-
eight hours of this, you don't mind anything/' he would shout
down to gawpers. He lived on fluids milk, coffee, broth-
hoisted up to him in a bucket, and as for other matters a story
of his life-on-a-pole states discreetly, "excess fluids are poured
down a pipe running alongside the flagpole." A Hell's Kitchen
boy whose stamina had been sharpened in the navy, Shipwreck
often stood up straight on his dizzying perch. He slept from
ten to twenty minutes every hour, anchoring himself by thrust-
ing thumbs tightly into holes bored into the wooden seat.

In 1927, Shipwreck Kelly was not only the best-known flag-
pole sitter (his new St. Louis record was seven days, one hour),
but by far the most fortunate. During the previous autumn he
had passed several days atop the flagpole of a Dallas hotel. An
elevator in the hotel was run by a cute-as-a-button redhead.
One day a man stepped into the elevator and asked, "Is that
damn fool on the pole still up there?" "He's not a damn fool,"
the redhead answered, and slapped his face. News of this epi-
sode reached Shipwreck on his pole, and he expressed a natural
desire to meet the young girl. She was hauled up to him by
ropes strapped around her middle and the pair held hands and
talked tenderly in mid-air. Shortly after descending, Shipwreck
married this eighteen-year-old admirer. In St. Louis, she was in
command of the flagpole base, supervising the bucket delivery
of food and four packs of cigarettes daily to her spouse. Her

84 The Sash-Weight Murder

temper remained intact, for to those who asked if she was not
upset by marriage to a husband who sat on a pole, she flared
back, "He knows what he's doing, so shut up!"

Around the country there were other evidences of madness.
C. C. Pyle, a picturesque sports promoter who had made a
mint from the professional appearances of football star Red
Grange and tennis champion Suzanne Lenglen, announced a
$25,000 prize for a forthcoming transcontinental walking
marathon. This would materialize in time and irreverently be
called a Bunion Derby. A lesser promoter named Milton Cran-
dall leased the 71 st Regiment Armory in New York City for a
talking marathon, which local papers dubbed a Noun and Verb
Rodeo. In Seattle and Chicago dance marathons had begun to
spring up, with dazed young girls passing out from exhaustion
in the arms of partners, only to wake up screeching and claw-
ing. "This," said one reporter, "is known as going squirrely, and
gives everyone lots of laughs."

Into this maddest of mad worlds, the Cadillac Motor Com-
pany proudly launched the new La Salle. In Los Angeles,
Winifred Westover divorced cowboy star William S. Hart; in
Paris, Hadley Richardson Hemingway divorced Ernest Heming-
way; and in New York Charlie Chaplin was in the throes of a
nervous breakdown because Lita Grey Chaplin, his child bride
of two years before, was also suing and claiming that in all
Chaplin had earned sixteen million dollars.

In Chicago, further nonsense was compounded when Wil-
liam Hale "Big Bill" Thompson, running for re-election as
Mayor, charged that King George V of England was making
plans to annex the Windy City. Thompson, under whose
stewardship gangland had flourished as never before, urged that
all references to England and its rulers be sliced from Chicago
school and library books. This was a vital political platform,
refreshingly distant from such topics as graft, bootleg killings,

The Sash-Weight Murder 85

and the profits of Prohibition. Because of it, "Big Bill" Thomp-
son was deemed a shoo-in on election day.

So arrived the dawn of March 2ist, when Judge Seeger was
to render a verdict in the matter of Daddy vs. Peaches and in
many ways it was like a playback of the halcyon days of the
trial. The familiar mob scene was enacted outside the White
Plains courthouse. As before, Daddy arrived spruce and red-
faced in his blue Rolls Royce. Peaches came by train and taxi,
sporting a becoming Bermuda tan. It was noted, however, that
she had lost no weight.

Inside the court, there was a long delay before Justice Seeger,
his black robes swirling, established himself behind the bench.
After a sharp glance around the courtroom, he delivered his
verdict. It was a straight triumph for Daddy: "The plaintiff
may be a man of peculiar character, tastes and ideas, but the
fact that he married the defendant, endowed her with his prop-
erty, lifted her out of poverty, all tend to show his intentions
toward her were good . . . The defendant and her mother
have falsified, magnified, and exaggerated to such an extent as
to render their testimony altogether unbelievable . . . Many
of their charges of alleged cruelty are too trivial to warrant the
belief that they could have affected the defendant's health or
peace of mind."

On the lawn the crowd began to clap as the verdict filtered
out. Inside, Daddy's grin grew foolishly wider, while Peaches
lowered her baby face into a handkerchief. Mrs. Heenan glared
stonily ahead, for the judge's most cutting words were aimed
at her. It was a particularly cruel moment for Peaches, since
her weekly alimony was ordered ended. Still, her affairs were
not hopeless. Returning from Bermuda, she had found several
offers from vaudeville impresarios. One was from Milton
Crandall, who wished her to appear as an extra-added attrac-
tion at his Noun and Verb Rodeo. Crandall offered fifteen
hundred dollars a week, so Peaches would not starve. There

86 The Sash-Weight Murder

was even a good chance that she would still be able to afford
the operation on her hefty legs.

After the blubbering girl and her mother had departed the
White Plains court for the last time, the crowd of curious
melted away with remarkable rapidity. There was a reason for
this. Not only had the most nonsensical trial of the Nonsense
Era ended, but already the Peaches-Daddy case was being sup-
planted as public-sensation-number-one. March 2ist fell on
Monday. On the morning before Sunday, March 20th news-
papers had carried this headline:

ART EDITOR IS SLAIN IN BED

WIFE TIED; HOME SEARCHED;

MOTIVE MYSTIFIES POLICE

This was the year when one newspaper sensation followed
another with bewildering rapidity. Using the sixth sense de-
veloped by so much excitement, the 1927 public already
seemed to know that the murder of Albert Snyder, art editor
of the magazine Motor Boating, would be the next thrill of a
thrill-packed year. True, in Sunday newspapers Snyder's attrac-
tive wife, Ruth, declared that her husband had been killed by a
heavily moustached stranger who had broken into their home
in Queens Village, Long Island. This indicated only a routine,
uninteresting crime. Yet early accounts of the discovery of the
forty-five-year-old Snyder's body implied there was more to the
case.

Ruth Snyder was a striking thirty-two-year-old blonde whose
personality held a glaze of Scandinavian iciness. She had
greeted police with ropes dangling from her wrists, stating that
the foreign-looking prowler had knocked her unconscious and
trussed her up. While telling. this harrowing tale, she lessened
its impact by indulging in histrionics reminiscent of Theda
Bara, Nita Naldi and other silent-screen vamps of the day.

The Sash-Weight Murder 87

Further, there were no signs of forcible entry nor had anything
been stolen from the premises. The jewels which Mrs. Snyder
declared had been taken were found clumsily tucked under the
mattress of her bed. In the cellar, police found a five-pound
window sash weight flecked with red spots that could be blood.
The police surgeon examining Mrs. Snyder found no signs of
the brutal blow which had supposedly knocked her uncon-
scious.

All in all, the case sounded so phoney, and so big, that
Police Commissioner George V. McLaughlin himself hastened
to Queens Village. He took charge, and through Sunday Mrs.
Snyder told conflicting stories that sent police scurrying over
Queens and New York City. Finally she wearied of games. "I'll
tell you the truth," she informed McLaughlin. She then ac-
cused her lover, a man named Henry Judd Gray, of killing her
husband with blows of the sash weight. Mrs. Snyder's some-
what matronly appearance had a granite look because of her
formidable jaw. Now, as she displayed her only real emotion,
even the resolute jaw seemed to soften. "Poor Judd/' she
sighed. "I promised him not to tell."

At the Onondaga Hotel in Syracuse, Judd Gray learned the
news from Monday morning papers. RUTH BREAKS NAMES
PARAMOUR, tabloids shouted. Yet he looked spruce and con-
fident when detectives from Queens arrived. Gray was thirty-
four, a small, kewpie-doll type with curly hair, horn-rimmed
spectacles, a deep cleft in his chin, and the look of a surprised
rabbit. He politely ordered ice water and drinks, then to the
detectives said, "My word, gentlemen, when you know me
better you'll see how utterly ridiculous it is for a man like me
to be in the clutches of the law. Why, IVe never even been
given a ticket for speeding." He then offered an elaborate alibi
calculated to prove he had not left Syracuse during the week-
end.

But Gray's wastebasket had not yet been emptied and in it

88 The Sash-Weight Murder

the detectives found a railroad ticket stub which showed he had
been to New York. Behind the heavy horn rims, Gray's eyes
blinked owlishly. It was his turn to sigh. "Thank you, gentle-
men/ 7 he said. "Yes, I was in Queens on Saturday. I was there,
all right-"

RUTH-JUDD BARE ALL, the next tabloid editions shrieked and
across the country newspaper readers asked, Who are Ruth
Snyder and Judd Gray? Who was Albert Snyder? How did the
lives of the three become so entwined that the end result was
murder?

The Albert Snyders of Queens Village had not been a hap-
pily married pair. Ruth Brown Snyder had survived a sickly
childhood to endure a lonesome adolescence. At twenty-two
she went to work for a New York photographic agency and met
Albert Snyder after being instructed to phone Motor Boating
to ask a question of the art editor. Snyder (born Schneider)
was so brusque and irritable over the phone that he later felt
impelled to call back with an apology. This time he liked the
soft voice of the girl on the other end of the wire. He told her
there was a secretarial job open on Motor Boating and sug-
gested she apply.

Ruth Brown did, and shortly she and Snyder began dating.
He took her to movies, theatres, and night clubs. She liked
such luxury far more than she liked him, for Snyder (she always
claimed) was an unbending Germanic type. In addition, there
was a thirteen years age difference between the two. One night
Snyder presented her with a box of chocolates. Inside she dis-
covered a large diamond solitaire. She slipped it on. Snyder
then proposed marriage, implying that if she did not accept,
the ring must be returned. The girl regarded the ring: "It was
the most beautiful thing I had ever seen I just couldn't give
it up." She accepted, and four months after meeting, the two
were man and wife,
' It quickly turned into the emptiest of marriages. Snyder was

Number One Movie Star
of the era was Clara Bow.
Born in extreme poverty,
the jazz baby redhead was
in 1927 making three
thousand dollars a week
as the hottest movie
representative of Flaming
Youth. (United Press Inter-
national)

At the other Hollywood extreme were Greta Garbo and John
Gilbert, whose torrid love made the screen sizzle. They introduced
the Soul Kiss to an entranced public. Some, not so entranced,
called it Gilbo Garbage. (Culver Service)

Peaches and Daddy Browning, buxom Cinderella Girl and daffy
spouse, represented dreams-comc-truc to millions. The spicy White
Plains trial of their case was the peak moment of the Era of
Wonderful Nonsense. (United Press International)

Mary Louise Cecelia
Guinan Tex to you
was the undisputed
Queen of Prohibition
Night Clubs. A raucous,
uninhibited jane, she
welcomed male patrons
with the shout, "Hello,
Sucker." (Underwood &
Underwood)

Another immortal of the Year the World Went
Mad was Alvin "Shipwreck" Kelly. He sat
atop flagpoles for days on end, assisted below
by his flapper bride. In rain or snow, Shipwreck
was in trouble. (Underwood & Underwood)

Everything changed with
the advent of Lindbergh,
called by newspapers the
Lone Eagle, Lucky Lindy,
or the Flying Fool. He
cleared the air, supposedly
pointed the world toward
finer things. (Underwood &
Underwood)

Before his May take-off,
Lindy studied weather
maps with rival flier
Clarence Chamberlin and
Lieut. George Noville,
representing the equally
rival Byrd flight. (Under-
wood & Underwood)

If Paris went mad over Lucky
Lindy, Chamberlin and
Charles A. Levine received
a Teutonic welcome from
Germany. Here they pose
with the Lord Mayor of
Berlin. (Underwood & Under-
wood)

The Lindbergh reception in
New York City broke all
records for wild excitement
and falling ticker tape. A
blizzard in June hailed Lindy
as he rode up Broadway. It
was the Day the City
Went Mad. (Underwood &
Underwood )

Commander Richard Evelyn
Byrd (behind him, Clarence
Chamberlin) made the third
great trans-Atlantic flight of
the summer of the Year the
World Went Mad. (Under-
wood & Underwood)

The combined New
York City welcome for
the Byrd crew and
Chamberlin cost one-
third as much as the
Lindy reception and
generated that much less
enthusiasm. (Under-
wood & Underwood)

Not the least remarkable
figure of 1927 was Calvin
Coolidge, President of
the United States. With
world heroes on all sides,
he held his own by
appearing in outlandish
get-ups. (Underwood &
Underwood)

Here the President, just after
smoking a peace pipe with
the Dakota Sioux, stands
with Rosebud Robe, prettiest
of Indian maidens. (Under-
wood & Underwood)

1927 was a titanic year in
sport, with personalities
like Babe Ruth, who
crashed his sixtieth home
run in the last game of the
season. The record still
stands supreme and so
does the Babe. (Underwood
& Underwood)

Baseball and boxing slugged it out for the limelight and in
mid-September boxing won. In Chicago, World's Champion Gene
Tunney (left) met Jack Dempsey for the famed Long Count.
Fans are still talking about it. (Underwood & Underwood)

No one typified the Halcyon Twenties more than James J. Walker,
the playboy Mayor of New York City. In 1927 7 Hizzoner took
Mrs. Walker on the grandest of grand tours of Europe. Berliners
greeted him as Jazz J. Walker, and everyone seemed to have a
wonderful time. But back on Broadway the Mayor's friends knew
his heart belonged to a cute little flapper-actress named Betty
Compton. The Mayor's wife knew it too. (Underwood & Underwood)

The Sash-Weight Murder 89

still in love with a childhood sweetheart, now dead, whose pic-
tures hung around the house. He liked outdoor life, Ruth liked
indoor preferably the kind that required money. After the
marriage, Snyder stopped taking her to movies and plays. She
found him physically unpleasant, yet the couple had a child
named Lorraine who was nine years old in 1927. Snyder had
wanted a boy and blamed his wife for bearing a girl. In time,
the couple moved to a $19,500 house in Queens Village. There
Ruth Snyder noticeably failed to fit in with the neighbors, who
mistook her general moroseness for illusions of superiority.
Snyder was interested only in a few male friends in the neigh-
borhood.

In 1925 Mrs. Snyder, then nearing 30, began making fre-
quent daytime trips to New York City. With various women
friends she hung around restaurants in the garment district,
allowing men to buy her lunch. Eventually she was introduced
to an unprepossessing corset salesman named Henry Judd Gray.
His marriage was not as actively distasteful as hers, but it had
been arranged by his well-to-do family and altogether lacked
spark. Gray, too, had a daughter, aged eleven. He was a travel-
ing salesman for the Bien Jolie Corset Company. This kept
him on the road nine-tenths of the year, but there is no record
that he tasted the fleshly delights which the traveling sales-
man's life supposedly provides.

As a corset salesman Gray had an easy road to seduction, if
he chose to use it. He could offer a free sample of his wares,
telling a girl she must try the corset on for size. This required
her to disrobe partially, the next step being to undress all the
way. With Mrs. Snyder, he unhesitatingly used this stratagem.
He took her to the empty Bien Jolie office where she obligingly
tried on a corset. Shortly they were indulging in intimate rela-
tions which were a revelation to both. At best these two were
an unlikely pair of romantics a large woman with latent
powers of domination, the timid soul who had always been a

90 The Sash-Weight Murder

mother's boy and a sissy. Yet they made wonderful music.
From that moment, their one idea was to be together in bed,
if possible. Mrs. Snyder increased the frequency of her trips to
New York and the two spent illicit afternoons in rooms at the
Waldorf Astoria and the Hotel Imperial. Sometimes she
brought little Lorraine along and the child sat dangling legs
from a lobby chair while her mother and Judd Gray dallied
above. At other times Gray traveled to Queens Village. Then
the two tumbled into bed in Lorraine's room.

Mrs. Snyder and her lover were not intellectual giants. A
reporter later investigating the Snyder home wrote: "The
family library consists of about twenty volumes, stressing the
masterpieces of James Oliver Curwood and Elinor Glyn." Gray
may have been more sensitive, but no more cultured. The great
romance was carried on in baby talk. To Ruth Snyder, Judd
Gray was Lover Boy, or Bud. To him, she was Momsie or
Momie. Letters to one another were on the same level:

My own Lover Boy All I keep thinking of is you, you lovable
little cuss. I could eat you all up, could I get lit up and put out
this blaze that is so much bother to me. Ah, yes, hon, let us get
good and plastered Ain't that a nice word? Beginning to think
I'm that way on nothing. Hurry home, darling. I'll be waiting for
you. All my love,

Momsie

Hello, Momie How the dickens are you this bright, beautiful
day anyway? Gee, it makes you feel like living again after all that
rain yesterday. If we only have a nice day tomorrow. Now we will
be all set, as we have had so many miserable Sundays. They are
lonesome enough without having rain. This warm weather does
not give me a heap of pep, and feel tired when the day is done
. . . Well, old dear, I haven't much news, so will get this off and
go grab a bite. Take care of yourself. As ever, sincerely,

Bud

Nearly a year elapsed before matters between these two
happy lovers began taking a sinister turn. Then, slowly, Mrs.

The Sash-Weight Murder 91

Snyder became what the tabloids would call a Tiger Lady or
Panther Woman. She signalized this change by repeatedly
telling Judd Gray of her husband's indifference and cruelty.
Often, she declared, he beat her. Gray's reaction to this was as
expected. "I'd like to kill the beast/' he vowed melodramat-
ically. When he said this Mrs. Snyder propped herself up on
an elbow bed was the place she usually picked for her revela-
tionsand in tones full of meaning asked, "Do you really mean
that, Bud?"

Gray immediately said he did not: "Do you realize what it
would mean in the eyes of God?" Yet, as if her lover's words
had first planted the idea in her mind, Mrs. Snyder began harp-
ing on the murder of her husband. Gray was an agreeable
moron, but the knowledge of what his Momsie had in mind
became more than he could bear. He began to drink, and did
so prodigiously. "I bought a pint" "I bought a fifth" "I had
two or three drinks" "I had four or five drinks" "I finished
the quart" became the sorry refrain of his eventual confession.
While he guzzled Momsie begged, pleaded, argued. "You've
got to do it," she insisted.

Mrs. Snyder tricked her husband into taking out an insurance
policy which, with double indemnity, amounted to almost one
hundred thousand dollars. Despairing of Judd Gray, she began
giving her husband poison (in his prune whip), then tried to
do away with him by gas and overdoses of sleeping pills.
Snyder grew irritated and demanded to know why she had be-
come so damn clumsy around the house. She persuaded Judd
Gray to swallow test doses of arsenic in an effort to discover a
lethal amount. Gray felt deathly sick after this. Albert Snyder
a tribute to love of the outdoor life stayed healthy.

Again Mrs. Snyder turned to her paramour: "She asked me
if I knew of any other plan and I said absolutely no, I could
not help her out and she must see the thing through alone."
Mrs. Snyder got her husband's permission to visit friends in

92 The Sash-Weight Murder

Canada, and for ten days traveled with Gray over his upstate
sales territory. Togetherness only increased the pair's desire to
be with each other at all times, and Mrs. Snyder stepped up
the tempo of her urging. Finally, in mid-February, 1927, a
drink-sodden Gray fell in with her plans. On a selling trip he
bought a heavy iron sash weight, a bottle of chloroform, a pair
of rubber gloves. These he gave to Mrs. Snyder over a lunch
table on his return, but because little Lorraine was present
nothing could be said about them. "Did you bring the things?"
she merely asked. He nodded and handed her the heavy
package. She carried it home to Queens.

Across another lunch table on March 7, 1927 Mrs. Snyder
informed Gray that the time had come to kill her husband.
The unhappy man protested, "I can't I've never killed anyone
in my life, and I'm not going to start now." Judd Gray was at
the peak of his drinking power. He repaired to the restaurant
men's room and in a few swallows killed an entire pint of
bootleg hooch. Back at the table, he was more malleable. He
agreed to go to Queens Village that night.

In the course of the afternoon and evening, the corset sales-
man drank two more fifths of booze. Late in the evening he
stumbled aboard a bus for Queens Village. It was dark when he
arrived: "I was quite intoxicated. I walked and I walked and I
walked fully two hours or two hours and a half. There was no
light in the cellar, no light upstairs then I heard a knock on
the kitchen window and I saw Mrs. Snyder motioning me to
come in. I went up the back stairs. She was in her nightgown.
She kissed me and had a bottle of whiskey in her hand with
about half a pint in it."

Mrs. Snyder whispered that she was glad he had finally come
'They could do the job tonight." Gray wasn't up to it. "I
can't go through with it, Momsie," he pleaded. "I can't." In a
panic he kissed her, then bolted for the Long Island Rail Road
station where he caught the train for New York.

The Sash-Weight Murder 93

Less than two weeks later, on the night of March igth, Gray
was again in Queens Village. This time he had traveled from
the Onondaga Hotel in Syracuse. There he had persuaded a
Syracuse friend to go to his hotel room the next morning,
rumple the bed, make a few identifying phone calls, and hang
a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob. "I'm playing a joke
on someone/ 7 Gray had told this credulous pal.

As usual, the little man with the horn rims and cleft chin
was drunk. He staggered getting off the bus at Queen Village.
Nonetheless, he took a deep swig from a pocket flask before
heading toward Momsie's house on 222nd Street. With him he
carried a small black sample case, slightly larger than a doctor's
bag. With this in hand, he walked up and down before the
house. The Snyder home was dark, as Momsie had promised,
for the family was making a rare visit to a Saturday night
party.

Gray did not enter the house at this point. Instead he re-
turned to the main street of Queens Village, to wander up and
down for an hour, pausing from time to time for a conspicuous
slug from the flask. It was as if his subconscious forced him to
behave in a suspicious manner, in the hope that he might be
arrested and prevented from committing a crime. But his un-
usual actions went unnoticed and at midnight Judd Gray re-
turned to the Snyder home, going to the side door. It was
unlocked, as Momsie had said. In the living room he found an
unopened pack of cigarettes on a table the signal he and
Momsie had agreed upon. Tonight was the night.

Gray stumbled around the dark house, making his way up-
stairs to a room next to the Snyder bedroom. Under a pillow
his searching hands found the five-pound sash weight he had
given Mrs. Snyder in New York. Also a pair of pliers and a
four-ounce bottle of whiskey. He drained the hooch at a gulp,
then slid to the floor where he sat lifelessly, head in hands.

Fifteen minutes later the corset salesman was ransacking the

94 The Sash-Weight Murder

house for more booze. Finding a fifth in a bureau drawer, he
drank most of it. Then he went back to his sales kit and re-
moved the contents, "laying them out like a valet preparing his
master's evening clothes/' says the writer Wenzell Brown.
Finished, he had two strands of wire, several strips of cotton
cloth, a bottle of chloroform, rubber gloves, two colored
handkerchiefs, and an Italian-language newspaper. He then
picked up the sash weight and hefted it. The weight of it
made him topple off balance and he sprawled incongruously
to the floor.

At two in the morning he felt the need of another drink. He
had started downstairs when the headlights of a car swept
across the front windows of the house. The Snyders were back
from the party. Gray rushed frantically back upstairs, tripping
and sprawling. In the room containing the sash weight he fell
into a chair, trying to hold his breath.

First Lorraine Snyder ran into the house and went to her
room. Next Momsie came to the door and opened it a crack.
"Are you there, Bud, dear?" she asked softly.

"Yes, Momsie."

"You just wait quietly. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Through the walls he heard the heavy footsteps of Albert
Snyder mounting the stairs. Snyder went straight to the bath-
room, where he showered noisily. There were sounds of Lor-
raine being put to bed, and of Albert Snyder settling himself in
a twin bed in the bedroom. Shortly, loud snores told that he
had fallen asleep.

Wearing a slip, Mrs. Snyder crept back to the dark room.
"Did you find the sash weight?" she asked. "Yes," Gray
whispered back. The two kissed and clung to one another for
nearly an hour. At approximately three o'clock, Mrs. Snyder
said, "Now." She took Gray by the hand and led him to the
bedroom, where a light still burned. This was the first time
Gray had seen Albert Snyder, and even now he could not see

The Sash-Weight Murder 95

him well for the recumbent man had yanked the bedclothes
over his head. Gray took the sash weight in both hands. Ap-
proaching the bed he lifted it high. Perhaps because the out-
lines of Snyder's body were blurred., his first crashing blow was
a glancing one, bouncing off the sleeping man's shoulder.
Snyder emitted a roar of pain and started to rise in the bed.
Gray raised the sash weight again, but this time Snyder's hands
deflected the force of the blow. Snyder got a hand on Gray's
necktie and started to pull. Gray dropped the sash weight and
shouted, "Momsie, Momsie, for God's sake, help!"

Mrs. Snyder materialized on the other side of the bed.
Grabbing the sash weight, she brought it down full on her
husband's skull. It was the blow that kills, and Snyder col-
lapsed. Gray leaped astride him, hands at the dying man's
throat. "Where's the wire?" he demanded. Mrs. Snyder gave
it to him and he coiled it around Snyder's neck like a noose,
tightening it into the flesh with a silver pencil. "Give me a
necktie for his feet," he said. He tied the feet together. By that
time Gray was himself again. "I need a drink," he muttered.

Downstairs the two calmly sat drinking and conversing.
"We've got to make it seem like a robbery," Mrs, Snyder
finally remembered, and they began to ransack the house. Mrs.
Snyder's jewelry was clumsily stuffed under the mattress of her
bed. She gave Gray the seventy dollars that was in Snyder's
wallet. Gray changed his bloody shirt for one of Albert
Snyder's, and Momsie took off her bloody slip. Shirt and slip
were burned in the furnace, while the sash weight was put into
a nearby toolbox. Before the box was shut, Gray scattered
ashes over the sash weight.

"Why did you do that?" Mrs. Snyder inquired.

"To make it look as if it's been there a long time," Gray
answered.

It was now close to six o'clock. Gray had to catch a train for
Syracuse at a quarter to nine and was anxious to leave. "You've

96 The Sash-Weight Murder

got to tie me up, knock me unconscious/' Mrs. Snyder re-
minded him. Judd Gray, who had just leaped astride a dying
man to throttle him to death, was aghast at this suggestion.
"Oh, I couldn't strike you, Momsie," he protested.

In the end he bound her wrists and ankles and put a loose
cheesecloth gag in her mouth. Then he took the Italian news-
paper and placed it prominently a sign of intruders of foreign
tinge. Bidding farewell to Momsie, he appeared suddenly to be
sickened by all that had happened. "It may be two months, it
may be a year, it may be never before I see you again/ 7 he said
hastily. Then he went. Mrs. Snyder gave him half an hour,
then edged herself to Lorraine's door and thumped on it. "Call
the neighbors/' she cried, when the child woke.

The outside air had seemed to revive Judd Gray. He walked
briskly to the nearest bus stop, where he made himself con-
spicuous by chatting with another man waiting for the bus.
Nearby a policeman strolling his beat set up a row of bottles
on a fence and proceeded to shoot them down. Gray walked
over to congratulate him on his marksmanship.

At Jamaica he decided to ride to Grand Central Station by
taxi. He was garrulous in the cab, but when the $3.50 trip
ended he bestowed a five-cent tip. The driver glared at him in
outrage; never would he forget the guileless countenance of
Henry Judd Gray. On the Syracuse train Gray killed a pint
that Momsie had given him and chatted animatedly with con-
ductors. At the Onondaga Hotel he entered the door marked
Do Not Disturb and noted with satisfaction that his friend had
done a convincing job of rumpling the bed. Removing the
ticket stub which told that he had been to New York, he
carelessly tossed it in the wastebasket.

Why bother to be careful? Hadn't he and Momsie just com-
mitted the perfect crime?

By the time the Syracuse train arrived in New York City,

The Sash-Weight Murder 97

Judd Gray had given a full confession to the Queens County
detectives. He pictured Mrs. Snyder lifting the sash weight to
crash it down on her husband's skull. In turn, Mrs. Snyder's
confession branded Snyder a monster. She swore that Albert
Snyder had threatened to kill her, and that over her frantic
objections Gray had murdered the husband to save her life.
Despite variations, the two confessions gave a fearful, graphic
description of the night of crime. Justice moved swiftly. The
murderers were indicted a short three days after the crime had
been committed. The trial date was set for April i8th, only a
month after the murder night.

In that month the Mississippi River overflowed its banks,
creating an area of grim national disaster ... In the air Bert
Acosta and Clarence Chamberlin took off in a Wright Bellanca
plane and 7 with the aid of refueling from other planes, re-
mained aloft fifty-one hours, eleven minutes, and twenty-five
seconds, to break the worlds flying endurance record. This did
not mean that planes could be refueled in mid-air on the
projected flights to Paris. But it did prove aside from stunt
aspects that airplanes manufactured in 1927 were capable of
long flights, provided the weather remained good and enough
fuel could be carried ... In Boston two Italian-born men,
Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, stood before Judge
Webster Thayer and heard themselves sentenced to die in the
electric chair during the week of July loth . . .

Such events, however, did little to distract attention from
Long Island City. The Snyder-Gray murder was a clumsy one,
brutally perpetrated. Damon Runyon called it the "Dumbbell
Murder" "because it was so dumb/ 7 Yet as trials of the century
went, the case had It. More inches of newspaper space would
be devoted to it than to any other trial before or since in
America not excluding the Hauptmann trial in 1935. "The
Snyder-Gray case was a pallid one compared to the lurid
Browning case, or the Hall-Mills case of the previous year,"

98 The Sash-Weight Murder

one expert has written. "It was a cheap crime in which cheap
people were concerned, and there never was any doubt about
their guilt. But there was an abundance of blood and sex, both
delightfully revolting/ 7

Or perhaps other emotions were involved. The Queens
Village murder was widely hailed as one which could happen
anywhere. Alexander Woollcott believed: "Ruth Snyder was so
like the woman across the street that many an American hus-
band was haunted by the realization that she also bore an
embarrassing resemblance to the woman across the breakfast
table. 77 Others saw Mrs. Snyder differently. They cited the fact
that on every street in the land there is a woman the other
women disapprove of. On her block in Queens Village Mrs.
Snyder had played this unenviable role. Now housewives the
country over were delighted by the fact that she was getting
her comeuppance.

With both partners to the crime on record with long con-
fessions, the chief matter to decide was whether they should be
tried together. This was of particular concern to Judd Gray's
lawyers, since the meek little man appeared to be the public
favorite. A world that wrote twenty thousand letters a week
to Clara Bow could not resist writing to Judd Gray who,
though he had just committed a dumbbell crime, seemed a
pathetic Casper Milquetoast who had operated under the un-
holy spell of the Tiger Woman.

In Queens County jail Judd Gray received so much mail that
two additional cells were needed to hold it. Mrs. Snyder re-
ceived no letters. Nor did Gray read his, for the timid little
murderer seemed to have gone into a cataleptic trance. All day
he sat studying the hands folded quietly on his lap. His
lawyers tried to get him to make decisions. Never had a woman
been sent to the electric chair in Queens County, they told
him. Further, while he now seemed to be the public favorite,
Mrs. Snyder might snatch this public sympathy were she tried

The Sash-Weight Murder 99

first. It was best for the two to be tried together, lawyers urged.
Gray unblinkingly studied his hands. His lawyers took this as
acquiescence and went ahead.

As such problems engrossed the defense, the physical prop-
erties of the court were readied for the trial-of-the-century. The
courtroom of the Queens County Courthouse in Long Island
City was one of the most imposing (though not the most
beautiful) in the country. In 1922 Cecil B. De Mille had
chosen it as the background for scenes in his epic film Man-
slaughter, starring Leatrice Joy and Thomas Meighan. Even so,
the facilities of this courtroom would be strained beyond
capacity by the upcoming trial. Over 130 newspaper reporters
and special feature writers had already been assigned seats,
which left a scant hundred for the crowds clamoring to get in.
So an interesting innovation in American trials was conceived.
Amplifiers were strung through the courthouse corridors. Wit-
ness and lawyers would speak into microphones and their words
would blare forth in the corridors outside.

Next a huge Western Union switchboard, built especially for
the Hall-Mills trial, was reassembled in a special room.
Western Union was proud of its telegraph switchboard and
prepared a special brochure on it: "This switchboard is a
famous institution. It is ... the only portable electric switch-
board in existence which is capable of handling 20,000 words an
hour. It is a gigantic metal box into which 108 wires can be
jacked at once, opening direct and instantaneous communica-
tion with newspaper offices in every section of the country."

Meanwhile, newspapers themselves beat drums over plans to
give the trial saturation coverage. Here, pious superiority would
be the theme. Ruth Snyder and Judd Gray were admittedly
guilty, and newspapers planned only to illuminate the depth of
their guilt. An indication of this came when the Daily Mirror
printed what has often been cited as a low point in journalism.
It was a picture of nine-year-old Lorraine Snyder leaving her

100 The Sash-Weight Murder

father's funeral, trying to hide her startled face from a photog-
rapher's flash. Stated the caption: 'The Daily Mirror will not
print a photograph showing the face of an innocent child, but
reproduces this picture as a great moral lesson. Do you think
Mrs. Snyder would have loosed her passions if she could have
seen this picture before she committed the crime? 7 '

As the trial date approached, newspapers announced that
testimony would be covered by such master reporters as Damon
Runyon, Edwin C. Hill, and Courtenay Terrett. Also present
would be feature writers in quantity never before known. To
readers of the twenty-five newspapers of the Scripps-Howard
chain, Dr. Will Durant would offer his special philosophic
comments on the trial. Other special writers included theatrical
producer David Belasco; the film director David Wark Griffith
(assisting him, Maureen Watkins, author of the play Chicago);
the mystery novelist Mary Roberts Rinehart; the celebrated
revivalist Aimee Semple McPherson (for the Graphic); the
Fundamentalist preacher Dr. John Roach Straton; and the play-
wright Willard Mack, author of The Noose. For the New York
Post, W. E. Woodward, debunker and author of the novel
Bunk, set the tenor of the occasion by declaring before the trial
that testimony in the courtroom would show "Hot love, the
throbbing tom-toms of jazz and the tawdry splendor of night
clubs the rhythmic beat of the heart's desire."

By far the most remarkable special writer appointed to cover
the event was Peggy Hopkins Joyce, the much-married glamour
girl of the Twenties. In all, Miss Joyce married some five or six
times, a record surpassed by numerous other members of her
sex. Yet she squeezed so much publicity from each that she
became a living symbol of the rising divorce rate currently
agitating right-thinking people. The much-married Peggy was
a perennial news source, though reporters had trouble deciding
whether she was an intelligent girl or a Lorelei Lee straight
out of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. There was evidence on both

The Sash-Weight Murder 101

sides. At a dinner party Miss Joyce had been surveyed through
a lorgnette by a haughty dowager who inquired, "Young lady,
why do you get married so much?" To this Peggy answered
brightly, "I owe it to my pubic/'

But on another occasion Miss Joyce was told that many fine
people lived on the West Side of Manhattan. Now she turned
haughty. "Whom, for n'instance?" she inquired. At the Snyder-
Gray trial Miss Joyce did little to clear up the bewilderment
about her mental stature. She arrived in an ermine coat and
told everyone she was too thrilled for words at being a reporter.
Then at the end of the first day she buttonholed a fellow scribe
and asked, "Say, what's going on here, anyway?"

Long Island City was a short five-cent subway ride from
New York City. It also lay in one of New York's most populous
boroughs, with a mammoth housewife population. Where
White Plains had been an hour's ride by train, Long Island
City was easily accessible and the crowds turning out on the
morning of April 2$th (the jury had been selected the week
before) were correspondingly large. In his book on the case
Fred J. Cook writes:

No first night of a Eugene O'Neill play ever drew a fuller house,
a more distinguished audience . . . Fashionable society women,
one titled English couple [the Marquis of Queensberry and his
wife], millionaires, writers, playwrights, physicians and just plain
housewives vied for seats on the hard, high-backed benches. Out-
side, in the corridors, avid hundreds milled. These would not be
able to see, but they could hear. Microphones had been set up
before the witness stand and bench, and every word of the life-
and-death drama, grotesquely magnified, would boom out into the
courtroom and into the corridors beyond through two large, horn-
shaped amplifiers.

The Snyder-Gray murder is often dismissed as a clumsy
crime, with a trial to match. This is not fair. Though details
of the case were well known beforehand, the trial was packed

102 The Sash-Weight Murder

with moments of drama. One of its sessions stands as perhaps
the most thrill-charged in American trial history. One reason
for tense courtroom drama was the supporting cast. Indeed, if
Cecil De Mille himself had appeared to redirect Manslaughter
he could not have evoked more picturesque acting.

Judge Townsend Scudder, massive and dignified, might have
been type-cast "by Hollywood. District Attorney Richard S.
Newcombe was tall, grayish, balding, and dignified, with a rasp-
ing voice that could drip acid. His assistant was Charles W.
Froessel, a huge, dynamic man with a booming vocal equip-
ment that thundered contempt at witnesses. Mrs. Snyder re-
tained Edgar F. Hazelton and Dana Wallace, both lights of
the Queens County bar and prominent men in the community.
Hazelton was a natty dresser who affected a pince-nez on a
black cord and white piping on his vest. Wallace, a terrier-like
fellow, favored expensive tweeds and astounded reporters by
his out-of -court consumption of Bromo-Seltzer.

As if to point up differences from Mrs. Snyder, Judd Gray
(or those acting for him) had retained two "average" lawyers.
They were Samuel L. Miller and William J. Millard, both
skilled at underplaying when the opposition overplayed.

Of this galaxy Hazelton possessed the most striking his-
trionic gifts. Picturing Judd Gray on the murder night, "He
distorted his face, bent over like a hunchback, thrust forth his
chin, and stretched his arms out with clawlike fingers extended
in a strangled grip."

As court convened on the first day, Mrs. Snyder and Judd
Gray were led in and seated at the defense table, a scant fifteen
feet apart. Neither glanced at the other. Mrs. Snyder was
dressed entirely in widow's weeds, with a strand of imitation
pearls around her neck. In moments of tension her fingers
wound this strand tight, and at least once the tightened pearls
pinched her skin hard enough to draw a drop of blood. Gray
wore a blue double-breasted suit with a white handkerchief

The Sash-Weight Murder 103

peeking gallantly from the breast pocket. He still seemed in a
stupor of hopelessness, capable only of studying the hands
folded neatly on his lap.

Some of those who had squeezed into the courtroom had
brought opera glasses the better to scrutinize the defendants.
They saw that, despite an overstrong chin, the Tiger Woman
was an attractive female, much more so than expected. "Put
Peggy Joyce's clothes on her and she might be better looking
than Peggy," a sob sister wrote realistically. Mrs. Snyder's
naturally blond hair was marcelled to perfection. For the most
part she sat without a flicker of emotion, causing reporters to
marvel at her marble calm. Her skin was clear, eyes a dazzling
ice blue. Her childhood had been sickly and unhappy, and no
romance entered her life until she encountered Albert Snyder.
Despite this, the tabloids had labeled her a jazz baby, a party
girl, an unregenerate flapper. Her good looks in the courtroom
made all this seem quite possible.

With an all-male jury seated in the box, it became ap-
parent that each defendant planned to blame the other. Mrs.
Snyder's lawyer called Judd Gray "a gay deceiver' 7 (this seemed
so farfetched that titters ran through the courtroom). "We
will prove to you," Hazelton continued undeterred, "that Ruth
Snyder is not the demimondaine that Gray would like to paint
her, but that she is a real loving wife, a good wife; that it was
not her fault that brought about the condition that existed in
that home"

Judd Gray's lawyer addressed the jurors with quiet con-
fidence: "He was dominated by a cold, heartless, calculating
master mind and master will. He was a helpless mendicant of
a designing, deadly, conscienceless, abnormal woman, a human
serpent, a human fiend in the guise of a woman. He became
inveigled and drawn into this hopeless chasm, where reason
was gone, where mind was gone, where manhood was gone,
and where his mind was weakened by lust and passion."

104 The Sash-Weight Murder

According to Mrs. Snyder's defense, Judd Gray had struck
the death blow and compounded his guilt by strangling the
dying (or dead) Snyder. Gray in the story that came to be
accepted as the true one accused her of grabbing up the sash
weight as he dropped it, then dealing the death blow. Thus the
defense was a house sharply divided, and instead of one trial
in the Queens County Courthouse there seemed to be two,
with no less than three sets of furiously battling attorneys.

High moments of the trial began immediately, with the ap-
pearance in the witness stand of Police Commissioner George
V, McLaughlin. New York's top cops in those days usually
came from the ranks of business McLaughlin's successor
would be Grover Whalen, the superlatively dressed carnation-
wearer who was the city's official greeter as well as the President
of Wanamaker's. McLaughlin had been an executive of the
Brooklyn Trust Company. A giant of a man, he spoke with the
commanding authority of one who expects to be obeyed and
believed. In calm, unhurried tones he described the Sunday
during which Ruth Snyder had given so many rambling stories
before naming Judd Gray. Then he told of interviewing Gray
on his return from Syracuse. The Commissioner was not one to
omit pungent details. Speaking of Mrs. Snyder, he recalled how
she had objected to the fact that her confession said she killed
her husband. "That word kill sounds so cruel that I don't like
to use it," she complained. "But didn't you kill him?" she was
asked. "Yes," she said, "but I don't like to use that term I'd
rather have it say got rid of him" Re-creating Gray's confession,
the Commissioner testified that Gray had said Mrs. Snyder
picked up the sash weight and belabored her husband. "Those
were Gray's words," the Commissioner repeated portentously.
"He said, belabored him! 1 Silence in the courtroom was utter
and absolute.

As witnesses continued, preacher-turned-reporter John Roach
Straton wrote: "Literally every one of the Ten Commandments

The Sash-Weight Murder 105

has been trampled on during this time." His colleague Aimee
Semple McPherson called upon God to teach young men to
say: "I want a wife like mother not a Red Hot Cutie." Judd
Gray's mother and sister (but never his wife) were in the court-
room, as was Mrs. Snyder's elderly mother. Also present were
such stage celebrities as Nora Bayes, Leon Errol, Francine
Larrimore, and One-Eyed Connolly, the gate-crashing champion
of the era. In the halls outside the courtroom "frustration and
excitement built up ... Crowds shoved and struggled and
milled for positions of vantage near the closed and guarded
doors. The sound of their contention, a noisy, ominous racket,
penetrated even into the taut and expectant sanctum of
justice."

Mrs. Snyder and Judd Gray seldom looked at each other.
Love had turned to hate after the confessions, and events in
the courtroom only deepened it. Few in the spectator seats
bothered to notice Gray, still sunk in an empty trance. Mrs.
Snyder was far more rewarding, for at intervals she engaged in
the vamplike theatrics of the murder morning. When she dis-
agreed with testimony, the glacial woman swung her head like
a metronome forming the words No-No-No silently with her
mouth. At one point Judd Gray's confession was read in court.
She reacted violently to his statement that he looked back on
her as no more than "A good pal to spend an evening with I
will say, to use the slang, that she played me pretty hard for a
while."

At these words Mrs. Snyder turned like a desperate animal
to glare at the back of Gray's head: "Her eyelids drew down
until only the blue, hard glint of her eyes showed behind them,
and her face was contorted into an expression of rage and dis-
gust." For several seconds, she glowered balefully at the un-
knowing Gray. Then with a vigorous, positive, and loud "No,"
she swung back to further histrionics while the confession was

106 The Sash-Weight Murder

read. Several times after this she commented so loudly that her
attorneys had to shush her.

Mrs. Snyder's courtroom emoting won few friends. When
she mounted the witness stand late in the afternoon of May
2nd, the courtroom was definitely against her. In an effort to
present his client as a wronged woman, Hazelton led her
through the story of a barren childhood. When Mrs. Snyder
stated that as a teenager she had taught a Sunday School class,
the crowd laughed. There were giggles when she told what a
good mother she had "been to Lorraine. "Your Honor, I must
object to this twittering behind me," said Hazelton, after Mrs.
Snyder had virtuously declared that she neither smoked nor
drank. The twittering turned to incredulous gasps when the
Panther Woman pictured Judd Gray as a fiend and swore that
she lived in terror of him. After she told of tearfully begging
Gray not to murder her husband, there was such an outburst
that Judge Scudder spoke sternly from the bench: "There must
be no moving about, no bobbing up in seats, no comments, no
giving way to expressions of sentiment or feeling, and above all
no levity/'

At the afternoon session of May 3rd, the fashion plate Hazel-
ton nodded to the prosecution table and said, "Your witness/'
Assistant District Attorney Froessel, he of the large frame and
booming voice, approached the black-clad witness like an
animal stalking its prey. Up to now Mrs. Snyder had been a
composed witness, not visibly affected by the hostile atmos-
phere of the courtroom. She had painted a portrait of virtue:
a blameless childhood, martyrdom as an unloved wife, mo-
ments of horror under the influence of the archfiend, Judd
Gray. Froessel tore at this. He began by proving her a liar on
numerous occasions: "You lied to the neighbors?" "Yes/' "You
lied to the policemen?" "Yes." "You lied to the detectives?"
"Yes."-"You lied to Commissioner McLaughlin?" "Yes."-
"You lied to the Assistant District Attorney?" "Yes." "You

The Sash-Weight Murder 107

lied to your mother?" "Yes ""You lied to your daughter?"
"Yes." "You lied to everybody that spoke to you or with you?"
"Yes." By the end of the afternoon session, Mrs. Snyder had
turned into a hedging, faltering, driven witness, giving answers
so illogical that she was forced to amend them an instant after
they left her mouth.

On Wednesday morning, May 4th, Mrs. Snyder mounted
the witness stand to face a Froessel who quickly trapped her in
further inconsistencies. Her cheekbones seemed to jut sharply
from under her pale skin as she fell back on the time-honored
answers of the trapped witness: "I don't know," "I don't re-
call," "I don't remember." Now Froessel pulled a master stroke.
Taking her original, fifty-three-page confession he read it aloud
sentence by sentence. At the end of each, he paused to de-
mand, "Is this the truth?" At first Mrs. Snyders replies were
all Yes. But with the description of the murder, her answers be-
came a damning series of No's. During this, one reporter wrote:
"She bore no resemblance to the calm and resolute witness who
had taken the stand to tell her story under the guidance of
Hazelton. Her resistance sapped by the progressive involvement
in contradictions for which she had no logical explanation, she
answered questions almost listlessly. At moments she appeared
to say almost anything Froessel wanted her to say. At others
she rallied belligerently to deny the truth of statements she had
just made."

The haggard Ruth Snyder who stepped down from the wit-
ness stand at five minutes after two barely had strength to
reach the defense table. There she slumped in the chair and
buried her face in a handkerchief. It was an emotion-drenched
moment, with more to come. "Lorraine Snyder," the bailiff
shouted and the nine-year-old child tripped demurely down the
aisle. It was such intense drama that even the judge lost his
monumental gravity. He bent down from the bench and spoke
to Lorraine in fatherly tones, urging her not to be frightened.

108 The Sash-Weight Murder

Then the child was led through five minutes of questioning
about the night of the crime.

First the excitement of the Tiger Woman cracking on the
stand, then the shattering pathos of the -woman's daughter in
court! Those present felt they could stand no more. When the
name "Henry Judd Gray" rang out, a deep sigh seemed to pass
over the courtroom. It was a sigh of neither pleasure nor
anticipation, but rather an oh-no from people whose taut
nerves were stretching unbearably.

As Judd Gray rose to his feet those in the courtroom noted
something overlooked during the concentration on Ruth
Snyder's testimony. For days Gray had sat dejectedly, a broken
man. Now the energy that drained from Mrs. Snyder seemed
to have reached him. He stood with an almost soldierly erect-
ness "as if someone had pumped air into him/ 7 Damon
Runyon wrote. On the witness stand he was alert and con-
fident, his manner that of a man determined to save himself,
in the eyes of his Maker at least, by telling the absolute truth.
Slowly, methodically, he began. At one point the majestic
Judge Scudder tried to prod him along by saying, "You told us
that a moment ago." Gray would not be hurried. "Let me tell
it my way," he answered primly.

The witness spoke impersonally, as if everything had hap-
pened to another man. "It was the autobiography of a mur-
derer who apparently forgot nothing and desired to tell all,"
the New York Times stated. As Gray testified, Mrs. Snyder
turned ashen. She sat like stone as he came to the night of the
murder: "I put on rubber gloves. I took the sash weight and
gave her the chloroform. I gave her a piece of wire. She carried
the handkerchief with the cotton waste. The bottle of chloro-
form was wrapped in the Italian newspaper I had my glasses
off. She took me by the hand. We went out into the hall. The
door of her husband's room was practically closed except for a
crack. She entered the room and I followed her. I don't know

The Sash-Weight Murder 109

how many seconds I stood there trying to get rny bearings. I
struck him on the head, as nearly as I could, one blow. I think
I hit him another blow, because with the first blow he raised
up in bed and started to holler. I went over on the bed on top
of him, and tried to get the bedclothes over his mouth, so as to
suppress his cries *"

At this point, an agonized cry tore through the rapt silence
of the court. It was Warren Schneider, the murdered man's
brother, who began shouting, "Albert! Albert! Make him stop!
For God's sake, make him stop!" Bailiffs leaped on Schneider
and pulled him from the room.

During this, Judd Gray sat with eyes closed. With quiet
restored he continued matter-of-factly: "He was apparently full
of fight. He got me by the necktie. I was getting the worst of
it because I was being choked. I hollered, Momsze, Momsie, for
God's sake help me! I had dropped the sash weight. She came
over and took the weight and hit him on the head . . /'

Here another scream rent the air. It came from Mrs. Snyder
who, with face contorted, leaped forward as if to reach the
witness and tear the tongue from his throat. Matrons hauled
her back and she threw herself over the defense table sob-
bing. From the corridor outside came further cries. Warren
Schneider had collapsed and his wife was hysterically scream-
ing for help. In the midst of this bedlam Judd Gray slumped
forward in the witness chair, his arms dangling lifelessly. He
had fainted.

On this note of courtroom chaos, Judge Scudder adjourned
court for the day.

Judd Gray's testimony had carried enormous impact. Out-
side on the courthouse steps playwright William Mack struck
a stance and pontificated: "I say to you that if ever human lips
uttered the truth, this was the time!" Behind him David
Belasco nodded sage agreement. Next morning Gray was again

110 The Sash-Weight Murder

on the stand, continuing his passionless recital. On cross-
examination, the terrier-like Dana Wallace tried desperately to
shake him, but it could not be done. Wallace tried to make
much of the fact that one of Mrs. Snyder's medical experts
contradicted Gray on details of the crime. "I was there, Mr.
Wallace, and the doctor was not," Gray replied quietly that
was the end of that. When Gray stepped down, he said aloud,
"I have told the truth/ 7

Summations were long and replete with purple passages. A
weekend intervened, so that it was not until the late afternoon
of May 9 that Judge Scudder completed his charge to the
jury. It had been a two-week trial, but the twelve good men
deliberated for only one hour and thirty-seven minutes. Ruth
Snyder and Judd Gray were led back into court, looking in-
credibly confident. The foreman of the jury read the verdict
everyone else expected: "We find the defendants guilty of
murder in the first degree." This meant the electric chair. Mrs.
Snyder gasped and dropped into a chair. Gray turned white
and also sat. Seemingly both had expected, deep-down, to get
away with the Dumbbell Murder.

N THE afternoon of the verdict in the
Snyder-Gray trial, the city room of the
Evening Qraphvz was in the grip of peculiar tensions. The
Porno-Graphic had stopped at nothing in its low-down treat-
ment of the case and its readers were waiting breathlessly
for the news that crime did not pay. On page one of its
first edition of the day the Graphic headlined expectantly
SNYDER VERDICT NEAR. Then astounding instructions had come
from publisher Bernarr Macfadden himself. Mr. Macfad-
den ordered that another story be combined with the Snyder
case in later editions. This provoked much city room mutter-
ing about front office interference, not to mention amateurs in
the newspaper business. For every professional newspaperman
knew that a banner headline should stress only a single story.
Nevertheless, the Graphic editors bent collective backs and
prepared the kind of headline Mr. Macfadden wanted:

FRENCH FLIERS

LAND IN TIME TO

HEAR SNYDER VERDICT

111

112 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

This was an odd headline in more ways than one and it
signalized a transition in the world every bit as abrupt as that
on the Graphic's front page. The United States had been look-
ing downward, wallowing in the mud of the Snyder-Gray trial.
Yet even as the couple were sentenced to die in the Sing Sing
electric chair the country was suddenly forced to turn eyes up-
ward. Never again would the world look down so low again,
and during the rest of the summer of 1927 it would look very
high indeed.

In the early dawn of May 8th, the French fliers Nungesser
and Coli had taken off from Paris in an attempt to win the
$25,000 Orteig Prize for a non-stop New York-Paris (or Paris-
New York) flight. Like true Frenchmen, the aces had taken off
in bravura style. Captain Charles Nungesser had shot down
forty-seven German planes in World War I, sustaining so
many wounds himself that many parts of his chunky body were
patched together with platinum. Frangois Coli, his navigator
and copilot, had only one eye as a result of war service. Their
plane was a single-engine biplane christened the White Bird,
and a large crowd watched as, at five in the morning, it
lumbered into the air carrying a heavy load of gasoline. For
a time the White Bird had been accompanied by an escort of
six other planes, but soon it outdistanced these planes and
headed alone toward New York.

As it flew, elation swept Paris. France had been one of the
great nations in the world until the end of World War I. It
was still great, with Americans feeling a special pull to it be-
cause so many doughboys had fought on French soil in
1917-18. But already France could feel itself slipping and with
this came a sense of inferiority. If only French aviators could
be the first to span the Atlantic! As the White Bird flew on,
Paris gave over to a carnival mood. Not since the Armistice in
1918 had there been such celebration. Business and govern-
ment offices began to close, leaving the populace free to fill the

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 113

streets hugging, kissing, and congratulating one another. Ten-
sion rose through the day and at night fireworks over the
Tuileries kept up the fever pitch.

Next morning the frenzy was far greater, for this was the day
on which the fliers could be expected to land. ALL NEW YORK TO
GREET FLIERS AT THE BATTERY, read the headline in the Paris
Herald, while stories in French papers were so optimistic that
already the flight seemed to have succeeded. It was anticipated
that Nungesser and Coli would take some thirty-six hours to
reach New York, but even before thisat five that night
Ulntransigeant brought out an Extra saying that the French-
men had landed at four-thirty-five Paris time. The details of
this story were highly picturesque. They said that, after circling
the Statue of Liberty three times, the White Bird had landed
in the flower-strewn waters of New York harbor.

France went wild. Crowds around newspaper offices were
further inflamed by the posting of a purported interview with
a triumphant Nungesser. Paris abandoned itself to a delirium
of hero worship. That night the luminous signboard over the
Place de TOpera added confirmation to the story of the land-
ing, and the joyous frenzy of the crowds rose to new heights.

In New York, the story was far different. Through the after-
noon a crowd gathered at the Battery, for the White Bird was
equipped to land on water and Nungesser had announced his
intention of landing as near the Statue of Liberty as possible.
Rumors swept the waiting groups, but these lacked the sublime
conviction of those bringing hope to Paris. There was ab-
solutely no activity in the air around the Battery and nothing
to watch. An electric feeling of success seemed to be totally
absent and most of those who had gathered in the afternoon
departed with the coming of night as the contemporary
troubadour Vernon Dalhart would sing in a Tin Pan Alley
lament called "Two French Fliers":

114 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

A great crowd was waiting to greet them
In old New York town far away . . .

The eyes of the world were upon them
As they sailed proudly on through the night
And the thought never came for a moment
That this was to be their last flight.

But if nothing else, the attempt of Nungesser and Coli for
the first time focused attention on the lanky airmail pilot
whose plans to fly the Atlantic nonstop had been announced
early in March.

On the day Nungesser and Coli took off, the Associated
Press assigned reporters to obtain statements from other aspir-
ants in the Orteig race. At Roosevelt and Curtiss Fields on
Long Island, Commander Byrd, Clarence Chamberlin, and
Bert Acosta dutifully wished the Frenchmen well. In San
Diego, California, a reporter found Captain Charles A. Lind-
bergh completing tests on his sleek monoplane, the Spirit of
St. Louis, so named because financial backing for his flight had
come from St. Louis businessmen anxious to make their city
world famous. Lindbergh and his single-engine monoplane
were particularly close; indeed it almost seemed that pilot and
plane were one. Where other Orteig entrants would fly planes
conceived by designers like Anthony Fokker and Guiseppe
Bellanca, Lindbergh had after attempting to buy a Bellanca--
gone ahead and designed his own. The Spirit of St. Louis was
his brain child. In many ways it was an individual craft, so
compact that space permitted no radio or safety equipment. In
the Spirit of St. Louis the gas tank was right before the pilot's
eyes, so that he had to use periscopes sliding to right and left
to see straight ahead. At San Diego, Lindbergh had been per-
fecting himself in the art of flying blindthat is, by instru-
ment only.

The Associated Press reporter found Lindbergh just as the
twenty-five-year-old pilot was about to leave for St. Louis, on

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 115

the first leg of his flight to Curtiss Field. Lindbergh, too,
wished the French fliers well, then squeezed his tall body into
the wicker seat of his plane. With a quiet efficiency soon to be
famous the world over, he flew by compass straight to St.
Louis, setting a new record of fourteen hours and five minutes.
After pausing for a day, he went on to New York, establishing
another record. Altogether, the flight from San Diego took
twenty-one hours and forty-five minutes, a third record.

His plane, glinting gold in the afternoon sun, passed over
New York in midafternoon and landed at Curtiss Field shortly
after. The Lindbergh Legend, which had begun to build with
the record solo flight from San Diego to St. Louis, now received
enormous momentum from the reporters who greeted the
youthful flier. The New York Times rapturously described him
as a daring young man who looked more like a boy, and went
on to enthuse: "His pink cheeks, dancing eyes, and merry grin
seemed to say, Hello, folks, here I am all ready to go."

"Slim" Lindbergh, as he was generally known at this point,
did indeed appear the image of the All-Ainerican boy, the
Eagle Scout grown up. His fresh, young face radiated modesty
and boyish confidence, and the general look of cleancut youth-
fulness was increased by his semi-military outfit of khakis,
leather flying jacket, and leather puttees or high woolen socks.
In person, he was quiet and spoke only when spoken to, but
there was nothing boorish in his silence. He was merely a young
man who preferred his own thoughts.

A whiff of such fresh American manhood was much needed
at Curtiss Field and nearby Roosevelt Field, for the Orteig
sweepstakes had been undergoing a period of unpleasant stress.
The careful, science-only preparations of Commander Byrd
had been somewhat marred late in April when his tri-motor
America made a test flight with designer Anthony Fokker at
the controls. On landing, the plane turned turtle and landed
ignominiously on its back. Floyd Bennett, the regular pilot,

116 "Plucky Lindys Lucky Day 7 '

was seriously injured, and Byrd's wrist was broken. Reporters
rushing to the scene found Fokker and the high-strung Byrd
engaged in an angry shouting match. Byrd's hand dangled
grotesquely as he gestured. He was so infuriated that he had
not noticed his broken wrist.

When Lindbergh landed at Curtiss Field, Floyd Bennett
was still in the hospital, and had pulled out of the trans-
atlantic flight. Byrd, wrist in splints, barely spoke to Fokker,
and the America was undergoing delicate repairs. Still more
emotion had been generated by Byrd's rival in the transatlantic
race which, with Lindbergh's arrival, became three-cornered.
This stemmed from the Columbia, a yellow single-engine plane
designed by Guiseppe Bellanca the plane Lindbergh had tried
to purchase for his own flight. The Columbia's pilot was thirty-
three-year-old Clarence Chamberlin, who as far back as 1902
had displayed a mechanical bent by tinkering the family car
in his home town of Denison, Iowa. "We used to fix the car
all week, so we could drive it on Sunday/' he was fond of re-
calling. Chamberlin had studied electrical engineering at Iowa
State College. In World War I, he had been a flying instructor.
He then turned flying barnstormer, acquiring so much skill
that fellow pilots stated respectfully, "Clarence could fly a
sewing machine if he felt like it."

At all times friendly, easygoing and relaxed, Chamberlin
seemed to be the only person able to get along with Charles
A. Levine, the financial backer of the Columbia flight. The
squat, bald Levine was only thirty, but already he was a self-
made millionaire several times over. He was informally known
as the Millionaire Junkman, and aviators complained that he
managed the Columbia flight as if buying more junk. Yet
Levine had left his junk days far behind. A native of North
Adams, Massachusetts, he had graduated to canny purchases of
war surplus and later to high-echelon deals in such commodities
as steel. In his home borough of Brooklyn, Levine had another

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 117

distinction. He was known as the lucky man who married
Grace S. Nova, called the Belle of Williarnsburg because of
the monotonous regularity with which she won local beauty
contests.

Wherever Levine went, swirling controversy followed. In
April, Chamberlin and Bert Acosta had set a new world's
endurance record in the Columbia. Since these two men were
pilots it was decided that both could not go on a transatlantic
flight; a navigator was necessary. Financial-backer Levine re-
fused to pick the man who would fly the Columbia on its great
trip. "I'm letting the boys guess," he told reporters. "Keeps
them up on their toes." The proud Acosta was so infuriated by
this that he resigned on the spot, offering his services to Com-
mander Byrd in place of the injured Bennett. Officially, Acosta
gave overweight as the reason for his resignation. This excuse
was rendered ludicrous when Levine hired Lloyd Bertaud as
his navigator. Bertaud Weighed 190 pounds.

Next Levine and the Columbia's designer, Guiseppe Bel-
lanca, began to express disapproval of each other. Then Lloyd
Bertaud joined anti-Levine forces. Bertaud was an impatient
type, eager for an early take off. Bellanca, Levine, and Cham-
berlin were in favor of awaiting fine summer weather. Feelings
rose so high that Bertaud accused Levine of acting in bad faith.
The bulky navigator angrily charged that the Millionaire Junk-
man had no intention of permitting the Columbia flight; he
would wait until someone else succeeded, then call it off. Thus
he would gain all the publicity with none of the risk.

An infuriated Levine fired Bertaud, then reluctantly rehired
him. Urged on by Bertaud, the Columbia group announced a
take off on May loth, and in France a series of beacon flares
were put up between Cherbourg and Le Bourget Field in Paris.
On the morning of the Nungesser-Coli take off the weather
report was bad. Yet one reason the French fliers decided to fly

118 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

that day was that the departure of the Columbia on the
loth appeared so definite.

Instead, on the morning of the loth the controversy between
Levine and Bertaud had reached the courts, where Bertaud was
suing to buy the plane. Only Chamberlin seemed undisturbed
by all this. On the afternoon Lindbergh landed, the older, ever-
relaxed pilot ambled over and greeted him in friendly fashion.
The two compared planes and prospects. Soon Commander
Byrd appeared and in an historic moment the three shook
hands and said to one another, May the best man win. The
thirty-seven-year-old Byrd, ever the Virginia gentleman, offered
his rivals the use of his superior runway on Roosevelt Field
an offer both eventually accepted. Then the three went their
varying ways: Byrd back to his shipshape headquarters at
Roosevelt Field, Chamberlin and Lindbergh to their messy,
workman-like hangars at Curtiss.

The shy, boyish Lindbergh instantly became the public
favorite among the three contenders. For him the press coined
such affectionate names as Slim, Lindy, Lucky Lindy, Plucky
Lindy, and the Flying Kid. The tabloids dubbed him the Flyin ?
Fool, a name Lindbergh resented since there was absolutely
nothing foolish about his preparations for this or any flight. On
the other hand, he seemed rather to like the more dignified
appellation Lone Eagle. All Lindbergh's thoughts were single-
mindedly beamed on the coming flight and he did not relish
the constant interest of the press. In his book The Spirit of St.
Louis , published in 1953, he acidly pictures male and female
reporters putting such questions as: "Do you carry a rabbits
foot?" "What's your favorite pie?" "Have you got a sweet-
heart?" "How do you feel about girls?"

The three planes poised for the transatlantic race of 1927
were equipped with Wright Whirlwind motors. This placed a
burden on the public-relations firm run by Harry Bruno and

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day 71 119

Richard Blythe, which represented Wright in New York City.
On learning that the unsophisticated Lindbergh was winging
his way east, Bruno had phoned the Wright company. "What
do you want us to do?" he asked. "Protect him from the ex-
ploiters and the mob," he was told.

Richard Blythe elected to do this personally, and so became
an early discoverer of certain peculiarities in the Lindbergh
temperament. Because it was Blythe's job to arrange press
interviews, Lindbergh was intensely suspicious of him. Yet
Blythe decided it was necessary to remain with the Lone Eagle
at all times, even to the exttot of bunking with him. On Lucky
Lindy's first night on Long Island the two repaired to a double
room at the Garden City Hotel "There," Blythe has said, "we
bedded down like two strange wildcats, each in his own hole/'

Next day Blythe heard Lindbergh ask a Wright executive,
"Who is this fellow Blythe, and who is Bruno?" "They're your
buffers/' he was told. "You need them/' Lindbergh still seemed
doubtful, but he permitted Blythe to remain by his side.

From this point of vantage, Blythe found that despite a slim
and boyish appearance Lindbergh was a prodigious devourer of
food. For breakfast he put away six eggs, plus a steak or chops.
At Curtiss Field, he unobtrusively hung up a never-to-be-
beaten record for solo consumption of hot dogs.

Lindbergh, Blythe discovered, was a loner and always had
been. Once he had written to a friend that his chances of meet-
ing a girl whom he might marry were: "no prospects, past,
present, or future/' His human contacts had been largely with
men in such masculine surroundings as the University of Wis-
coriisin dormitories and air corps barracks. His humor was on a
robust, man-to-man level. Blythe discovered this the third
morning in the Garden City Hotel. He was sleeping blissfully
when at five*o'clock he was doused awake by a pitcher of ice-
cold water. Above him stood Lindbergh, grinning his celebrated
grin. Such a rude awakening meant that Blythe had finally

120 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

been accepted as a friend. It did not, however, mean the end of
practical jokes. A few mornings later Blythe awoke to find
Lindbergh straddling him. He was trying to shave off half
Blythe's moustache.

These moments were rare, however; Lindbergh was obsessed
by his flight. At Curtiss Field, he revealed an enormous capacity
for detail. Also, other pilots were forced to admit, he was a past
master at flying, despite his youth. As an airmail pilot, Lind-
bergh had never hesitated to fly in bad weather that made
other fliers remain aground. But though he did not fear the
weather, he had great respect for it. He spent much time at the
Weather Bureau, familiarizing himself further with charts of
the so-called Great Circle Route which led across the Atlantic
in an arc from Newfoundland to Ireland. He made blind flying
test flights over New York and New Jersey and after one he
damaged the Spirit of St. Louis slightly in a swerve to avoid a
group of photographers and reportersan incident which
seemed to increase his dislike of the working press. He had
other uneasy moments, for he too thought the Columbia ready
to take off, though Bertaud and Levine were still at odds. Then
suddenly Commander Byrd seemed to forge ahead. Repairs on
the big tri-motor Fokker were completed and the America
again nosed up to the starting line.

Even so, Lindbergh found time to relax in a way that showed
his boyish side. With Blythe he visited Coney Island, where he
delightedly rode the shoot-the-shoots and fired at clay pigeons.
With Bruno and Blythe he went to the New 'York Times office
to sign a contract for ten thousand dollars giving exclusive
rights to the story of his flight. The dashing Blythe had a lunch
date with a showgirl from Earl Carroll's Vanities who was to
meet him at the Times. As a lark, he suggested that the girl
and Lindbergh pose for a picture in the Times studio. Bruno
hastily extracted a promise from the girl that she would never

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day 77 121

publicize her copy of the photo, and to his eternal amazement
she never did.

One day Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh, a Detroit schoolteacher,
arrived on Long Island for what might well be a last visit with
her flying son. Those who saw Lindbergh in the company of
his widowed mother noted the rather matter-of-fact relation-
ship between them. There were no kisses, hugs, or tears. When
Mrs. Lindbergh left the Garden City railroad station, she
merely patted the tall young man's back. "Good luck, Charles/'
she said. "And goodbye."

One factor which restrained the three planes was the un-
happy fate of Nungesser and Coli. While the nation's eyes
focused on Long Island, a great sea and (as far as possible) air
search for the two Frenchmen was under way. Occasionally
there were rumors that the two had been found in Iceland
wastes or were proceeding to the mainland aboard a radio-less
vessel. All these stories proved unfounded and in Paris the
populace turned ugly after the riotous optimism. American
Ambassador Myron C. Herrick told correspondents that any
American flier landing in Paris might expect unpleasant in-
cidents. He advised against New York-Paris flight now, direct-
ing his words mainly to Clarence Chamberlin who still seemed
the outstanding contender.

But Chamberlin and the Columbia were still wrapped in
controversy. Bertaud had finally been fired. It was now revealed
that the Millionaire Junkman had offered Lindbergh an addi-
tional $25,000 if he, Levine, could go along in the Spirit of St.
Louis. "I said it as a joke/' Levine told newsmen, when pressed
on this, "but if Lindbergh accepts the offer, Fll go." Lindbergh
said nothing.

All the principals in the three flights frequently met in
neighborly confabulation, and one afternoon Commander
Byrd suggested to Levine that he secure the services of Bernt
Balchen, a husky, young Norwegian with a notable flying-

122 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

navigating record. Balchen refused Levine's offer and shortly
thereafter joined Bert Acosta in the Byrd camp.

Every day thousands of curiosity seekers thronged the Long
Island flying fields to stare at the planes and fliers. Mainly the
crowds were interested in Lindbergh, but there were enough
left over so that the stormy petrel Levine had a good-sized
audience for any statements he might issue. "We will make
this flight," he assured one group around the Columbia. "It
has cost me over $75,000 already, but I am going through with
it."

May 12-13-14-15-16-17-18 and still the three planes waited
poised and ready. On Thursday, May iQth, weather reports
again indicated storms over the Atlantic and the fliers in each
camp resigned themselves to wait until the week following.
That night Lindbergh and Blythe were to attend the musical
comedy Rio Rita. If Lindbergh did not enjoy being the object
of newspaper attention, he did relish a few of the privileges
accompanying fame. After the show he and Blythe planned to
visit backstage, where they would be made welcome by the
cast. Lindbergh thought it ought to be fun.

Before the show, he and Blythe made plans to join Harry
Bruno at the Newspaper Club on West Forty-second Street for
dinner. As they drove there it began to rain so hard that the
city streets turned dangerously slippery. It seemed to be a bad
night everywhere, yet the conscientious Lindbergh suggested
that it might be a good idea to phone the Weather Bureau
for a routine report on the weekend. Blythe hopped out of the
car and called the Weather Bureau from a pay station in an
ofEce building. He returned to the car with a face serious. "No
dinner and no show tonight, Slim," he said. "You've got your
weather."

"Right," Lindbergh laconically replied. "We'll go back to
the field and get the ship ready."

"Plucky Lindfs Lucky Day" 123

Weather over the ocean clearing, a sudden change, the
Bureau had told Blythe. Conditions were far from perfect, for
a low-pressure area over Newfoundland was receding, while a
high pushed in behind. This might lead to a sleet storm, but as
an airmail pilot Lindbergh had often flown the mail through
sleet and snow. . . . Isn't this the opportunity I've been wait-
ing for? he now asked himself. Isn't it a chance to prove my
philosophy of flying the mail? Often a pilot can get through
when weather reports are bad ... If I -wait for confirmation
of good weather all the way to Europe I may be the last rather
than the first to leave.

Then the thought hit him that on Long Island Chamberlin
and Byrd must be readying their planes to take advantage of
the breaking weather. Why was he dawdling in Manhattan, his
mind on musical comedies, when his rivals were rolling their
planes toward the rumvays? I've let myself be caught off-guard
at a critical moment, he lashed himself. But at Curtiss Field,
Guiseppe Bellanca was emotionally persuading Chamberlin
that a take off at dawn was impossible because of the uncertain
weather. At Roosevelt Field, Commander Byrd, determined to
wait for the best weather possible, apparently never even con-
sidered a take off. At this moment Byrd was, in fact, guest of
honor at a dinner given at the Garden City Hotel by Grover
Whalen.

On the far side of Queensboro Bridge, Lindbergh and Blythe
stopped for a quick dinner perhaps the last public meal Lind-
bergh would take in his lifetime without attracting attention.
Then Blythe dashed around the comer to a drug store to buy
five ham and chicken sandwiches, only one of which would be
eaten on the flight. Blythe also telephoned Bruno at the News-
paper Club to say that a take off in the morning was a prob-
ability. Bruno immediately passed the news along in several
discreet telephone calls. They were not discreet enough. A re-

124 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day 77

porter from the Daily Mirror overheard one and alerted editor
Philip Payne. By nine o'clock the Mirror was out with an
edition which proclaimed FLYING FOOL HOPS AT DAWN.

As a result a line of cars started snaking out of Manhattan,
carrying the first spectators of a crowd that grew eventually to
several thousand and kept an all-night vigil in the rain. Lind-
bergh was too preoccupied to notice. Low overcast would pre-
vent him from flying the Spirit of St. Louis to Commander
Byrd's superior runway at Roosevelt Field, where most of the
load of fuel could be added. Some way must be found to haul
the trim plane over the rise from one field to the other.

At midnightit was now Friday, May 2Oth Lindbergh went
to the Garden City Hotel for what he hoped would be three
hours of deep sleep. After posting a friend outside the door as
a safeguard against interruption, he dozed off. Suddenly there
came a pounding on the door. It was the man he had stationed
outside. In a state of near-hysteria, he rushed into the room, sat
on the side of the bed. "Slim, what am I going to do when
you're gone?" he demanded senselessly.

Lindbergh got rid of him, but there was no further sleep. He
lay awake wondering why Chamberlin and Byrd were not
preparing to take off. He worried about the weather, about the
amount of fuel he needed to carry, about the condition of the
runway. Wind, weather, power, load-- mentally he tried to bal-
ance these vital factors in his mind, as he would all through the
hours of actual flight. At one-forty he realized sleep was im-
possible and got up. Before three o'clock he had returned to
rainy Curtiss Field. There he was told the weather might be
improving, or it might not. No one knew, but the general
tenor of reports was Weather Clearing. Lindbergh issued the
order for the plane to be hauled to Roosevelt Field. The rain
continued as, with a crowd plodding behind, the Spirit of St.
Louis was ingloriously truck-towed by its tail to Roosevelt

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 125

Field. It's more like a funeral procession than the beginning of
a flight to Paris, Lucky Lindy thought.

At the top of the Roosevelt runway, the plane was roped off
and the laborious business of filling it with a large part of its
total load of 451 gallons of gasoline began. Spectators scrambled
to the tops of cars to watch. It took time 4 A.M. 5; A.M. 6
A.M. 7 A.M. At seven-forty, Lindbergh donned a bulky one-
piece flying suit and eased himself into the cockpit, fitting
snugly into the wicker chair. He buckled his safety belt, pulled
the goggles over his eyes, and nodded to the men to remove
wheel blocks. Easing the throttle, he let the cold engine pound
into action. The ground was soft and muddy and Lindbergh
no less than everyone else feared an accident with the heavy
load of gasoline aboard. At seven-fifty-two the plane began to
move forward. "Good luck, kid," someone shouted.

To Lindbergh at the controls his beloved plane felt more
like an overloaded track than an airplane as it started down
the runway. Spectators stopped breathing while the Spirit of
St. Louis careened along. It was going slowly, too slowly. An
automobile racing beside it hit sixty miles per hour before the
Spirit of St. Louis left the ground. The crowd yelled, but too
soon. The Spirit of St. Louis flopped back to the runway. To
those watching it seemed that the undercarriage must collapse,
but the plane continued its lumbering progress. Twice it
jumped kangaroo-like off the ground, only to wallow back. At
the end of the runway ahead, a steamroller loomed danger-
ously. Above it stretched a line of high-tension wires. Balanced
on a pin point, Lindbergh thought, as the plane lifted itself a
third time. 5000 pounds suspended from those little wings,
5000 pounds balanced on a blast of air! This time the sleek
little monoplane stayed up, clearing the steamroller and the
tension wires by twenty feet

It was seven-fifty-four when the Spirit of St. Louis pointed
its propeller northeast. There was no escort of planes, as there

126 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day' 7

had been with Nungesser and Coli. The Flying Fool was start-
ing his flight aloneas he planned it.

In his mind's eye, Lindbergh visualized himself landing at
Le Bourget airfield in Paris and with difficulty identifying him-
self as an American flier, just in from New York. Or perhaps no
one at the airport would believe him, making it necessary to
prowl the streets of a strange city looking for someone who
spoke English.

In a pocket of his suit, he carried several letters of introduc-
tion, including one to Ambassador Myron Herrick. According
to news stories at the time, he also took along a letter of credit
for a single return passage on the Cunard Line. But Lucky
Lindy never used the letters, or even remotely needed them.
The world he left and the brave new world created by his flight
were for him and everyone else two different places.

As Lindbergh flew, the entire world seemed to change. He
himself later said it was like leaving one planet and arriving on
another. Eyes that had lifted high for Nungesser and Coli rose
to the heavens for him. "Something like a miracle took place,"
Frederick Lewis Allen writes in Only Yesterday. "Romance,
chivalry, and self-dedication had been debunked. A disillusioned
nation, fed on cheap heroics and scandal and crime, was re-
volting against the low estimate of human nature it had
allowed itself to entertain/' Elmer Davis put it more suc-
cinctly: "A public which had seemed to find its highest ideal
in Babe Ruth, Valentino, and Gertrude Ederle (or, perhaps,
in Peaches Browning and Ruth Snyder) suddenly went wild
beyond all precedent over this unknown young man."

In news rooms across the country, editorial writers pulled out
adjectives that had not been used since the boys came march-
ing home after World War I. "He has exalted the race of
men," declared the Baltimore Sun. Said the New York Times:
"The suspense of it, the daring of it, the triumph and glory of

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day' 7 127

it, these are the stuff that makes immortal news." The New
York Sun, in a classic editorial called "Lindbergh Flies Alone/'
said:

Alone?

Is he alone at whose right side rides Courage, with Skill within
the cockpit and Faith upon the left? Does solitude surround the
brave when Adventure leads the way and Ambition reads the
dials? Is there no company with him for whom the air is cleft by
Daring and the darkness is made light by Enterprise . . .

Alone? With what other companions would that man fly to
whom the choice were given?

While Lindbergh flew, crowds gathered before newspaper
offices in even 7 population center in the country, to wait
silently and prayerfully for bulletins which could not come for
at least twenty-four hours, since the Spirit of St. Louis carried
no radio. Families hung pictures of Lindy's countenance,
serious or smiling, in front windows of homes. Merchants did
the same in stores. A crowd collected before the residence of
Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh in Detroit. Movies interrupted
shows to report that no word had come from the Spirit of St.
Louis. Feature stories speculated about the Lone Eagle's per-
sonality and listed the roster of his nicknames. Much was made
of Lindbergh's Scandinavian ancestry, with the New York
Times shattering its accustomed dignity by offering on page
two a dialect poem by James W. Foley which ended:

Ay lak dis man Lindbergh

A dandy fine kid,
Ay lak him, by yingo,

Ay lak vat he did.
Vile dem fellers talkin'

Yust vated and vated,
Dis Lindbergh, he yumps up,

By yingo, and do it.

On this fine May night seventy thousand fight fans had
gathered at Yankee Stadium to witness the heavyweight title

128 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

elimination bout between Jack Sharkey and Jim Maloney. Be-
fore the main event, the iron-lunged announcer Joe Humphreys
called for a moment of prayer for the lone flier. The great
throng rose to stand bareheaded in hushed, prayerful silence.
In a less publicized gesture, a convention of schoolteachers at
the Biltmore Hotel did the same thing.

Next morning the suspense was infinitely greater, for today-
Saturday, May zist, Lindy would land, if land he did. All day
keyed-up, expectant crowds waited before newspaper offices in
small towns and newsstands in large ones. School was out on
a Saturday and small boys reaped fortunes selling newspapers
to shouts of "Latest on Lucky Lindy."

Edition after edition poured from newspaper presses with
such deceptive headlines as HE'LL DO IT! based on the expert
opinion of the paper's aviation writer. If radio rose notably to
the challenge of Lindbergh's flight, no record of the fact has
come down to us: this was the last split-second of newspaper-
news eminence, for with Lindbergh's return to America radio
would for the first time blanket a news event. In New York
City, the Roxy Theatre showed enterprise by cleverly syn-
chronizing silent newsreel shots of Lindbergh's departure with
a sound track of the actual noise. At each performance, the six
thousand packing the Roxy roared to their feet as the plane
lifted from the ground with the sound of the take off roaring
from loudspeakers at the side of the theatre.

The world was going mad, in Paris as everywhere else.
Resentments over the Nungesser-Coli tragedy were forgotten
as in late afternoon a crowd began assembling at the east end
of Le Bourget. By six o'clock nearly 25,000 people had arrived,
necessitating a call for special police and two corps of soldiers
with bayonets fixed. Shortly afterwards the crowd was swept by
a rumor that Lindbergh had been seen over Cork, in Ireland.
The French fervently wanted to believe this, but, after the
Nungesser-Coli disappointment, could not. At eight came a

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 129

further rumor that the Lone Eagle had been spotted over Plym-
outh, England. The still-growing crowd became more excited.
Between eight and nine, the sun sank and the night turned
chilly. Now it was rumored that Lindbergh had reached Cher-
bourg. The moments ticked off. At ten o'clock disillusion began
to set in, aided by a cutting wind. Le Bourget was equipped
with beacon and revolving searchlights which were kept off un-
til planes were set to land. At six minutes after ten there came
a roar of motor in the sky and the beacons snapped on, making
the field and everything on it resemble objects on a silver movie
screen. The crowd shouted, but suddenly the lights snapped ofL
It had been a false alarm the plane overhead had identified
itself and gone on.

Disillusion returned, but not for long. At ten-twenty came
the sound of another motor, together with what seemed an-
other false alarm. Field lights snapped brightly on again, off
again. Then sacre Dfeu/ -they flashed back on and with
movie-like sharpness a silver plane could be seen settling gently
down on the far side of the field, half a mile from the waiting
throng. It took a moment for the significance of this to pene-
trate, then with cries of "Vive I'americain" and "Cette fois,
ga va" (This time, it's really happened) the crowd surged for-
ward, brushing aside the sharp bayonets of the soldiery like
toothpicks. In the cockpit of the slowing plane, a weary Lind-
bergh saw a mob of humanity rolling across the field toward
him he could not comprehend why. Altogether, it was a
supreme moment, the drama of which was captured in the
on-the-spot dispatch filed by correspondent Edwin L. James to
the New York Times

Lindbergh did it. Twenty minutes after 10 o'clock tonight sud-
denly and softly there slipped out of the darkness a gray-white air-
plane as thousands of pairs of eyes strained toward it. At 10:24 the
Spirit of St. Louis landed and lines of soldiers, ranks of policemen

130 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

and stout steel fences went down before a mad rush as irresistible
as the tides of the ocean.

Those first to arrive at the plane had a picture that will live in
their minds for the rest of their lives. His cap off, his famous locks
falling in disarray around his eyes, Lucky Lindy sat peering out
over the rim of the little cockpit of his machine.

"Well, I made it," smiled Lindbergh, as the little white mono-
plane came to a halt in the middle of the field and the first van-
guard reached the plane. Lindbergh made a move to jump out.
Twenty hands reached for him and lifted him out as if he were a
baby. . . .

Many eye-witness versions of the landing including two by
Lindbergh himselfhave come down to us, all differing in some
respects. Seemingly, the Lone Eagle's first words were not the
"Well, I made it" reported by Edwin James. Rather, he seems
to have said, "I am Charles Lindbergh/' to the first of the
rushing horde to reach the plane. Yet Lindbergh believes that
his first words were about the welfare of the Spirit of St. Louis.
At the moment he cut his engine, the crowd reached him. He
felt the Spirit of St. Louis shudder from the impact. Wood
cracked and fabric tore. His brain child desperately needed pro-
tection and he called out, "Are there any mechanics here?"

No one answered except to shout his name. "Speaking was
impossible/' Lindbergh has written. "No words could be heard
in the uproar and nobody cared to hear any. 77 He opened the
cockpit door and began to slide out. Arms grasped his leg to
haul him the rest of the way. Suddenly he was lifted to a
prostrate position on top of the crowd, for all the world like an
Egyptian deity borne aloft in some ancient funeral procession:
"Thousands of voices mingled in a roar. Men were shouting,
stumbling. It was like drowning in a human sea. I was afraid
that I would be dropped under the feet of those milling, cheer-
ing people; and that after sitting in a cockpit-fixed position for
close to thirty-four hours, my muscles would be too stiff to
struggle up again. 7 '

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 131

From this uncomfortable spot, Lindbergh was rescued by
two fast-thinking French pilots named Detroyat and Delage.
With great presence of mind, they grabbed the flying helmet
from Lindbergh's head and clapped it on the head of one
Harry Wheeler, a tall, boyish-looking buyer of rabbit skins
from New York City. Or was the vacationing Wheeler wearing
something that looked like a flier's cap or did the crowds
simply mistake him for Lindbergh because he was tall? Again
accounts differ. But suddenly the real Lindbergh was forgotten,
while the frantic mob hoisted Wheeler off the ground. "Put
me down, I'm nobody," he yelled. Meanwhile, Lindbergh was
propelled by the two Frenchmen to the outskirts of the crowd.
There he stood unnoticed while Delage sprinted off for his tiny
Renault car.

In it, the three big men drove to an empty hangar. "Com-
munication was difficult because my ears were still deafened
from the flight. I spoke no word of French; my new friends,
but little English; and in the background were the noises of
the crowd," At the hangar Lindbergh was led to a small room
and made comfortable, while Detroyat went outside to recon-
noiter. Soon he encountered Major Weiss, one of the military
officials of the field. Informed that Lindbergh was sitting in a
darkened hangar, the Major was incredulous. "Cest impos-
sible" he told Detroyat. Nevertheless he walked to the hangar
and instantly recognized the Lone Eagle. Weiss escorted Lind-
bergh to his office and then set out to find Ambassador HerricL

An hour later the Ambassador arrived. He invited Lindbergh
to stay at the American Embassy. The Lone Eagle accepted,
but refused to leave the field until absolutely certain that his
plane was safe: "I couldn't put the cracking wood and ripping
fabric from my mind ... I was anxious to find out for myself
what repairs would have to be made." Leaving the Ambassador,
the four pilotsMajor Weiss was now a member of the group
got back into the little car and shot across the field, to dis-

132 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day 7 '

cover that the Spirit of St. Louis had been rolled into a hangar:
"It was a great shock to me to see my plane. The sides of the
fuselage were full of gaping holes, and some souvenir hunter
had pulled a lubrication fitting right off one of the roclcer-arm
housings on my engine. But in spite of surface appearances,
careful inspection showed that no serious damage had been
done. A few hours of work would make my plane airworthy
again/'

By now Ambassador Herrick had been lost in the confusion,
so the Frenchmen decided to drive Lindbergh to the Embassy
themselves. Again the large men crowded into the midget car
and set off. With a fine sense of the historic-dramatic Weiss,
Detroyat, and Delage drove to the Embassy by way of the
Place de TOpera. There, under the Arc de Triomphe they
stopped, allowing Lindbergh to step out for a moment at the
tomb of France's Unknown Soldier, with its ever-burning
flame. Then they proceeded to the Embassy.

While this went on, the United States not to mention
England and almost all of the rest of the planet had erupted
into proud, hysterical turmoil. First news of the successful
completion of the flight came at 5:30 p.m. New York time,
only six minutes after the actual landing. In a scene duplicated
in varying degrees across the continent, crowds in Times Square
were transported into a frenzy of shouting, backslapping, kiss-
ing jubilation. Mayor Walker ordered all city buildings with
steam whistles to sound them. Ferryboats and ocean liners did
the same. In other large cities whistles and firebells sounded,
while in towns and hamlets the populace blew auto horns and
rang church bells. In big cities newspapers rushed out extras
with such headlines as HE DID IT! HE'S THERE! HE'S IN PARIS!
Perhaps for the only time in history, newsdealers grew so ex-
cited that they gave papers away. Wall Street was empty

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day 7 ' 133

on a Saturday afternoon, but in midtown Manhattan telephone
directories were torn to bits and thousands of pieces of waste
paper drifted from windows like summer snow.

As if by prearrangement the giant dirigible Los Angeles ap-
peared over Times Square on a trial flight at the height of the
celebration. In movie houses across the country, news of the
landing was flashed on the screen and audiences abandoned
Clara Bow and Tom Mix to rush cheering to the streets. Thou-
sands of people phoned the New York Times to make sure the
news was correct, and newspaper offices in other cities and
towns received corresponding attention.

St. Louis rang to special jubilation, for was not that city
financially responsible for Lindy's flight? On Long Island,
Chamberlin and Byrd offered congratulations, with Byrd show-
ing particular intuition by calling Lindbergh a "Super-Hero. 77

In Washington, Calvin Coolidge cabled to Lindbergh in
Paris and telegraphed to Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh in Detroit.
Shortly after receiving this message, Mrs. Lindbergh received
an offer of $100,000 from a Hollywood producer who wished
her to appear in a movie as the typical American mother. In
New York the offices of Bruno and Blythe were deluged with
offers for Lindbergh from vaudeville agents, book publishers,
and procurers of cigarette testimonials. On Tin Pan Alley, two
songwriters embraced and pounded each other on the back.
Against the advice of hardheaded colleagues, they had written a
song called "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day." Soon the troubadour
Vernon Dalhart would also have a song celebrating Lindbergh's
epic flight. Called "Lindbergh, the Eagle of the USA," it ran
in part:

Lindbergh, oh what a flying fool was hel

Lindbergh, his name will live in history!
Gambling with Fate and a future unknown. . . .

Take hats off to Plucky Lucky Lindbergh,
The Eagle of the USA."

134 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

Major newspapers were caught in a peculiar dilemma. "The
landing of Lindbergh would probably have established an
American record had he not chosen to come to earth on a
Saturday/' Herbert Asbury had written. Thus the New York
Times and other papers were hamstrung by the fact that it was
too late to print more of the special supplements which consti-
tute a full Sunday paper. Still, the Times was able to get out
25,000 extras of an edition carrying a large headline which began
LINDBERGH DOES IT! Below this ran the Edwin L. James story of
the landing in Paris, impressively set across two columns. In
addition the Times was able to announce that Lindbergh's own
story the one for which he received $10,000 before departure-
would start on Monday. It also reported from Washington,
New York, and St. Louis that each of these cities had already
begun preparations for huge welcome-home celebrations for
the Lone Eagle. Stating that New York had earned the right to
be called the City of Welcomes by the receptions given Com-
mander Byrd and Trudy Ederle, Mayor Walker promised to
provide Lucky Lindy with a full week of unceasing receptions,
dinners, and honors. . . .

Still in the grip of thunderous emotion Paris asked, "Where
is Lindbergh?" The identity of tall blond Harry Wheeler had
at last been established, and now the celebrating thousands had
no idea where the true Hero might be. Especially frustrated by
this odd state of affairs were the news correspondents. Fran-
tically they rampaged Paris in search of one of the great stories
of all time.

According to Lindbergh's own account, he sat waiting in the
American Embassy until Ambassador Herrick arrived at three
a.m. During this wait the weary young man he had not slept
for sixty-three hours revived himself slightly by eating a light
supper prepared by the Embassy kitchen. When Ambassador
Herrick returned, he informed Lindbergh that a crowd of

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 135

newspapermen had gathered in the street outside. Lindbergh
agreed to see them: "I spent a few minutes answering ques-
tions and telling them about my flight. 77 Then at quarter past
four he finally went to bed, wearing a pair of pajamas belong-
ing to the Ambassador's son, Parmely.

Lindbergh should know the true details of his own story-
yet there are some reporters alive who accuse him of simplifying
this account, and thus robbing it of considerable drama . . .

The American Embassy was, of course, one of the first places
reporters had visited in the wild quest for Lindbergh. They
were flatly told he was not there, and, indeed, at that moment
he may not have been. But neither was he anywhere else, and
to reporter Ralph Barnes of the Paris Herald it seemed in-
evitable that he would ultimately arrive at the Embassy. Barnes
returned there and picking up a stone from the street beat on
the iron gate until Parmely Herrick appeared to assure him
that Lindbergh was not inside though at this point he may
have been. Barnes returned to the Herald city room and told
his city editor, "I know he's there. He's got to be at the Em-
bassy. There's no other place."

Once again he went back to the Embassy, where he found
other correspondents, reporters, and wire-service men. Again
Barnes made an ungodly racket at the gate, and this time Am-
bassador Herrick emerged. He admitted that Lindbergh was
inside but said the flier was asleep. An interview at this time
was impossible: "Now, now, boys, I really can't permit it to-
night. Don't you realize it's well past three o'clock?" Even so,
the good-natured man invited the group inside for coffee.

As they entered, Parmely Herrick stepped up to say that
Lindbergh had unexpectedly awakened and would see the press.
Herrick and his son found themselves shoved aside in the hectic
stampede of reporters who still according to news accounts-
found Lindbergh seated in pajamas on the edge of a bed in the
Ambassador's guest room. He appeared surprised at the throng

136 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

of journalists and asked, "Is there a New York Times man
here?" Carlyle MacDonald of the Times was present, and as-
sured the uneasy flier that his story was too important to belong
to one paper. Thereupon Lindbergh began to answer questions
and in his first reply used his famous We to unite himself and
his brain-child plane. He told the press he had run into a sleet
storm near Newfoundland and almost turned back. Close to
Ireland, he had glided down to within fifty feet of a fishing
boat and shouted, "Which way is Ireland?" In his book The
Spirit of St. Louis he revealed that his flight had been a long
battle with sleep, but no hint of this appeared in his first inter-
view with the press or in the exclusive articles he wrote for the
Times. Thus the world maintained an image of Lindbergh alert
and ever-vigilant through the long hours in the cockpit of his
plane.

Now Paris knew the whereabouts of its Hero. Later Lind-
bergh vowed that his reception at Le Bourget and the excite-
ment in days following had been the most dangerous part of
his trip. For in Paris and elsewhere Lindy loosed the greatest
torrent of mass emotion the world has ever known. In New
York, newspapers hailed his flight as "The greatest feat of a
solitary man in the records of the human race." The Tucson
Citizen wrote: "One must go back to fictive times of the gods
who dwelt on Mount Olympus for a feat that will parallel that
of Captain Lindbergh."

In Paris, Lindbergh awakened at noon on Sunday, May
22nd, to find the plaza outside jammed with a mob of wor-
shipers who waved hats and handkerchiefs and shouted for his
appearance on a balcony. Up to this moment Lindbergh's
knowledge of ceremonial banquets, honors, and florid speeches
was nil. Yet as a conquering Hero he now with an appreciable
assist from Ambassador Herrick began behaving with a sure-
footedness as unerring as his aviation skill.

The world would have gone mad over Lindbergh anyway,

"Plucky Lindy s Lucky Day" 137

but had he not acquitted himself so well afterward the peak of
the furore might have come with the landing at Le Bourget.
As it was, his general modesty and straightforward speeches
were precisely what everyone wanted. Rather than lessening,
world frenzy over Lucky Lindy rose higher and higher.

On waking Sunday morning Lindbergh telephoned his
mother over the new transatlantic phone put into successful
operation only five months before. His motherhow the world
responded to this act on the part of its boyish Hero! That after-
noon Lindbergh was driven through streets lined with roaring
crowds for a call on Madame Nungesser, mother of the flier for
whom an Atlantic search was still under way. He assumed the
weeping woman that hope still remained. Then he visited a hos-
pital for blind and crippled veterans of World War I. Next he
called on the President of the French Republic, who pinned the
Legion of Honor on the lapel of his blue serge suit.

Sometime during his first day in Paris, Lindbergh presided
over the preparation of his first exclusive article to the New
York Times. It began: "Well, here I am in the hands of
American Ambassador Herrick. From what I have seen of it,
I am sure I am going to like Paris."

In this youthful prose, he went on to describe his flight, and
such was the Lindbergh-enthusiasm in the United States that
the price of the Times carrying this story rose to a dollar. Nor
was America the sole area of Lindy madness. In Sweden thou-
sands of Lindbergs were preparing to apply for court permission
to add an h to their names.

Lindbergh made his first speech on Monday at the Aero
Club of France. In terse, laconic words that exactly fitted his
personality, he told this assemblage of French aviators that the
flight undertaken by Nungesser and Coli had been far more
risky than his own, and urged those present not to give up hope
for the gallant pair.

During the rest of the day he was rushed from official spot

138 "Plucky Lindfs Lucky Day"

to official spot and given added honors. On Tuesday he was
guest of honor at the American Club. On Wednesday the
Chamber of Deputies applauded him. General Gouraud pinned
another medal on his lapel, saying, "It is not only two con-
tinents that you have united, but the hearts of all men every-
where . . ." From poet Maurice Rostand the Hero accepted a
poem called "A Lindbergh" which Rostand had emotionally
scribbled on the back of an envelope during the tumult of the
landing at Le Bourget.

Louis Bleriot, first man to fly the English Channel, was a
type Lindbergh thoroughly understood, and the Hero became
almost eloquent answering a speech of Bleriot's. He called
Bleriot the "Father of World Aviation" and gratefully accepted
a piece of the propeller of the famous Channel-crossing plane.
He then began another round of official visits which led him to
Marshals Foch and Joffre and Aristide Briand.

"Like a ferment of wine, Lindbergh's personality was work-
Ing hour by hour," writer Fitzhugh Green has said. Paris next
gave him an official welcome. With Ambassador Herrick by his
side the hatless, waving Lindbergh traveled Paris streets lined
by more than half a million people. At the City Hall he
received the Gold Medal of the Municipality. In a brief speech
he declared that he believed his flight the forerunner of regular
commercial air-service between the United States and France.
On the following day he went to the Ministry of War for
luncheon, and was received by French Senators at Luxembourg
Palace. Other receptions and honors followed. That night he
sat in a flag-draped box at a gala performance at the Champs
Elysees Theatre.

As each tumultuous day became a more tumultuous tomor-
row, Lindbergh's advisers adopted the strategem of announcing
plans to be at one end of Paris, when in reality Lindy would
be at the other. Thus the Hero was able to steal away from
time to time to tinker with the Spirit of St. Louis. One thing

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 139

in all this adulation particularly bothered him; the world
seemed to think of him as a Hero, forgetting he was primarily
an aviator.

Early Thursday morning he was driven to Le Bourget. There
he went to an Army hangar and climbed into a French Nieu-
port 300 h.p. fighter plane. The pilot Detroyat who had rescued
him from the welcoming horde got into a sister plane. Lind-
bergh paid no attention to the instructions French pilots at-
tempted to give him about the unfamiliar plane. Absently
muttering Qui-oui-oui he adjusted his helmet, revved the motor,
flawlessly took off. Behind him, Detroyat followed.

Over Paris the two sleek craft dipped to salute Ambassador
Herrick in the American Embassy, flew around the Eiffel Tower
at the altitude of the second platform, dipped again at the Arc
de Triomphe to honor the Unknown Soldier. For a short time
they were out of sight, flying over the Paris suburbs. Then sud-
denly they were back over the city. Somehow word had got
around that Lindbergh was piloting one plane and crowds
gathered in streets to watch openmouthed as the Lone Eagle
proceeded to show his prowess as a stunt flier. Lindbergh did
loop-the-loops, side-drafts, corkscrews, wingovers, head spins,
grapevines, and the fluttering leap. Whatever he did, Detroyat
tried to do better, and the two put on an air show of a type
forgotten in an era when flying has become a joint enterprise
rather than an individual one.

At Le Bourget, military authorities stood quaking with fear
not for their plane but for the safety of the Hero. Detroyat
was ordered down when the two stunting planes roared over
the field. Lindbergh was also signaled down, but he was ever a
stubborn young man, especially where aviation was concerned.
Alone in the sky, in the words of a newspaper account, "He
stupefied watchers by the ease with which he handled the
strange plane. The airman showed off a sort of air dance. To
the left he went over on one wing, then to the right, and then

140 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

on his tail and then on the nose. It seemed as if the airplane
hung on wires while Lindbergh did gymnastic tricks."

It was a dazzling display by the man who remains probably
the greatest aviator the world has ever known. When finally
Lindbergh landed, his face was flushed with pleasure. Field
officials rushed to him, ashen and clamorous. Lindbergh
thought they were agitated over the safety of the plane and
said sharply, "I know what I am doing in the air. Don't forget
I've made seven thousand flights in five years. I'm not exactly
inexperienced, you know,"

This was his only moment of true relaxation in Paris. Next
morning he was scheduled to leave for Belgium, where more
receptions and honors awaited. Arising at eight he went to Le
Bourget for a final three-hour grooming of the Spirit of St.
Louis. Then the world-famous We were ready and Lindbergh
took off over Paris boulevards thronged with people: "Dancing
lightheartedly through the air, Ariel has left Paris behind," one
paper rhapsodized. In Brussels, the reception committee at the
Palace was led by Burgomaster Max, who said, "In your glory
there is glory for all men." Close by, King Albert of the
Belgians waited and Lindy's next day dispatch to the New
York Times began: "I have met my first King, and if they are
all like him, believe me, I am for Kings."

After a day in Brussels, We took off for Croydon Airport,
near London. There a clamoring crowd of 150,000 waited far
more than at Le Bourget on the night of the landing. Again
the mob was a riot of enthusiasm, the mood of which was re-
flected by a news account beginning: "Captain Lindbergh
swooped out of the skies like a sun god today." For a second
time in a week Lindy peered from his cockpit and saw a milling
crowd below, but this time he knew why it was there.

He landed cautiously in the center of the field and sat wait-
ing. As he did, an official car with four policemen lying on the
mudguards raced toward him. It reached him just ahead of

"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" 141

sprinting members of the mob, which had broken through
strong police lines. "Watch out for the plane, watch out for
the plane!" Lindbergh called. He then climbed out, a slender
boyish figure in a leather flying jacket. Commander Perrin, sec-
retary of the Royal Aero Club, pulled him into the official car,
but by now so many people pressed close that it could not
move. Men leaned over to pump Lindy's hand and women
tried to kiss him. Others begged him to give his famous grin.
Police were powerless, and Commander Perrin stood up on the
back seat to give the classic British cry, "Be sportsmen! Please
be sportsmen! Let the car go through!"

Together with efforts of the police this produced results, but
Lindbergh would not quit the area until the Spirit of St. Louis
was safely in a hangar. At last, the car began inching toward
Aero Club headquarters on the field. Lindbergh was hustled
inside, but the mighty throng remained outside chanting, "We
want Lindy." Commander Perrin appeared and begged for
quiet. The crowd reminded him that morning papers had
promised everyone a good look at the Hero. The Commander
shrugged and summoned Lindbergh who stepped outside to
give a quick wave. It was not enough. "Up on the control
tower/' the crowd chanted. Lindbergh flashed his boyish grin
and started up the wooden ladder of the control tower. As he
went, someone handed him a megaphone. From the top he
shouted through it: "I just want to tell you this is worse than
Paris." Then he waved and started down the ladder. The crowd
roared its disappointment he had been seen by those facing
only one side of the tower. "Other side, other side," the mob
chanted. Lindbergh climbed back and faced the opposite direc-
tion. "I've just said this is a little worse than Le Bourget or
should I say better," he called through the megaphone. Then
he climbed down.

It had been Lindbergh's intention to remain abroad for

142 "Plucky Lindys Lucky Day' 7

several weeks or perhaps months studying European com-
mercial aviation, which reputedly was far ahead of American.
But almost from the moment he landed at Le Bourget pres-
sures \vere exerted on the Lone Eagle to force him home as
quickly as possible. America wanted its Super-Hero, for in the
words of Paul Sann, "With seven years of scandal, crime, and
the Prohibition Follies under its belt, America was ready for a
genuine All-American pin-up ... It \vas ready for a collective
love affair with someone nice, like a clean-living boy from the
Mid- West who wouldn't know a hip-flask from a nightclub
doll." This resulted in pressures even stronger than Lindbergh's
vaunted stubbornness and through his public utterances for
the remainder of the year would run veiled references to the
fact that he had really wished to stay abroad.

Oddly 7 the person who seemed most intent on bringing the
Hero home was President Calvin Coolidge. The cryptic man
in the White House appeared to sense the earth-shaking pro-
portions of the world's Lindbergh worship and wished to attach
his bleak personality to it. Coolidge was departing on June 13
for a vacation in the Black Hills of South Dakota, and now the
ice-blooded Vermonter set lips tight and decreed that Lind-
bergh return before that day. More, he wanted Lindbergh to
arrive in Washington so that he, Coolidge, could dominate
America's first huge welcome.

At this Mayor Walker of New York let out a piercing cry of
protest: "The President's request that Lindbergh go to Wash-
ington first violates all tradition," he stated angrily. It did no
good. Calvin Coolidge was frigidly adamant. He announced
that a special Distinguished Flying Cross Medal was being
designed for the Hero and he himself wished to pin this on
the Lone Eagle's chest. When this failed to nail things down
Coolidge ordered that the cruiser Memphis, flagship of the
Atlantic fleet, be dispatched to bring Lindbergh home for a

"Plucky Lind/s Lucky Day" 143

monster reception on Saturday, June nth. Coolidge made this
a nationwide holiday Lindbergh Day.

Meantime, in London, Lindbergh was being received at
Buckingham Palace by King George V and Queen Mary. This
proved a disconcerting meeting for the bashful Hero who had so
far impressed everyone with his calmness and modest poise. He
was first led into a small sitting room where the King of Eng-
land waited alone. After the briefest of formal greetings, the
King stated that he and the Queen were curious as to how
Lindbergh had taken care of necessary bodily functions during
the epic flight. Lindbergh was shocked. Then he remembered
that he was talking to a king. He collected himself, swallowed
hard, and revealed that he had taken medicine to solve one
phase of the problem. As for the other, he had worked out a
system with a chain and a container at his feet. When nature
called, he yanked the chain and the container opened.

Lindbergh ended here, but the interest of the King of Eng-
land did not. "Yes, yes, young man, go on," he snapped im-
patiently. Lindbergh gulped and admitted that he had used
this contraption twice, once over Newfoundland, and again
over the Atlantic.

Next, Lindbergh was escorted to York House where he met
the boyish-looking Prince of Wales. Next day, he sat in the
Royal box at the Derby. Afterward he told reporters that he
had thought the great race dull, but any Britishers alienated by
this lack of true sportsmanship were won back by the Hero's
frequent references to the 1919 transatlantic flight of the
Englishmen Alcock and Brown. This, Lindbergh maintained,
had been the first great ocean-spanning flight.

The honors he received in London were as long and arduous
as those in Paris, and not until June 2nd did he go to Kinnerly
Airdrome for a flight back to France. The celebrated English
fog kept him overnight, but he started off at six-twenty a.m.
Because of low visibility the Spirit of St. Louis came down at

144 "Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day"

Lympnel. At eight lie was aloft again, setting a course straight
for Le Bourget

On June 4th, he left Paris for Cherbourg, this time with an
escort of twenty planes. The Memphis waited while Lindbergh
supervised the dismantling and crating of the Spirit of St.
Louis. Full Speed Ahead were the orders given Vice Admiral
Burrage and after leaving France the Memphis plunged along
so fast that once it almost lost its celebrated passenger. The
six-day voyage brought the Lone Eagle a much-needed rest and
he seemed to find particular solace in standing alone in the
prow of the ship. He stood there one day when, in rough
weather, the ship hit a mountain of water. Plucky Lindy held
lifelines to avoid being swept away. For a time he was com-
pletely cut off from the rest of the ship. This was the sort of
rugged adventure the intrepid aviator relished and he en-
thusiastically discussed his emotions under stress with officers
of the Memphis.

Thus in fitting fashion the Hero returned to his native land,
where a new abundance of honors waited. In mid-Atlantic
Lindbergh learned that President Coolidge had appointed him
a Colonel in the Missouri National Guard. Captain Lindbergh
was gone, and with him also went the boyish "Slim" who had
planned and so unerringly executed the flight to Paris. In his
place stood Colonel Lindbergh, an erect demigod known as
"Lindy" to an adoring country. "Our Number One Triple A
Hero/' the show business paper Variety dubbed him.

Cornet Urn

S THE Memphis sliced through the
waves toward the shores of the United
States it took the 75,ooo-ton cruiser four times as long to cross
the Atlantic as Lindbergh had taken to fly it people in all sec-
tions of the country packed up and started by train and auto to
Washington for Lindbergh Day. Some of the Lone Eagle's
fellow pilots in the airmail service announced plans to attend,
as did numerous citizens of Little Falls, Minnesota, the town
in which the Lone Eagle had spent his boyhood until his father
was elected to the House of Representatives in Washington.

Those in Little Falls unable to travel to Washington were
consoled by sight of the Model T Ford with which the me-
chanically-minded Lindbergh boy had once tinkered. This
skeleton had been miraculously discovered in the town dump
and hauled to the village green, where mechanics were trying
to restore it to life. LINDY'S FIRST PLANE was painted on the side
of this automotive wreck and townfolk declared that if it
could not be transported to Washington for Lindbergh Day
the local post of the American Legion would certainly take it

145

146 "Here Comes the Boy/"

to Paris for the giant Legion convention scheduled late in the
summer.

Many of those unable to make Washington for Lindbergh
Day wrote instead. As Lindbergh approached home 500,000
letters addressed to him piled into the Washington post office.
Some enclosed return postage to assure an answer, and it is
said that eventually this unused postage amounted to $100,000.
Local offices of Western Union and Postal Telegraph staggered
under more than 75,000 messages. Most of these were stereo-
types, for the enterprising companies had devised Lindbergh
Specials Your Choice of a Telegram to Lindy for 30^. Of
these, Number Two read: "Glad you're back, Colonel, When
you're out this way drop in and see us. n

While such emotional outpourings spilled from ordinary
citizens, the offices of Bruno and BIythe and other represent-
atives of the Flying Fool were trying to cope with business
offers for the most famous young man in the world.

Some of these might be called legitimate. Lindy was offered
$1,000,000 to appear in a movie based on his life and flight.
Vaudeville interests offered him $100,000 for twenty-eight
weeks of appearances on the two-a-day. The Roxy Theatre
promised $25,000 for a week of personal appearances. Slightly
lesser amounts were dangled for books, magazine articles, and
cigarette testimonials.

But others were only too typical of the Era of Wonderful
Nonsense. Lucky Lindy was guaranteed a million dollars if he
would End the girl of his dreams and marry her, giving a film
company exclusive rights to films of the marriage. Another
group wanted to back him in a rocket-flight to the moon a
feat which seemed silly then, if not now. There were 20,000
assorted gifts already awaiting him and 500 requests from
"close" relatives for financial assistance ... All of which may
have been staggering, but the worst was yet to come. On land-

"Here Comes the Boy!" 147

ing, the Lone Eagle found that he could not send his shirts to
the laundry, for they were never returned laundries kept them
as souvenirs. This was equally true of his checks. When he paid
a bill by check the uncashed paper was retained as a souvenir.

During the first four days of Lindbergh's flight, over 250,000
stories about him had been splashed across American news-
papers. This has been estimated as 36,000,000 words more
than the number given to any other event in history. As Lind-
bergh receptions in Washington, New York, and St. Louis
loomed, the press began to demolish even this record. For
Lindbergh Day, the New York Times announced sixteen extra
pages of human-interest stories and photographs, while other
newspapers prepared similar splurges.

Once more the dignified Times erupted into poetry, placing
on page one a poem by Donald Gillies, which extolled Lind-
bergh:

Age hears, and old dreams waken

Youth hears, and vows anew
Man's common kinship rallies

And joy and pride undo
Misunderstanding's mischief,

Prejudice's wrongs
God send, at need, the voices

To sing for us such songs.

The airwaves also hummed with songs about Lindbergh.
"Plucky Lindy's Lucky Day" (sung by Irving Kaufman) was a
national hit, as was Vernon Dalharfs "Lindbergh, Eagle of
the USA" ("Lindbergh, oh what a flying fool was he /Lind-
bergh, his name will live in histore-e-e"). George M. Cohan, of
"Over There" fame, came through with a tune for Lindbergh
Day called "When Lindy Comes Home." Eddie Dowling and
Jimmy Hanley composed a Lindbergh song entitled "Hello,
Yankee Doodle." Vaughn de Leath, velvet-throated queen of

148 "Here Comes the Boy!"

the loudspeakers, added new dimensions to her soaring popular-
ity with a Lindbergh ballad called "Like an Angel You Flew
Into Everyone's Heart":

The spirit of youth

Carried you on.
A mother's prayer

Did its part.
And God on His throne

Guided you 'cross the foam . . .

It was a nation gone mad but with a curious quality to the
madness. Every American seemed to regard the Super-Hero
subjectively. Super-Heroes were few and far between once in
a lifetime phenomena, if that yet everyone appeared to have
his own image of precisely how such a rare being should be-
have. Lindbergh had ceased to be a flesh and blood flier, to
become instead a world symbol of decency, a demigod, even a
god. Writing of Lindbergh in The Aspirin Age, John Lardner
says: "His performance was instantly recognized as the
climactic stunt of a time of marvelous stunts: of an epoch
of noise, hero worship, and a sort of individualism which seems
to have meant that people were not disposed to look at them-
selves, and their lives, in general, and therefore ran gaping and
thirsty to look at anything done by one man or woman that
was special and apart from the life they knew."

America had found a true Hero at last and was determined
that he would behave as a Hero, even if he toppled from ex-
haustion or died of boredom in the process. Lindbergh him-
self discovered this impersonalor inhuman attitude on the
part of his countrymen when the Memphis steamed up Chesa-
peake Bay late on the afternoon of June loth. A convoy of
four destroyers, two blimps, and forty airplanes saluted the
cruiser. Yet this was done as unobtrusively as possible, for the
Memphis had crossed the Atlantic with such speed that it

"Here Comes the Boy/" 149

arrived early for Lindbergh Day. But the Hero, who by now
must have found cabin quarters confining, was not permitted
to leave the ship, even surreptitiously. He must wait until noon
tomorrow, with its official reception. It was for this reason that
the convoy blew no whistles and the accompanying planes did
no stunts over the Memphis.

Even so, word gradually seeped through Washington that
the Memphis was anchored offshore and once again, on the eve
of a memorable event in his life, Lindbergh's sleep was rudely
shattered. This time a group of schoolchildren they were not
called teenagers in those happy days climbed into a motor-
boat and chugged out to the Memphis. By ill-luck they stopped
directly under Lindy's cabin and began to serenade the craft
with loud songs and hoarse shouts. Aboard, Lindbergh was just
falling asleep. He stood the noise as long as possible, then
stuck his head out the cabin window and tried to persuade the
children that they were serenading the wrong ship. Oddly, none
of the youngsters seemed to realize that the Hero himself was
addressing them, but they did recognize the Memphis and
answered with derisive shouts and laughter. The boisterous
serenade continued, while Lindbergh tossed on his sheets. At
last, the children departed, still singing and cheering.

So finally Lindbergh got to sleep. But soon, at six-thirty in
the morning, he was wakened by more noise. This was the first
stage of the Barnum-like display of Lindbergh Day: a zooming,
roaring, stunting cavalcade of Army, Navy, and Marine planes
over the Memphis. At times the planes flew so low that the
ship seemed to vibrate in the water. In his cabin, the hard-
sleeping Lindbergh slowly became conscious of the unholy
racket. Once more, as in the early hours of May 2oth, he
realized that further sleep was impossible. Reluctantly he got
up and dressed.

Through the rest of the morning various privileged people

150 "Here Comes the Boy!"

were ferried out to the Memphis. One was Dick Blythe, who
emotionally embraced the young man who had become his
close friend. Then Blythe pulled back in astonishment. The
Lindbergh before him was neither the Slim he remembered
from Curtiss Field nor the modest hero pictured in the recep-
tions abroad. At this moment Charles A. Lindbergh stood
proudly attired in the dress uniform of a colonel in the United
States National Guard. He looked glossy and erect. The uni-
form fitted perfectly and he was impressive in it, but a far cry
from the homespun hero the nation was prepared to clasp to
its heart. Lindbergh, seemingly the man without vanity, was
proud as a peacock of the showy uniform. "Not bad for an air-
mail pilot/ 7 he boasted to Blythe and Blythe suddenly realized
that the Hero planned to wear the dress uniform during the
reception.

He took a deep breath and said, "Slim, you can't do it."

Lindbergh stared at him. "What do you mean I can't? 7 ' he
asked.

Blythe tried to explain: "It'll label you. Up to now you've
been young, healthy, good looking and single a possible future
husband for every American girl. You weren't an Army man or
a Navy man, but a plain civilian with a job. Nobody could
claim you and nobody could be against you. This Army uni-
form would spoil that image."

"But I always was a captain in the Army Reserve," Lind-
bergh protested.

"You went to Paris as a civilian. The public remembers you
in that old blue suit You can get another one, but don't wear
the uniform."

Lindbergh's stubbornness was roused. "It's orders," he said
firmly. "I've got to wear it."

Blythe took a different tack. "But it's such a lousy fit."

Lindbergh looked at him in amazement. "Where doesn't it

"Here Comes the Boy!" 151

fit?" he demanded angrily. He studied himself in the mirror
and, reassured, began to argue hotly. Suddenly he relaxed,
giving a sheepish grin. "I get you/' he said. "You're dead right.
Mufti for me."

It was in the familiar rumpled blue suit, clutching a gray
felt fedora hat in his hand, that Lindbergh stood on the sunny
bridge of the Memphis at eleven o'clock as the flagship ap-
proached the Potomac. Above, the giant dirigible U.S.S. Los
Angeles floated in stately circles, while one hundred Army and
Navy pursuit planes darted above and below and around it
like sharks baiting a whale. Salutes of naval guns boomed be-
tween ships, including the Presidential yacht Mayflower.
Nautical tunes from bands on other ships bounced gaily over
the waves. From the shore the factory whistles, church bells,
fire sirens, and automobile horns of Alexandria and Wash-
ington could be heard. At the main Navy Yard Dock waited
Secretary of the Navy and Mrs. Curtis D. Wilbur, Secretary
of War and Mrs. D wight W. Davis, Postmaster General and
Mrs. Harry S. New, and former Secretary of State Charles
Evans Hughes. Also present was Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh,
who had been an overnight guest of President and Mrs.
Coolidge. Some fifty thousand people assembled in the vicinity
of the Navy Yard and another hundred thousand lined the
streets to the Washington Monument where waited the Pres-
ident and his wife, more cabinet members, and distinguished
guests from home and abroad.

As the Memphis became visible from the Navy Yard dock,
and the tall, boyish figure of Lindbergh could be distinguished
on the bridge, a huge gulp of emotion swept over the crowd.
Then a resounding organ-like roar burst from the throats of
Lindy's admirers. Russell Owen, covering the event for the
New York Times, saw in this something intangible, spiritual:

152 "Here Comes the Boy!"

What manner of a man could it be that would invoke such
enthusiasm? Few had ever seen Lindbergh, although many knew
his picture was that of a youth. Would he be in his new uniform
of a Colonel in the Reserves?

And then the cruiser drew near, and high up on the bridge,
standing in a corner at the outside, could be seen a tall, slirn
figure, hair blowing in the wind. He wore a plain blue suit and
not the uniform of a Colonel in the Missouri National Guard.
. . . That was all. Just a lad coming home, rather puzzled that
people should make such a fuss over him.

As tie Memphis drew closer to the dock, the thundering
throng got a first sight of the unassuming young man's wave
of acknowledgment. This would instantly become famous, and
it has been described as "a quick, brief wave of the hand, a
wave checked almost immediately as if he feared he was show-
ing himself too eager to acknowledge tribute." Usually Lind-
bergh's facial expression was reserved and serious, but from
time to time he broke into a wide, friendly grin LINDBERGH

SMILES LIKE A BOY AS HONORS AHE HEAPED UPON HIM, One head-
line would declare. The boyish grin, the deprecating wave, the
modest demeanor, the youthful appearance all these made an
irresistible combination.

What was described as the mightiest radio broadcasting
machine ever assembled was providing the coverage for Lind-
bergh Day. Fifty N.B.C. stations were connected in a nation-
wide radio network and it was believed that practically every
one of the nation's six million receiving sets would be in action
with at least five persons listening to each. This was a radio
audience of thirty million, and in all probability the number
was much more,

In the forefront of the crowd at the Navy Yard Dock stood
the eager figure of Graham McNamee, the silver-tongued en-
thusiast who was the outstanding announcer of the day.
McNamee had covered every notable event of the past five

"Here Comes the Boy! 77 153

years. His glorious voice had radiated excitement as Firpo
knocked Jack Dempsey from the ring in 1923. He had lost
none of his professional poise when Trudy Ederle thrillingly
rode up Broadway in 1926. Yet now the experienced Mc-
Namee, no less than others in the welcoming crowd, was re-
duced to choked-up emotionalism by sight of the Hero. The
announcer's splendid vocal equipment faded as he spotted
Lindy on the bridge of the Memphis. As if through layers of
soggy flannel a drained, timbre-less voice reached the country:
"Here comes the BOY! . . . He stands quiet, unassuming, a
little stoop in his shoulders. . . . He looks very serious and
awfully nice. ... A darn nice boy!"

The Memphis was close to the dock planes darting and
swooping overhead heavy bombers thundering in formation
the Los Angeles unmoving as if suspended by strings whistles
stridently blowing sirens sounding guns booming military
bands playing but loudest of all the background diapason-
roar of the seething crowd. As the gangplank shot out, Lind-
bergh and Vice Admiral Burrage left the bridge, the Admiral
on his way to escort Mrs. Lindbergh aboard. Now for a mo-
ment the Lone Eagle was entirely alone. He stood amidships
facing the bellowing thousands of his countrymen who had
come to pay him homage.

It provided an interesting moment, for Lucky Lindy seemed
briefly to cease being the Hero. He clapped the gray fedora on
his head and those nearby thought that the hat robbed him of
his distinctive good looks in it he resembled a Minnesota
youth uncomfortable in city garb. Wearing the unbecoming
hat he moved toward the rail, the better to look at the mob
below. Gone was the boyish smile, vanished the bashful wave.
For an instant Lindbergh looked like a man peering into a
giant madhouse, struck with wonder that human beings could
behave like those he observed. "He had become accustomed to

154 "Here Comes the Boy!"

crowds abroad/ 7 Russell Owen's account would say, "but these
were his own people. It seemed to hit him as a blow, and for
the first time he apparently realized what a symbol he had be-
come to all America."

The moment ended, for suddenly Lindbergh saw his mother
being escorted up the gangplank by Admiral Burrage. He took
off the unbecoming hat (it was not seen again that day),
walked toward her, and the two embraced (MA'S ARMS ENTWINE
BIG SON, Cincinnati Enquirer] . For a short while the two were
closeted In Admiral Barrage's quarters. Outside a reverent hush
fell over the crowd: "Many wept, they knew not why," sobbed
one story. Then Lindy reappeared and turmoil commenced
again as he descended the gangplank.

It was slightly after noon when the parade to the Wash-
ington Monument started. Before the open Pierce Arrow bear-
ing Lindy and his mother pranced a detachment of cavalry,
with horseshoes clattering bravely on the pavement of Pennsyl-
vania Avenue. Behind him came units of every branch of mili-
tary service. "Hey, Lindy, stand up in the car," photographers
shouted. Lindy smiled slightly and remained seated. Along the
path of the parade people clogged the sidewalks or leaned from
windows and roofs. Planes zoomed and the dirigible Los
Angeles circled.

As Lindy passed by people shouted or wept. Russell Owen
saw: "One woman, standing with a small boy at her side, per-
haps wishing that when the child grew up he too might be
the clean, brave lad which this flier had become, smiled up at
Lindy, her lips trembling a little. It was easy to read her
thoughts. She held her boy's hand tightly and bent down and
spoke to him and pointed upward . . ."

At the dock, Graham McNamee's voice had regained its
soaring resonance and the announcer was telling the country:
"There goes the boy Lindbergh . . . The cavalrymen with
drawn sabres make a dashing picture . . . Now I will turn the

"Here Comes the Boy/" 155

microphone over to my colleague, Phil Carlin, at the Wash-
ington Monument , . ."

Around the official reviewing stand in the natural amphi-
theater of the Washington Monument, hillsides were packed
and greensward jammed with pulsing humanity. The thousands
assembled here were already seeingas best they could a rare
sight. Saturday, June nth, had become a day of scorching heat.
Nonetheless, President Calvin Coolidge and the remaining
members of his Cabinet had mounted the high reviewing stand
attired in gleaming top hats and heavy diplomatic swallow-tails.

It seemed to most of those present that on this occasion the
sour-faced Chief Executive was determined to out-do James J.
Walker, the debonair, song-and-dance Mayor of New York
City. Jimmy Walker's glibness and know-how at official recep-
tions were famous across the land. To the amazement of those
who watched him, Calvin Coolidge began to carry on with a
Walker-like animation. He smiled, shook hands, cracked New
England jokes, and laughed a grating chuckle. When Lind-
bergh arrived, he displayed a truly unaccustomed warmth.
Stepping forward, he pumped the Hero's hand. Shortly the
President topped this. Introducing Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh,
he himself led the clapping of the multitudes. When the flier's
modest mother showed a reluctance to stand up in acknowl-
edgment, Coolidge behaved like a musical-comedy master of
ceremonies. By expansive motions he gallantly insisted that she
rise and take a bow.

The President also excelled in the length and pith of his
speech. In its course, he also coined a phrase something highly
unusual for him. "You have been an Ambassador without port-
folio," he informed Lindy, and thus another colorful phrase
enriched the language. At the end of his speech, Coolidge
pinned the Distinguished Flying Cross on Lindbergh's blue
serge suit. Now it was the flier's turn to speak. The slim, blond-

156 "Here Comes the Roy!"

headed figure stepped up to a microphone, which turned his
calm voice into a boom, and made one of the terse speeches
for which he had become famous abroad.
He said:

On the evening of May 21, I arrived at Le Bourget, France. I
was in Paris for one week, in Belgium for a day and was in London
and in England for several days. Everywhere I went, at every
meeting I attended, I was requested to bring a message home to
you. Always the message was the same.

"You have seen," the message was, "the affection of the people
of France for the people of America demonstrated to you. When
you return to America take back that message to the people of the
United States from the people of France and Europe/'

I thank you.

This, as well as the blue serge suit, was what America wanted
and some unhesitatingly compared this less-than-a-minute effort
to Lincoln at Gettysburg. The emotional simplicity of it caught
people by the throat. "Just as when Lincoln finished his Gettys-
burg address his listeners sat stunned at the very brevity of it,
so was there a curious silence . . . following Lindbergh's utter-
ance. Then came long applause." Again thousands wept and a
radio announcer who followed Graham McNamee at the
NJB.C. microphone outdid his predecessor by breaking into
audible sobs.

Finally, with a tribute to Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh, the
ceremonies ended. Lindbergh was to ride the rest of the way in
the Coolidge car and the President deferentially led him there.
Mrs. Lindbergh was escorted by the likable and gracious Mrs.
Grace Coolidge, who was described as laughing like a school-
girl.

All the way to the White House, police fought to hold back
the excited thousands. The Los Angeles still floated impres-
sively overhead and the formations of planes shuttled up and
down the line of march. Yet still the loudest noise remained
the full-throated cheering of the crowd.

"Here Comes the Boy/" 157

It was after three o'clock before the hot, hungry Hero was
permitted a few minutes to himself. During this precious inter-
val he inscribed his emotions for the New York Times, to
which he had continued to contribute personal dispatches. In
this, he first mentioned the fact that he had been forced to
return home:

The Washington reception was wonderful. It was dignified, but
it certainly made me feel right at home, and Fm genuinely glad
to be back.

I said in Europe that I would like to stay a little longer and fly
to various countries and study aviation, but now that I have
reached home I'm awfully glad I didn't stay longer.

He also expressed dismay at the extreme ardor of his wor-
shiping countrymen: "Everybody seems to want to speak to
me and shake my hand. While that is very pleasant and I'd
like to be able to oblige them, I am only a human being after
all and I'm afraid I would end up in a hospital, suffering from
an overdose of kindness/'

Lindbergh was anxious to meet with his airmail buddies and
perhaps with home folk from Little Falls. But that night he
was the guest of President and Mrs. Coolidge at a dinner for
members of the Cabinet. Lindbergh was twenty-five years old
and at this dinner, as at endless others to follow, he was seated
between two middle-aged-or-more ladies, Mrs. Coolidge and
Mrs. Postmaster General New. It is reported that he enter-
tained them with details of his flight, but it is doubtful that
this one subject lasted through a long state dinner.

After dinner, Lindy was whisked to a banquet of the Min-
nesota State Society. Crowds lining the street yelled "There
he fa! There he goes/ I see him! There's Lindy!" as the
dinner-jacketed Colonel shot by behind a screaming-siren
police escort. From the Minnesota State banquet, he was
rushed to a gathering sponsored by the National Press Club at
the huge Washington Auditorium. "I was pretty tired by the

158 "Here Comes the Boy!"

time I got there, but the way people received me made me feel
fine again," his Times account says.

Next day was Sunday. Lindbergh and his mother attended
church with the Coolidges, then were driven past enthusiastic
thousands to Arlington National Cemetery, where more thou-
sands watched the Hero place a wreath on the grave of the
Unknown Soldier. As Lindbergh climbed back into the car
after this ceremony, he discovered still another dimension to
his country's adulation. Three schoolgirls bearing autograph
books slipped through the protecting police. At the side of the
Lindbergh car the girls eagerly extended pens and open books
towards the seated Colonel, who pretended not to see them:
"He said not a word, but gripped his hands and looked sternly
into the vague distance." At first police were prepared to be
indulgent with the adolescent autograph-hunters, but observ-
ing the Hero's reaction cops hustled the girls off. So far as the
record shows, refusal to give autographs became a steadfast
Lindbergh policy. Apparently he never did sign one, and it is
terrifying to imagine what would have happened if he had
begun.

Lindbergh and his mother drove to Georgetown to visit the
wounded veterans at Walter Reed Hospital. Followed every-
where by the rolling cheers of the crowd, they went next to
the steps of the Capitol where Charles Evans Hughes presided
over ceremonies in honor of the i5oth anniversary of the
American flag.

But with such official ceremonies finally ended, the day really
began for the Lone Eagle. He and his mother were driven to
where Navy mechanics were reassembling the Spirit of St.
Louis. The day before, souvenir hunters had tried to break
open the crates containing the immortal plane, and so the job
of reassembly was being done on a raft a safe distance out on
the Potomac. It was to this raft that Lindbergh was now ferried
(his mother remained in the car ashore) and it is said that

"Here Comes the Boy!" 159

when he saw the second half of We taking shape Lindbergh's
face lighted up with joy. "He has the affection for his plane
that a father has for a son/ 7 noted a reporter present.

Lindbergh knew that New York City, outraged by Wash-
ington's gall in pre-empting the initial official reception, was
making plans for the greatest celebration of all time in his
honor. Where Lindbergh Day ceremonies in Washington filled
only a Saturday-Sunday weekend, New York was arranging a
Monday-to-Friday jamboree which would cost $75,000. School
children had been granted a holiday on Monday and most
businesses in the city would also be closed. Windows along
the Lindbergh parade route were commanding prices as high
as a thousand dollars, and it was predicted that New York's
hero-worshiping hysteria would break all records.

In view of this, it was deemed unsafe for the Spirit of St.
Louis to land at an airfield near the city. Crowds might mob
the plane and its occupant. Authorities had decided that Lind-
bergh should fly from Washington in an amphibian plane,
then land in New York Harbor, where a measure of protection
was possible. This seemed like an excellent idea to everyone
but the Super-Hero. Like a true father who wished his son to
share all glory, he doggedly insisted on flying to New York in
the Spirit of St. Louis.

For a time Dick Blythe appeared to have- persuaded him that
an amphibian arrival might be better, but sight of the re-
assembled Spirit of St. Louis swung him back. Again Lind-
bergh changed his mind: tomorrow he would fly his own plane
or nothing. A frantic Blythe contacted New York. He was told
to tell Lindbergh to land quietly at Mitchel Field, the military
counterpart of Roosevelt and Curtiss Fields on Long Island.
From there an amphibian would fly him to the Harbor.

As it turned out, however, Lindy did not fly the Spirit of St.
Louis. On the morning of Monday, June 1 3th while New
York gathered forces for its stupendous show he arose shortly

160 "Here Comes the Boy/"

after dawn. He arrived at the Mayflower Hotel at a quarter to
seven and at this unusual hour was tendered an honorary break-
fast by the National Aeronautical Association. An hour later
he was at Boiling Field, where the reassembled Spirit of St.
Louis had been towed after its sojourn on the Potomac raft.
Lindbergh examined his beloved plane, then slid his frame into
the cockpit. Started, the plane's motor sounded off-key. Ever
the perfectionist, Lindbergh got out and examined the engine
minutely. He found rust from sea air on one valve. We could
not iy today, he instantly decided.

As an Army reserve colonel, Lindbergh could command the
facilities of the armed services. He commandeered an Army
pursuit plane and with an escort of twenty-three others set out
for Long Island.

When the air cavalcade passed over Baltimore, Wilmington,
and Philadelphia it engaged in maneuvers to salute each city.
Below church bells rang, factory whistles pierced the air, auto
horns honked, and the populace howled.

At Long Island, Lindbergh settled on Mitchel Field, where
he switched without ceremony to a Navy amphibian. Here, in-
deed, was a new experience for the Lone Eagle. Seldom in his
years of flying had he been a passenger in a plane piloted by
someone else. It was such an unusual occurrence that he men-
tioned it in his dispatch to the Times.

The amphibian arrived over Manhattan, circled New York
Harbor, and Lindbergh saw below one of the amazing sights
of all time. The harbor was crammed with seagoing craft-
yachts, excursion boats, motorboats, tugs, ferries, fireboats,
even dredges all hung with pennants, festooned with bunting,
and jammed to the rails with festive human beings. Dominat-
ing all this was the city welcoming tug Macom, with gardenia-
sporting Grover Whalen beaming on its bridge.

And the Harbor was only the beginning! Four of New York's
seven million had turned out to welcome Lucky Lindy. The

"Here Comes the Boy/" 161

line of march had been well publicized and every inch of
window and sidewalk taken. Crowding the Battery were en-
thusiastic thousands and Broadway up to City Hall was packed
sardine-tight with worshipers. Already the air resounded to
cheers, and from the windows of office buildings fell ticker
tape, shredded waste paper, and pages of telephone books.
Twelve thousand of New York's police had been instructed to
leave clubs at home. With bare hands and linked arms they
struggled to hold back the welcoming thousands, while
mounted cops galloped importantly up and down the line of
march. The sky also seemed alive as cavalcades of planes criss-
crossed each other, at times blotting out the sun. Among the
planes was Commander Byrd's three-engine Fokker. Byrd him-
self, immaculate in Navy whites, waited among a reception
group at the Battery.

Because of the salutes to cities along the way, Lindbergh was
nearly two hours behind schedule, but no one cared: the
weather was brightly beautiful and the crowd in high good
humor. A mighty roar of good will reverberated through the
area as the amphibian swooped down to land. Shrill sirens and
deep boat-whistles created what one account calls a din beyond
description.

As the amphibian stopped a police launch came close. Lind-
bergh was assisted aboard and rushed to the Macom. Top hat
in hand Grover Whalen waited at the rail, his official welcome
lost in the thunder of whistles and a mighty swoosh as fire-
boats loosed streams of water high into the air.

Lindbergh was escorted to the Macom bridge. There the
tall, slightly stooped, unassuming young man regarded the
bunting, the pennants, and the people and decided that the en-
tire pageant of reception was astounding. Turning to Whalen,
he shouted, "I never expected anything like this!* ' But though
he appeared dazed by the first phase of the New York welcome,
vestiges of the old practical-joking Slim Lindbergh remained.

162 "Here Comes the Boy!"

When one fireboat hose misfired, dumping a cascade of water
full on an innocent vessel, Lindbergh roared with amusement.
Such were the wonders of the gala day that so did the people
who got wet.

As the Macom chugged forward, an unwieldy fleet of ac-
companying vessels fell into rough line behind. For a brief
five minute period during the trip to the Battery, Lindy was
led to the cabin for a press interview and one reporter noted
that as he answered questions "his fine long fingers plucked at
the blue serge suit" The Hero seemed in fine spirits and did
not mind silly questions put to him. "Do you expect to be
w-earied by the New York reception?" one reporter asked.
"That's hardly a question I can answer now," he replied in
the best of humor.

New York Bay was so cluttered with vessels that a full hour
was required to reach the Battery, thus putting the whole
program further behind schedule. At the pier, Commander
Byrd and other important men greeted the hatless young flier.
His mother waited as well, having arrived from Washington by
train.

Already a parade of 15,000 marching soldiers, sailors, marines,
and municipal officials was starting up Broadway. Lindbergh
got into an open car with Grover Whalen beside him. He did
not sit down on the seat, but rather on top of it, sitting on the
back edge. Whalen sat beside him. Mrs. Lindbergh was seated
in the car behind. The cars edged into the parade, and now
followed one of the wildest moments in history as a blizzard
snowstorm is too mild a word of ticker tape drifted from
windows overhead, while on the street bellowing crowds
strained to break through police lines. "Newsreel and press
photographs do scant justice to the spectacle," a later account
has said, and this is no exaggeration.

All the way up Broadway to City Hall a chain of police held
back the surging mobs who cheered themselves hoarse and

"Here Comes the Boy!" 163

tried to reach the smiling, waving young man perched in the
official car. From building windows eighteen hundred tons of
ticker tape, torn phone books, and miscellaneous memos
floated down. Once Lindy peered up into the blizzard and asked
Whalen, "Where does it all come from?" It seems almost too
pat to be true, but contemporary sources testify to it: one of
the thousands in the throng around Wall Street was a chunky
girl who used her considerable strength to force a path to the
front of the crowd. There she was shoved back by an irate
policeman. Her name was Gertrude Ederle. Less than a year
before the crowds had been screaming for sight of her.

It was now close to two o'clock and a throng of nearly
100,000 had been waiting in the vicinity of City Hall since
8 A.M. No one cared to catch a glimpse of the Hero was
enough. ENTHRALLED BY HIS DARING DEED, CITY CHEERS FROM
THE DEPTHS OF ITS HEART, read one headline.

Mayor Walker, top-hatted, slick and smiling, waited with a
group of city dignitaries. Lindy was led to the reviewing stand
on the City Hall steps by Grover Whalen, who presented him
to Mayor Walker. The glib Mayor began his speech of wel-
come with a Walker wisecrack: "Let me tell you, Colonel,
that if you have prepared yourself with any letters of introduc-
tions to New York City, they are not necessary."

In a more serious vein, the Mayor spoke of the heartbeat of
the city's millions and said: "Colonel Lindbergh, New York is
yours I don't give it to you, you won it/' He then presented
the Hero with the keys to the city in the form of a Medal of
Valor and an illuminated scroll of welcome.

Lindbergh accepted both with his abrupt little bow and
wide smile. In Washington his speech had been brief, but in
New York he opened up and talked at greater length, ending
with a second reference to the fact that he had not been
allowed to remain in Europe: "By the time ... [I] had
opened a few cables from the United States, I found that I

164 "Here Comes the Boy!"

did not have much to say about how long I would stay over
there ... So I left Europe and the British Isles with . . .
regret. . . . [But] when I started up the Potomac from the
Memphis I decided that I was not so sorry. . . . After spend-
ing about an hour in New York, I know I am not/'

With Mayor Walker supplanting Grover Whalen at his
side, Lindy stepped back into the official car. Slowly, past mobs
occupying every possible inch of the way, the parade wound up
Broadway, through Lafayette Street, to Ninth Street and over
to Fifth Avenue. All along the procession route people pressed
close, horns blew, and paper floated from above. Wiping a page
of telephone book from his blue serge shoulder, the Hero said
to Mayor Walker, "I guess you'll have to print another edition
of the phone book after Fin gone." Walker cocked an eye-
brow. "You'd better get us a new street cleaning department,
too," he said.

Many who viewed the Hero at Wall Street or City Hall
hastened to the subways to entrain for Central Park, there to
see him a second time. Thus the crowd at the Central Park
Mall was larger than any other: estimates place it at 500,000.
Here military bands played and air armadas zoomed. High in
the azure sky a skywriter began to spell out HELLO LINDY! It was
after four o'clock, for the slow progress of the parade had de-
layed the reception further. When Lindbergh arrived, salvos of
applause and rousing cheers echoed through the Park. The
Hero was presented to Governor Smith by Jimmy Walker and
the State Medal of Honor was pinned on his chest. Al Smith
supplied fitting verbal tributes, and at last the official part of
the greatest welcoming reception the world has ever known
had reached its end.

Yet there was scant rest for the weary Hero. At the Park
Avenue apartment of baseball magnate Harry Frazee, which
had been loaned to the Lindberghs for the duration of the
New York reception, old friends and new clamored to see him,

"Here Comes the Boy!" 165

as did numerous brash individuals with commercial offers.
There were also social engagements. At eight-fifteen that night
Lindy and his mother were to be honored at a dinner party at
the Roslyn, Long Island, estate of Postal Telegraph multi-
millionaire Clarence H. Mackay. This was to be the biggest
social shindig on Long Island since the charm-boy Prince of
Wales cavorted there in 1924.

The Hero covered the miles to Roslyn behind a police es-
cort, while crowds of worshipers waved from the roadsides.
He and his mother seemed to enjoy the dinner, but when a
swarm of new guests arrived for dancing there arose a ques-
tion. Where was Lindbergh? A frantic Clarence Mackay de-
manded this of Grover Whalen, who began a gradually widen-
ing search through baronial halls, out in the grounds, and
(finally) to the garages. Here he learned that immediately after
dinner, Lindbergh and his mother had got back into the of-
ficial car and ordered chauffeur and police escort to take them
to New York.

When this information was relayed to Clarence Mackay, he
looked like a man struck by an invisible uppercut. He rallied
himself to peer into the ballroom, where nearly five hundred
decked-out socialites were asking, "Where's Lindy?" There was
only one thing to do and Mr. Mackay did it. He went to bed.

Having earned himself several hours of sleep by walking out
(perhaps inadvertently) on the Mackay party, the Hero found
himself further rewarded on waking up the next morning.
Through the windows of his Park Avenue apartment he saw
driving rain. This would render impossible an eleven o'clock
gathering on the Mall in Central Park at which ten thousand
schoolchildren were to serenade him with songs. Lindbergh
rolled over and went to sleep.

He got up refreshed and transacted personal business it is
likely that here he made known his firm resolve never to cash

166 "Here Comes the Boyf

in on his flight in a cheap or sensational way. Yet advisers were
able to assure the Lone Eagle that he would never starve. The
New York Times, dazzled by the success of his personally by-
Hned story, had upped payment from $10,000 to $60,000. There
was the Orteig prize of $25,000. A book called We would bring
in an additional $200,000. Soon Lindbergh would accept an
offer from the Guggenheim Foundation for a series of aviation
good-will flights to American cities and countries south of the
border. For this he would receive $2,500 a week. He would
also become an adviser to airlines, one of which promptly
dubbed itself the Lindbergh Line. In all, Lindbergh would reap
from $300,000 to $500,000 without resorting to the vulgar com-
mercialization.

But this was yet to come . . . With rain still pelting out-
side, the Hero's thoughts turned to more personal matters.
"The Spirit of St. Louis was calling Lindbergh/' a sob sister
sobbed and it was true. That night he w f as scheduled to be
guest of honor at a dinner given by 3,500 captains of finance
and industry at the Hotel Commodore. Since the rain pre-
vented engagements until then, why not go in an Army plane
to Washington, fly his plane back?

Lindbergh phoned the veteran pilot Casey Jones, enlisting
his support. When Jones stopped for Lindbergh in his car, he
was accompanied by a most unexpected passenger. This was
Nils T. Granlund, the procurer of talent and torsos for Texas
Guinan. N, T. G. w'as, oddly enough, a flying enthusiast.
Wedged beside Lindbergh in Casey Jones' car, Granlund
urged the Hero to talk. Amazingly, Lindbergh did, cheer-
fully pouring out details of flight and receptions that he had
kept from newsmen.

Back in New York that night, Granlund rushed to a type-
writer and pounded out two stories, one for the New York
World and the other for the Daily Mirror. These were so rich
in intimate detail that he was allowed to by-line them By Nils

"Here Comes the Boy!" 167

Thor Grarilund, Director of Publicity, Loew Theaters. So
Granlund became one of the few ever to capitalize on Lind-
bergh in any way.

With Casey Jones and Granlund by his side, Lindbergh
sloshed around Curtiss and Roosevelt Fields greeting old friends
among Wright mechanics and field personnel. He reminisced
about the take off and seemed anxious to find out exactly how
it had looked from the field. The weather grew worse and
everyone advised the stubborn Colonel against a flight to
Washington. Nevertheless, he climbed into Casey Jones' plane
and took off. Half an hour later he returned, admitting that
flight was impossible. Accompanied by Jones and Granlund,
whom he favored with more inimitable material, he drove back
to the city.

In New York Lindbergh went from luncheon to luncheon,
reception to reception, dinner to dinner. Everywhere crowds
jostled, reporters asked questions, horns blew, and bedlam
erupted. To one sob sister he expressed a desire to walk around
the city alone. Then he grinned such a thing was plainly im-
possible. To some he seemed to be wilting from the strain of
being on public display nearly every moment of every day.
News stories mentioned this. "Please don't say that I am tired
or fatigued/ 7 Lindbergh lectured reporters gathered in the
Frazee apartment. "I arn not. I feel fine. I read regularly that
I am supposed to be all in. The only time I was tired was when
I landed in Paris, but I was all right the next day." A few hours
later, as a luncheon wound its lengthy course, reporters noted
that, no matter what he said, the Lone Eagle looked exhausted.

On the night of Wednesday, June i5th, Lindbergh was
finally to see Rio Rita though not as a shy aviator who would
enjoy going backstage to meet showgirls. By now, the Hero was
quite accustomed to wearing black tie evening attire, and white
tie on occasion. To Rio Rita he wore a tuxedo. He was late and
perhaps for the only time in history an audience at a hit show

168 "Here Comes the Boy!"

refused to sit down until one member of the audience arrived.

At nine-twenty Lindbergh appeared, flanked by Mayor
Walker and Grover Whalen. Flash bulbs popped as he posed
in the lobby with Florenz Ziegfeld. The orchestra played the
"Star Spangled Banner" as he was led to a seat in the third
row. Still the audience refused to sit. Crowds from the balcony
pushed down the center aisle to peer at the Hero. Ushers
begged and pleaded, and finally summoned the police from
Lindbergh's motorcycle escort. Only then did Rio Rita begin.

Even so, Lindbergh did not see a full performance. At eleven
o'clock he was due at the Roxy Theater for a monster benefit
for the French fliers Nungesser and Coli. At eleven-thirty
Lindbergh and his party ducked out a side door of the Ziegfeld
and behind motorcycle escort drove to the Roxy. Nor did Lindy
see all of the Nungesser-Coli benefit, for at one-thirty he slipped
out a Roxy side door. This time he was driven to Mitchel Field,
where he borrowed a helmet and put on a flying suit over his
tuxedo. Then he hopped for Washington.

At Boiling Field he carefully examined the Spirit of St.
Louis. It was flight-worthy and after a stopover of twenty-eight
minutes, he pointed the plane toward New York. At seven-
thirty he landed in Mitchel Field, a happy man. We were a
team again.

Lindbergh reached Park Avenue just in time to change into
the trusty blue serge suit for a reception in Brooklyn. This was
to be his last full day in New York and a million inhabitants
of Brooklyn were prepared to give him a memorable send-off.
Crowds numbering 500,000 packed twenty-two miles of Brook-
lyn streets as the Lindbergh parade went by. Again schools
were let out, businesses closed. An additional 200,000 yelling,
perspiring people filled Prospect Park during official cere-
monies. A fortunate Knights of Columbus had snared the Hero
for luncheon. After this, a screeching escort took him to Roose-
velt Field for ceremonies honoring his take off.

"Here Comes the Roy!" 169

At the Hotel Brevoort late that afternoon came teatime
ceremonies of a particularly pleasant kind. Here Raymond
Orteig handed lindy a check for $25,000, the promise of
which had first made him think of the Paris flight. But again
the Hero was far behind schedule. He could not tarry at the
Brevoort for reminiscence. There were other ceremonies wait-
ing, among them presentation of a lifetime pass to any major-
league baseball game ever played anywhere.

At 8:17 a.m. on Friday, June lyth, Lindy took off in the
Spirit of St. Louis for the most sentimental welcome of all:
the one in St. Louis. This should have been the Hero's greatest
day, but was it? That morning the N#w York Times printed
in a box on its front page a letter from the author-historian
Hendrik Willem Van Loon:

Cannot someone pluck that tired kid out of his "bus" and take
him to a farm and let him sleep for a couple of weeks?

By the merest fortunate chance I was face-to-face with him
yesterday. Never have I seen anyone as hopelessly tired, as cour-
ageously tired, as that boy whose brain was still doing a duty
which the rest of his body could no longer follow up. Another
three days of this and trie reflected-glory hounds will chase him to
his death.

If this sounds like sentimentality, make the most of it. But,
meanwhile, give him a bed!

On the nine-hour flight to St. Louis, Lindbergh again circled
and dipped wings over major cities. He flew low over airfields
to wave at crowds assembled below. Flying had always refreshed
him and on arriving at Lambert (St. Louis) Field he appeared
fit. A few minutes later he was plainly dead on his feet "the
flier looked completely exhausted," one account says. Sight of
old friends from "Slim" days revived him for a moment, but
when flash-popping photographers yelled "Smile that old St.
Louis smile," he was too groggy to respond.

170 "Here Comes the Boy/"

Yet the reception did not slacken, nor the public show
mercy. High on the seat of an official car the weary Hero drove
three miles through howling mobs to the presentation of keys
to the city. And again this was only the beginning. Ceremonies
in St. Louis would continue for days . . . The country had its
Hero 7 the Hero must play his part. The world was cleansing
itself through worship of Lucky Lindy. "His effect on the
world was orgiastic and orgastic," John Lardner would say. The
Super-Hero had his role, the show must go on!

It was a world gone mad, and this was its peak of mad-
ness. . . .

&*}

UttiteAi*

HE United States seemed to be lost in
Lindbergh worship, but there remained a
few signs that the Era of Wonderful Nonsense had not de-
parted. As New York went wild over Lucky Lindy, Shipwreck
Kelly sat in magnificent isolation atop a fifty-foot flagpole
over the Hotel St. Francis in Newark. Under him fluttered a
long banner which read BABY PEGGY AT LOEW'S STATE Baby
Peggy being the child film star who had supplanted a maturing
Jackie Coogan in public affection. Shipwreck Kelly was out
to break his record of seven days, one hour, set in St. Louis.
Since the June spring-into-summer weather was unusually balmy
there appeared a good chance that the dedicated pioneer would
succeed. The weather also allowed much latitude to his red-
headed flapper wife, again officiating at the bottom of the
flagpole. Once more she held court for newspapermen and
fifty-cents-a-head gawpers, and grew properly fiery when asked
what the hell her husband was trying to accomplish on top
of that pole.

In New York City, Texas Guinan, her Three Hundred Club
closed by the determined forces of Prohibition, took to the

172 The Big Parade in the Air

theater In a brassy revue called Padlocks of 1927. With her
were the faithful George Raft and a girl singer named Lillian
Roth. In the show Tex made her entrance attired in white
cowgirl costume, riding a superb white steed. "Hello, suckers/ 7
she howled into the auditorium, and the fun (at a much
smaller price than in her night clubs ) began.

Also in the drama world, Roscoe "Fatty" ArbucHe, the
screen comic whose million-dollar Hollywood career had been
ruined by a trial for rape, attempted Broadway in a revival of
Baby Mine. Critics turned thumbs down on this, and Baby
Mine ran only twelve performances. Still, it remains notable
because one member of the cast was a bouncy juvenile named
Humphrey Bogart.

From Hollywood came news that stirred the hearts of mil-
lions of moviegoers whose minds may have been in the clouds
but whose emotions were still attached to sentimental movies.
Vilma Banky and Rod La Rocque, romantic lovers in films,
had become romantic lovers in life. When their engagement
was announced Samuel Goldwyn, Miss Banky's employer,
stated that he would give the pair a Hollywood wedding more
sumptuous than any ever shown on the screen.

In the advertising columns of magazines and newspapers,
"Quick, Henry, the Flit!" was the slogan-sensation of early
summer. "Quick Henry" was also one of the few major adver-
tising campaigns which did not attempt to stir up feelings of
human inadequacy, Elbert Hubbard's Scrap Boofe, Dr. Eliot's
Five-Foot Shelf, and the Pocket University pictured young
men and women either writhing with social nervousness or
holding a roomful of people spellbound. An ad for the Pocket
University showed a firm-jawed young man at a party: "Ali
Baba? I sat forward in my chair. I could tell them all about
this romantic, picturesque figure of fiction."

Emily Post's Book of Etiquette conjured up the awful re-
sults of social solecisms and promised to Tell You Exactly

The Big Parade in the Air 173

What To Do, Say, Write or Wear On Every Occasion. Ads
for a correspondence course named French At Sight recounted
the sad experience of a flapper who thought filet mignon was a
kind of fish. It also pictured in a different ad the young man
whose friends laughed when the waiter Spoke To Him in
French. The same lucky fellow was triumphant again on being
introduced to a very pretty girl: "'Comment ga va?' she said
with a laugh and I astounded her with my reply."

From Fall River, Massachusetts, newspapers relayed the
news that Lizzie Borden was dead. Even barring the recent
fame of Ruth Snyder, Lizzie Borden was the nation's most
famous (suspected) murderess. A generation of children had
chanted the jingle, "Lizzie Borden took an axe/ And gave her
mother forty whacks." In 1893, her trial for the murder of her
parents had rocked the country almost as much as the case of
the Tiger Woman in 1927. After her acquittal who could
imagine a plump New England spinster resorting to murder?
she had lived quietly in the murder-house^ showing a strange
partiality for theaters and theater-folk, some of whom became
her close friends.

From Chicago came strange news. Mayor Big Bill Thomp-
son, resoundingly re-elected on his platform of I-tate-King-
George-V, had immediately appointed a committee to super-
vise the eradication of all references to England from Chicago
libraries. The Mayor's sleuths had made an embarrassing dis-
covery. In 1871, as Chicago lay smoldering from the fire which
may have been started by Mrs. O'Leary's cow, the city of
London perhaps because of its own Great Fires had dis-
played vast sympathy. A city-wide collection had been under-
taken in London, with the money gathered dispatched to
Chicago as fire-relief. In addition, Londoners had sent seven
thousand books to the Chicago Public Library. These had
formed the nucleus of the Library's present large collection.
Several of the volumes sent from England bore the autograph

174 The Big Parade in the Air

of Queen Victoria, the grandmother of Mayor Thompson's
arch enemy. . , .

But such nonsense matters were a trifle old-stuff, old-
fashioned, out of date. Even Shipwreck Kelly's feat of success-
fully setting a new record of twelve days, twelve hours, zero
minutes, on the St. Francis flagpole rated only small day-by-day
paragraphs at the bottom of more important columns. A year
before Shipwreck might have been the wonder of the world.
Now he, too, seemed a bit out of things.

Hero-worship of Charles A. Lindbergh was not the sole rea-
son for this change. In Lindy the country -even the world-
may have found a Super-Hero, but such were the excesses of
1927 that even before Lindy arrived home a cast of subordinate
Heroes had started to assemble around him.

First of these came by way of the yellow plane Columbia,
designed by the highly esteemed Guiseppe Bellanca, owned by
the stormy petrel Charles A. Levine, and piloted by the likable
Clarence Chamberlin.

On the morning of May 2ist, while Lindbergh flew, the
Columbia camp at Curtiss Field was a melancholy place. The
weather had improved, as Lindbergh had hoped, and it was
apparent that the Columbia's hesitation of the night before
had been a dreadful error. Now Chamberlin, in the bow tie,
plus fours, and golf socks that were his trademark, stood beside
his plane as it waited with tanks loaded on the runway. He
was, he told reporters, ready to follow Lindbergh.

But from inside the Columbia hangar came sounds of wrath-
ful argument between Bellanca and Levine. Then Bellanca,
whose extreme caution of the previous night may have pre-
vented a simultaneous take off with Lindbergh, stormed out.
He shook hands with Chamberlin and told the press that he
had resigned from the Columbia Aircraft Corporation, of
which he was president with Levine Chairman of the Board,

The Big Parade in the Air 175

"Two such characters as myself and Mr. Levine could not
continue," he stated flatly. No sooner had Bellanca departed
than the stocky, bald stormy petrel emerged to declare: "Mr.
Bellanca's resignation causes us to abandon plans for the New
York to Paris flight." The Columbia was unceremoniously
hauled back into its hangar.

For several days it seemed that Levine meant these strong
words. PLANE TO BE IDLE, ran the headline over a story on the
misfortunes of the Columbia. Yet it is possible to suspect that
Lindbergh's feat rather than Bellanca's abrupt departure caused
this change of plan. With a perfect flight to Paris just accom-
plished, why make another? For a week all seemed hopeless
around the Columbia, and Chamberlin returned to his home
in Teterboro, New Jersey. Then one of the group had a brain-
storm. The Columbia had already set an endurance record by
remaining aloft for more than fifty-one hours. It was a two-
seater plane, making possible the services of a relief pilot. Also,
it could carry more gasoline than the Spirit of St. Louis, and
supposedly could get ten miles a gallon to Lindbergh's eight.
In short, the Columbia was equipped to fly farther and keep
aloft longer than the Spirit of St. Louis. Why not try to sur-
pass Lindbergh's flight by setting a new long-distance flying
record?

Again the Columbia camp was full of life. Chamberlin, espe-
cially, seemed to be his old self. "He is ordinarily a quiet,
reserved, silent person," states one contemporary account, "but
when he gets near his plane he radiates happiness." On June
2nd the day Lindbergh attended the English Derby the
Columbia made a test flight, after which it was decided to
abandon the heavy radio which had been installed in the
plane.

Also on a trial flight was Commander Byrd's America, with
Bert Acosta at the controls. The world took eyes off its Super-
Hero long enough to realize that, though the Atlantic had been

176 The Big Parade in the Air

spectacularly spanned, the thrills it promised were not over.
The Transatlantic Derby that the world expected in May might
still come to pass. . . .

But who would sit beside Clarence Chamberlin as co-pilot
and navigator of the Columbia? When reporters asked,
Chamberlin gave a wry grin. For a time there was speculation
that his companion and co-pilot might be his wife, Mrs. Wilda
(or Wylda) Chamberlin. Blue-eyed and attractive, a Main
Street girl no less than her husband was a Main Street boy,
Mrs. Chamberlin had been at her husband's side through many
flights and often had taken the joy stick to pilot the plane. She
had been beside her husband when he made a dramatic forced
landing on the cinder yard of a Pennsylvania state penitentiary.
She was a tiny woman whose weight would add only slightly
to the Columbia's overall load, and the fact of her sex made
small difference. Already the ambition to be the first woman
to fly the Atlantic had sprouted in numerous female minds.
But Mrs. Chamberlin feared that the shock of such a flight
would have an unfortunate effect on the health of her ailing
mother. The world did not know it, but she had decided not
to accompany her husband.

Then who would? The question remained unanswered while
the Columbia made additional test flights. One morning mem-
bers of the ground crew painted out the words BeUanca and
Paris on the side of the plane, so that the wording read New
York-.

On the afternoon of Saturday, June 4th, Chamberlin was
handed weather reports indicating improving weather over the
Atlantic. Turning to his wife, he said, "This looks good enough
for me." But where was he headed? To reporters he stated that
his intention was to beat Lindbergh's record by flying farther
into Europe. One reporter quipped "Destination Europe" and
Chamberlin smiled. He passed around a cable from the pres-
ident of the American Club in Berlin, stating that all Germany

The Big Parade in the Air 111

hoped the Columbia would land at Tempelhof Field in Berlin.
"HI be glad to drop in on him on the way back/' Chamberlin
remarked drily. This gave rise to rumors that he planned to go
as far as Moscow.

BELLANCA PLANE SET TO FLY AT DAWN BERLIN OR ROME THE

GOAL, shouted headlines in the late editions of Saturday, June
4th. Since this was a weekend no alarm clocks would ring the
next morning, and many New Yorkers set out for Curtiss Field.
In numerous ways this proved to be a duplication of the Lind-
bergh take off. Again a light rain fell over the field. Chamber-
lin also tried to sleep at the Garden City Hotel. He could not
when his plane took off he had been without sleep for twenty
hours. Attired in the familiar plus fours and bow tie, the wiry,
relaxed aviator strolled to the field and walked by the side of
his plane as it was towed to Roosevelt Field andlike Lind-
bergh'sperched atop Commander Byrd's runway. There be-
gan the long business of filling the tanks with gasoline.

The Spirit of St. Louis had carried no safety equipment. The
Columbia loaded a rubber collapsible raft, Very pistols, and
flares. Mrs. Chamberlin packed aboard ten chicken sandwiches
on toasted rye, two bottles of chicken soup, a bottle of coffee,
and a half-dozen oranges.

Like Lindbergh, Chamberlin had been signed by the New
"York Times to write his experiences, and with him he carried
five copies of the June 5th edition of that newspaper, which
had been rushed to the field with ink still moist from the
presses. One copy was addressed to Mussolini, another to
Hindenburg, and a third to President Doumergue of France, so
that no matter where he landed Chamberlin would have a
special issue for the top man. The other two copies were to be
used for purposes of general good will.

In addition to the New Yorfe Times, the Columbia carried
250 letters which would constitute the first transatlantic
aviation air mail. These later caused a furore, for they had been

178 The Big Parade in the Air

put aboard solely on the authority of Postmaster Sealy, of
Hempstead, Long Island. Postmaster General New had him-
self promised Commander Byrd that the America would carry
the first official air mail. When Mr. New learned that he had
been bypassed by a local postmaster he was furious and issued
a statement which branded as unofficial the mail carried by the
Columbia. Said Postmaster Sealy: "Gosh, I'm sorry I got into
this mix-up. Gosh, I didn't mean any harm. I just felt patriotic
and wanted to do a personal favor, that's all."

By six a.m. the Columbia was ready. It was weighed for the
final time and found to be 5,418 Ibs., three hundred more than
the Spirit of St. Louis. Chamberlin appeared to be in no hurry,
and stood beside the plane chatting with friends. Charles A.
Levine, strangely unobtrusive on so important an occasion,
stepped up to the plane and stowed aboard a batch of naviga-
tion charts. The two men spoke quietly for a few moments,
after which Levine melted into the crowd. Someone reminded
Chamberlin that Lindbergh would return to the United States
within the next few days. He took a pencil and wrote on a
scrap of paper: "Captain Charles Lindbergh Sorry not to wait
to greet you, but I have the breaks in the weather, so Fm off."
He also obliged a New York Times reporter with a written
testimonial:

While Chamberlin did all this, many eyes fixed on the
second seat in the plane. It seemed now that the lowan
planned to fly alone, but if such was the case why had no
announcement been made? If the seat were not occupied, it

The Big Parade in the Air 179

should be piled high with equipment. As it was, it stood glar-
ingly empty, an open invitation to anyone who wished to be-
come another Hero of the year 1927.

Wright Whirlwind experts, giving the plane a final inspec-
tion, decided that ten more gallons of gas could safely be
added to the tanks. This was done. "I can fly for forty-five
hours or longer," Chamberlin told reporters. "My distance de-
pends on the winds I get. I'm going to fly until the gas gives
out." Chamberlin adjusted his flying helmet and climbed into
the cockpit while mechanics still fussed with the carburetor
heater. John Carisi, head mechanic, started the motor. Then
he rushed to the cockpit, where he kissed Chamberlin fare-
well. "Fin one of those emotional Wops/' he explained to the
crowd.

Chamberlin let the motor idle, then raced it. The plane
shook under the mighty pull of the motor, strained at the
chocks. He throttled down again and leaned out the window of
the plane. Smiling broadly, he beckoned to someone in the
crowd. With this the bald, stubby figure of Charles A. Levine
suddenly rushed forward. Running around the plane, Levine
quickly sat himself in the seat beside Chamberlin. The Mil-
lionaire Junkman was attired in a business suit of dashing
vertical stripes and this, together with his lack of stature,
brought little resemblance to a Hero. The crowd watched in
silent stupefaction, unable to comprehend.

Nor did Levine help. The usually aggressive man hunched
down in the co-pilot seat as if anxious to obliterate his pres-
ence: "He almost crouched down beside Chamberlin, his face
set in tense emotion." Chamberlin reached across Levine's
figure to shut the door, gave the signal for the chocks to be
pulled. Then the probable cause of Levine's uneasiness became
apparent. Like the rest of the crowd, Mrs. Grace Levine, the
onetime beauty queen of Brooklyn, had been slow in catching
on. All at once she grasped what her husband was doing. In

180 The Big Parade in the Air

the time-honored tones of the long-suffering wife, she screamed,
"Oh-h-h-h. He's not going! He's not going!" Then she fell
backward in a dead faint, landing conveniently in the sturdy
arms of a cop.

By this time the Columbia was inching forward. Chamber-
lin found the tail of the plane heavier than anticipated. He
braked and the plane was pulled back to the starting point.
Whether he planned to lighten the load in the tail is not
known, but he did discover what to expect if he tarried. A man
rushed up to the plane and beat on the side. "Mr. Levine! Mr.
Levine!" he shouted. "Do you realize what you are doing to
your wife?" Chamberlin may have thought any risk better
than a public squabble at departure. He started the heavy
plane down the runway once more, this time achieving a take-
off which news accounts hailed as a work of art.

Now, with Lindy just stepping aboard the cruiser Memphis
on his way home, the nation had two more Heroes-in-the-
making. For Charles A. Levine was in the process of winning
the eminent status of history's first transatlantic passenger.
Even his outraged wife was prepared to forgive him. Returning
red-eyed to the Levine summer home in Rockaway, Long
Island, she paused to say, "He's gone and I know he'll make
it. I'm proud of him." In this the rest of the world joined her.
The New York Times hailed Levine as a true hero, adding:
"The going of Levine was an answer to those who have called
him a poor sportsman. It thrilled the crowd even more than
the actual take-off. By a simple act of courage Levine reversed
the public opinion which only a few hours before had appeared
to be strongly against him."

The yellow monoplane winged on, and the world held its
breath for the second time in fifteen days. The Columbia was
sighted over Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, at midday and at three
minutes after six passed over the jumping-off-spot of Trepassy,
Nova Scotia. Next morning it circled the liner Mauretania,

The Big Parade in the Air 181

340 miles out from Liverpool. This was an amazing sight for the
ship's passengers who lined the rails shouting and waving. The
Columbia came out of the sky as if out for a joy ride.
Chamberlin made a complete circle of the ship, coolly ex-
amined her name, then shot off eastward. Three minutes later
he was gone. In a state of high excitement the captain of the
Mauretania flashed this news to Lindbergh on the Memphis,
which had been sighted by the Mauretania only half an hour
before.

According to the exclusive dispatches the flying pair would
send to the New York Times they exchanged many memorable
words over the heavy pounding of the Columbia's 220 h.p.
motor. Thus, as darkness fell over the Atlantic Levine bellowed
into Chamberlin's ear: "My nine-year-old daughter Eloyse is
going to bed at home many miles westward. I can almost hear
her say her prayers, asking God to get Daddy over there safely
and her mother joining her in the prayers and perhaps crying."

Other heartfelt conversations were duly immortalized in the
Times, but indications are that instead of sentimental chitchat
the stormy petrel Levine sparked the first tiff over the Atlantic.
Levine later said that he had not been bored for an instant
during the flight. At times he took the controls and flew the
plane. Yet the Columbia was in mid-Atlantic when the restless
man began rooting among the stowed gear and found that
Chamberlin had neglected to put aboard the oars for the
rubber boat. He began to berate his partner for this oversight.
"How could you be so stupid?" he shouted. "What was the
use?" Chamberlin answered mildly. "It would be too far to
row, anyway."

Levine sat silent following this, but soon his roving atten-
tions were again occupied. He had arrived that morning with
cash in his pocket to pay off all field employees of the Columbia
Aircraft Corporation. Over the Atlantic he suddenly recalled
that this large amount of folding money still reposed in the

182 The Big Parade in the Air

pocket of his striped suit. According to Chamberlin, who would
make the anecdote a highlight of numerous after-dinner
speeches: "We were quite a distance out before he recalled
that he had forgotten to pay the money out. When he thought
of it, he shouted in consternation, declaring that he certainly
would hate to go down into Davy Jones 7 locker with all that
money on him."

Yet such episodes were minor compared to the real mis-
fortunes of the Columbia. The plane had only reached New-
London when Chamberlin realized something was wrong with
the earth-induction compass. In many interviews abroad, Lind-
bergh had paid tribute to the Pioneer compass in the Spirit of
St. Louis. It had worked flawlessly, he stated, and his flight
could not have been accomplished without it. Chamberlin's
compass w T as made by the same company and had worked on
innumerable test flights; later it w r as decided that the tre-
mendous vibration of the Columbia's motor had upset its
balance. So almost immediately after the take off Chamberlin
and Levine were faced with the question of whether to turn
back ignominiously. Levine, aware of the dislike the general
public held for him, insisted that the flight continue. Cham-
berlin, weary of days of waiting at Curtiss Field, agreed. Among
the miscellaneous gear he had stowed an outmoded fifty dollar
magnetic compass, in case of accident. He dug this out and
began navigating by it.

With this clumsy instrument, the Columbia was frequently
lost. Indeed, Chamberlin's apparently nonchalant circling of
the Mauretania was anything but nonchalant. Rather it was a
bit of navigation as odd as Lindbergh's swoop over the fishing
boat to shout, "Which way is Ireland?" When Chamberlin
sighted the Mauretania, he was lost. Passengers aboard noted
that he made a special point of ascertaining the name of the
ship. There was method in this. Once he knew the ship's name,
Chamberlin told Levine to open one of the copies of the New

The Big Parade in the Air 183

Yorfc Times. From this paper, Chamberlin found the date and
time of the Mauretania's departure from Liverpool. He then
estimated where the liner would be at this precise moment.
Thus he figured his own location, and set the course of the
Columbia accordingly.

In the United States newspapers reported that weather over
the Atlantic was perfect. This was far from true. Chamberlin
encountered storms, heavy clouds, and fog banks. He wasted
valuable gas climbing over and around this bad weather, and
was driven so far north by winds that he missed Ireland.
Where Lindbergh had averaged 107 mph, Chamberlin could
make only 100.

On the second night he \vas flying at twenty thousand feet
over the North Sea, with the temperature a frigid eighteen
degrees. Here again controversy arose between Chamberlin and
his passenger. Chamberlin now wished to land at Tempelhof
Field in Berlin, making his flight as neat as Lindbergh's. Levine
insisted on flying until every drop of gasoline was gone. Yet
argument was rendered futile by the fact that Chamberlin still
navigated by the old-fashioned compass, and would be unable
to pin-point a destination like Berlin. Passing over Dortmund,
he saw the airfield, dropped low, and shouted, "To Berlin? To
Berlin?" Men waved frantically in the direction of the capital,
but soon the Columbia was lost again.

Chamberlin and Levine had been in the air for forty-two
and a half tense hours, covering 3,923 miles, when the plane's
engine began to sputter from lack of gasoline. It was shortly
after midnight, German time. The Columbia was far off course,
over a town near Eisleben, no miles southeast of Berlin. It
was a disappointing finale, but at least the Columbia had made
the longest flight in the history of aviation, surpassing Lind-
bergh by 295 miles.

Chamberlin, past master at postage-stamp landings, brought
the plane down in the middle of a farmer's field. Their

184 The Big Parade in the Air

thundering arrival at first attracted only a single farm woman
who beheld a strange sight as she approached. Two dirty-
looldng men in those days of spitting engines flying was a
filthy business climbed from the plane. One (Chamberlin)
was so dizzy that he could barely stand, and lurched around as
If drunk. Levine, who had donned a heavy flying suit to protect
himself from the cold, was stiff and sore. He began jumping an
invisible rope to limber up muscles. Both were deaf from the
engine noise, and it seemed to the German woman that they
shouted threats at her. She turned and fled.

Soon a crowd from neighborhood farms gathered around the
plane and its curious occupants. Remembering that he spoke a
little German, Levine succeeded in persuading a native to set
out for Eisleben to bring back containers of gasoline in a cart.
Soon the man returned with twenty gallons of a fuel called
benzol which were funneled into the Columbia. Four hours
after landing the plane took off again in the direction of
Berlin, where crowds still waited patiently at Tempelhof.

Almost immediately a thick fog descended, and once more
Chamberlin was lost. He thought Berlin lay in one direction;
Levine insisted on another. Weary at last of arguing, Chamber-
lin figuratively threw up his hands, solving the difference in
informal fashion: "I steered for awhile toward where I thought
Berlin was, then Levine took the controls and went his way/'

As they circled in this manner, the benzol ran out. By now
the Columbia was over Kottbus, seventy miles southwest of
Berlin. Again Chamberlin picked a field and landed. This time
the ground was soggy and the plane sank low into the mud,
ploughing deep furrows with wheels and tail. Suddenly it struck
an obstruction, to nose forward, the still-whirling propeller
snapping off at the ends. This was a major calamity, yet for the
moment a minor one seemed more important. Another farm
woman had appeared, but instead of being frightened she was
furious at the damage done her precious field. "Bezahlen!

The Big Parade in the Air 185

Bezahlen! Pay! Pay!" she screeched, and according to some
accounts waved a menacing pitchfork at the exhausted men.

Soon she was joined by a man, who also shouted threats. But
others around the countryside had heard the plane and soon
the Mayor of Kottbus appeared. With its propeller damaged,
the Columbia could not fiy, so Chamberlin and Levine World
Heroes Two and Three were led to the Kottbus Inn. Towns-
folk toasted them in German beer and the burgomaster made
a speech in which he declared that the Columbia's forced
landing constituted the most memorable moment in the thou-
sand-year history of Kottbus. Pretty girls in peasant costumes
popped up and the two Americans posed for pictures which
would appear the world over captioned The Fliers and the
Frauleins. Then Chamberlin and Levine were allowed to go
upstairs for a few hours of solid rest.

A day later June yth the repaired Columbia winged its
way to Tempelhof. With an escort of hulking Lufthansa
planes, the transatlantic craft looked small indeed. At Tempel-
hof cries of "Hoch! Hoch!" resounded from 150,000 throats,
while Hussars marched and brass bands oom-paahed in all
directions. The Columbia landed and the two fliers alighted,
bringing stolid Berliners to a high pitch of excitement. Unlike
the Lindbergh crowds in Paris and London, however, Berliners
did not burst through police lines German respect for law and
order was too deeply ingrained for that. But reporters of all
nations made a miniature mob scene around the pair.
Chamberlin was asked, "Weren't you afraid didn't you feel
like turning back?" The easy going American smiled his quiz-
zical grin. "Well," he said, "you're so excited during the first
half of the trip that you don't stop to worry. By that time, you
realize it's just as far back as ahead, that it's too far to swim
either way, so you just keep on going."

In Berlin, the two fliers were widely feted. President von

186 The Big Parade in the Air

Hindenburg, Foreign Minister Stresemann, and Dr. Hugo
Eckener of dirigible fame paid fulsome tribute. At the Pilsen
breweries in Munich a bock beer was named in honor of
Chamberlin. From New York came word that the fliers' wives
had boarded the first available liner to join the triumphant pair.
Chamberlin was pleased by this, but Levine professed to be
alarmed over treatment he might expect from the onetime
Belle of Williamsburg. "When she sees me she will certainly
deliver a knockout blow/' he told newsmen.

Up to now, the press of the United States had been content
to regard the Millionaire Junkman as a stormy petrel. But with
the success of the flight to Berlin, Levine suddenly seemed to
warrant more. For at times Charles A. Levine, World Hero
Number Three, bore the personality-stamp of the Era of Won-
derful Nonsense. Papers back home began to call him the
erratic Mr. Levine in an effort to capture the essence of his
actions.

Not all the hoopla which began to surround him stemmed
from the First Transatlantic Passenger himself. Some was sup-
plied by the President of the United States. For when the
Bellanca plane landed in Germany, Calvin Coolidge cabled a
message of congratulation. There was something peculiar about
these congratulations: they were addressed only to Clarence
Chamberlin. This vastly upset the Jewish press and much of
the Jewish population. Coolidge was branded an anti-Semite
and a Jewish newspaper called The Day reminded him:

Two men left New York; two men risked their lives; two men
have showed heroism and created a record even greater than Lind-
bergh's. Two men left; two men arrived, Americans both. But the
President of the United States congratulates only one, and by
strange coincidence the one whom the President has not found
worthy of being mentioned is named Levine . . .

How Levine felt about this slight is not known, for the
Presidential cable was one of the few matters on which the

The Big Parade in the Air 187

erratic man maintained discreet silence. But if he was dis-
pleased by Coolidge, he must have been delighted by Tin Pan
Alley. The Street of Songs had disregarded Chamberlin to pro-
duce two rousing songs extolling Levine. One was "Levine, You
Are the Greatest Hebrew Ace." The other (inevitably) was
"Levine and His Flying Machine."

In far-off Berlin, the Millionaire Junkman may or may not
have heard of these songs, or known that the New York Times
had labeled him a bona fide Hero. At any rate, he completely
failed to mend his stormy ways. While he and Chamberlin
were supposedly filing exclusive dispatches to the New York
Times, Levine undertook to unburden his true feelings to the
Hearst press. "If we had had one-tenth of Lindy's luck, we
would have made it," he cabled home. The United States re-
acted with shock and outrage. Once again Levine was accused
of being a poor sport, and the figure of Levine the Hero slowly
began to tarnish.

This did nothing to curb Levine's energies. From his emi-
nence as a slightly faded Hero, the stubby little powerhouse an-
nounced plans for a two million dollar transatlantic airline
which would be fueled by huge floating islands spaced across the
ocean. He also met the photogenic German aviatrix Thea
Rasche and signed her up for an American barnstorming tour.
On June 1 3th the day of the tumultuous Lindbergh welcome
in New York Charnberlin and Levine were relaxing in Baden
Baden. Here Levine exposed another facet of his character.
Few would have credited him with a sense of humor. Yet at
Baden Baden he was to play host to a group of German indus-
trialists, all of whom knew him and were familiar with his
blunt, dynamic features. Levine set off to meet his friends in
an old-fashioned Victoria driven by a coachman in a battered
high hat. Midway to the railroad station he bribed the coach-
man to disappear, leaving behind the high hat. Levine clapped
this on his own bald dome, mounted the coachman's seat, and

188 The Big Parade in the Air

drove to the station. He sat stiffly at attention while his busi-
ness associates climbed into the Victoria to be driven back to
the hotel in style by Levine himself. No one recognized him as
the efficient coachman.

Next, business problems began to bedevil Levine. In past
years international deals had brought the Millionaire Junkman
into negotiation with steel firms in the Ruhr. In one he had
availed himself of the advisory services of Dr. Julius Puppe, a
native of Germany. For this, Dr. Puppe had rendered a bill
for ten thousand dollars. Levine had sent him five thousand
dollars, disregarding all subsequent howls of outrage from the
Ruhr. When Levine landed in Berlin, he was handed a fulsome
message of congratulation from Dr. Puppe. Shortly, however,
Dr. Puppe tried to slap a five thousand dollar writ on the
Columbia. Berlin authorities were anxious to have their city
appear every bit as hospitable to transatlantic fliers as Paris had
been. Police took the server of the writ and bounced him from
Tempelhof, Yet the episode made international headlines, and
added a twist to the history of aviation.

In time, Mrs. Wilda Chamberlin and Mrs. Grace Levine
arrived in Germany, where it was noted that Mrs. Levine
greeted her husband affectionately, omitting the knockout
blow he had anticipated. Then the fliers announced plans for
a good-will tour to such major European cities as Munich,
Vienna, Warsaw, Rome, and Paris. Meantime, they showed
their wives the sights of Berlin ...

For the Year of the Big Shriek this was tame stuff indeed,
and in the United States people cast about for new thrills.
Promise of such immediately came from the West Coast where
James D. Dole, the Hawaiian pineapple king, offered $25,000
for a non-stop flight across the 2,400 miles of Pacific to Hawaii.
This would be the longest over-water flight ever attempted.
Yet the Dole Pacific Race, as it came to be called, was a
thoroughly senseless undertaking. Even as it was announced

The Big Parade in the Air 189

two Army Signal Corps lieutenants, Lester J. Maitland and
Albert F. Hegenberger, were poised at Oakland airport await-
ing the right weather to make the same flight. Further, two
civilians named Ernest L. Smith and Emory B. Bronte were
only slightly behind the Signal Corps officers in plans for an
identical hop. Thus Mr. Dole's rich offer smacked only of pub-
licity for his pineapple products. Nevertheless, fifteen fliers rose
up to take part. One entrant was an exceedingly pretty school-
teacher-passenger named Mildred Doran.

The Dole Prize, so hastily conceived, brought protests from
serious-minded aviation enthusiasts. If Lindbergh had showed
aviation at its best, view-with-alarm newspaper editorials stated,
the Dole Race exposed the worst. Yet a world hungry for
aviation-thrills found the Dole Flight acceptable. Indeed, the
urge to make record-breaking flights seemed to be everywhere.
In Detroit, Edward F. Schlee and William Brock were quietly
planning a flight around the world, involving the fewest num-
ber of stops possible. In Florida, an attractive dental assistant
and beauty contest winner named Ruth Elder had joined with
experienced pilot George Haldeman in purchasing a Stinson-
Detroiter plane to be called the American Girl. It was Miss
Elder's modest aim to be the first woman to fly the Atlantic.

In Brunswick, Georgia, a frail young music-student-turned-
pilot named Paul Redfern had succeeded in persuading local
businessmen to subsidize him in a 4,600 mile flight to Rio de
Janeiro, his plane to be called the City of Brunswick. In New
York City curious ideas of vindication smote tabloid editor
Phil Payne, who suffered the dislike of his colleagues because
of the fiasco of the Hall-Mills trial and alleged breach of con-
fidence in the Earl Carroll bathtub party. Payne sold his chief,
William Randolph Hearst, on the idea of a Hearst-subsidized
flight to Rome. Payne signed Lloyd Bertaud and James De
Witt Hill as pilot-navigators of a supposedly fool-proof plane
named Old Glory. Payne himself intended to go along on this

190 The Big Parade in the Air

flight but like Levine would not reveal it until the last
moment.

Equally determined to fly the Atlantic was a Long Islander
named Mrs. Frances Wilson Grayson, who had made one
million dollars selling real estate around Forest Hills. As the
owner of the Sikorsky amphibian plane Dawn, she was cor-
ralling experienced personnel for a flight to Copenhagen. Over-
seas, the picturesque foreign correspondent H. R. Knicker-
bocker was circulating among German pilots, attempting to
find a pair who would take him on an east-west flight. In Eng-
land, a lady of wealth and title dominated the flying picture.
Princess Lowenstein-Wertheim, first woman to fly the English
Channel, had joined forces with the elegant Captain Leslie
Hamilton in projecting a flight to the United States. In
Ireland, Princess Xenia of Greece announced a hop from
Dublin to New York, backed by the fortune of her millionaire
husband William B. Leeds. Her plane, named the Princess
Xenia, would be flown by two Irish pilots.

In the midst of all this activity, one plane stood poised and
ready. This was Commander Byrd's America, which had been
waiting since April to start its flight over the Atlantic. Ameri-
cans of the Twenties had been so often hoodwinked by
scientific claims which turned out to be pure ballyhoo that
many were inclined to put the Byrd flight on a level with other
flights. Aviation men, though, considered it the first truly
scientific transatlantic flight. "Lindbergh blazed the trail, and
Chamberlin followed. But the flight of the Fokker meant the
beginning of the new day in air transport/' states a tribute to
the America. The handsome, thirty-seven-year-old Byrd was
backed by Rodman Wanamaker, who had already spent from
$250,000 to $300,000 on preparations for the flight. The tri-
motor Fokker plane had cost $70,000 to $80,000, where the

The Big Parade in the Air 191

Spirit of St. Louis had cost $18,000 and the Columbia $25,000.
The America's wingspread was 25 feet wider than the others
and the 14,500 pound plane outweighed them by 9,000 pounds.
Loaded aboard the America was almost every possible scientific
device, including a radio which for the first time would allow
an ocean-crossing plane to communicate with the world.

Perhaps the great emphasis on science was responsible for
the caution in the Byrd camp. Twice now the FoHcer had
missed out on adequate flying weather over the Atlantic, and
as June progressed there were signs that Commander Byrd was
becoming impatient. On June 23rd, he journeyed to New
Haven, where Yale gave him an honorary degree. After he re-
turned to Roosevelt Field, the tempo of excitement around
the America increased. Byrd hinted that a take off was im-
minent and announced that the plane's crew would be himself
as captain and navigator; Bert Acosta, the swashbuckler with
the gleaming Latin smile, number-one pilot; Lieutenant George
Noville, a broad-shouldered ex-athlete and Navy hero, radio
engineer; and 28-year-old Bernt Balchen, emergency pilot and
mechanic.

It is conceivable that Byrd was determined to fly before the
month of June ran out. Because on June 28th weather reports
were no better, no worse, than on many other days. Yet at
ten-thirty that night Byrd stated that he would fly at dawn on
June 29th. Once again a light rain fell over the field as the
America's tanks were filled with one thousand three hundred
gallons of gas, approximately nine hundred more than either
the Spirit of St. Louis or the Columbia had carried. At one
point a mail truck drew close to the pkne to load aboard two
hundred and fifty letters for foreign dignitaries. This, of course,
was the first official airmail.

At four that morning Byrd appeared, upright and aristocratic
in the uniform of a Navy aviator. The daredevil Bert Acosta

192 The Big Parade in the Air

was already there. Noville and Balchen made last minute
checks of equipment. Roast chickens were stored aboard, and
Noville listened to last minute instructions about a crash-valve
which would dump the plane's huge load of gasoline in less
than a minute.

At five-fifteen the four men climbed into the plane, Byrd
and Acosta in the pilot-chairs in front, Noville and Balchen
among the scientific equipment behind. The America now
weighed 17,820 pounds, six hundred more than had ever be-
fore been lifted into the air. At five-twenty-five the plane
started wallowing down the runway, so weighted by its enor-
mous load that many thought it would never rise. But then the
clumsy plane began a slow, reluctant lift. Once in the air, the
America regained dignity and grace. It pointed northeast as
one reporter rhapsodized, "its three motors roaring a song to the
morning/'

To the watching world of 1927, each of the three great trans-
atlantic flights seemed to have a personality of it own. Lind-
bergh's seemed the Super-Flight, brave, daring, confident. Be-
cause of the legal controversy swirling around the Columbia
and the comic-opera activities of Charles A. Levine, the
Chamberlin flight never seemed one-hundred-percent serious.
But to the world the Byrd flight became a mixture of irony and
courage. The America carried every safety device known to
aviation. For trouble, there were flares and inflatable rafts. To
defeat fatigue there were two pilots. Byrd had waited months
for perfect weather. Nothing about the flight had been left to
chance. Yet, ironically, it encountered the worst weather of all.

As Byrd and his crew flew over Newfoundland word was
flashed that after a twenty-six hour flight through rain and
cross-winds the Army fliers Maitland and Hegenberger had
landed in Hawaii. At once from the America came a gallant
message: "Wire our congratulations to Maitland and his crew.

The Big Parade in the Air 193

We are keeping a sharp lookout for Ntingesser. Think we are
getting some scientific data. Byrd." Soon came another radio
signal: "Message for good old Floyd Bennett. Tell him we miss
him like the dickens. 7 '

These were the only cheerful messages Byrd tapped out.
From Nova Scotia on, he and his men flew in fog so thick that
it was impossible to see wing-tips. Byrd's wireless messages took
on a ghastly vividness as murky, foggy night enveloped the
plane: "Airplane America at Sea Via Chatham, Mass. We
have seen neither land nor water since 4 p.m. yesterday, on
account of dense fog and low clouds covering an enormous
area/ 7 Byrd later called the flight "forty-two hours of Hell" and
his radio messages contained such phrases as "a great prison
of darkness." After the first night turned into the second day
the Commander and his men found themselves inhabiting an-
other world as he later put it in a book:

There were at times some terrible views. We would look hun-
dreds of feet into fog valleys dark, ominous depths. At times the
cloud peaks or the horizon looked exactly like a land of moun-
tains. At other times they took on the appearance of a beautiful
lake or river, . . .

As hours passed the America's vaunted scientific instruments
began breaking down. Compass wild, radio working inter-
mittently, the big plane flew through a fog world that again
turned into ink black night. "Nothing in my North Pole flight,
no hard experience, no strain, can equate what we endured in
this flight," Byrd later wrote. "There was no way for us to
know where we were going. Because of the lowness of the
clouds and the pitch darkness we were hopelessly lost."

Byrd's wireless could send messages, but not receive. Thus
he remained unaware of the most ironic twist of all. A great
storm covered Western Europe that night, and in its exact
center lay Paris. At Le Bourget, rain lashed down in a teeming

194 The Big Parade in the Air

deluge. Thunder, lightning, winds, fog, and low black overcast
combined to make one of the most awful nights in the
memories of Parisians. Even so, several thousand persons stood
waiting under umbrellas at Le Bourget. For a time Chamberlin
and Levine were among those waiting, for the Columbia had
landed at Le Bourget that afternoon on the last leg of its good-
will tour. But after midnight most of the crowd drifted away,
leaving only journalists and an ambulance which waited
ominously at the side of the runway.

Byrd's earth-induction compass was useless. "We are flying
by a compass that has gone crazy," he relayed. Yet by a miracle
he had located Paris and for some twenty minutes those at Le
Bourget could hear the thunder of the Fokker engines above
the low clouds. " 'Allo, 'Allo," the crowd yelled up into the
pelting rainor was it "Ah, Feau" that the French shouted?
American reporters in the rain were too miserable to care.

Byrd knew he was above Paris. "I am flying around Paris-
Am I to the west of Paris? Give me my position," he begged
frantically. This was heard by a transmitter on the Eiffel
Tower, but Byrd could not get the answer. He and his men
flew on, assailed by driving rain and shut in by fog which re-
duced visibility to zero. It was a mighty drama, and only later
did the world learn of the drama-within-a-drama enacted in the
America's cabin. During most of the forty hours of flight
swashbuckling Bert Acosta held the controls. Where the other
members of the America crew were primarily technicians, ac-
customed to the patient working out of detail, Acosta thrived
on speed and excitement. His feat in blind-flying the America
for nearly two days was remarkable, but as the plane criss-
crossed Paris the daredevil pilot began to crack. As the scene
has been recreated in a biography of Byrd, the Commander
suddenly shouted to his chief pilot, "You're off your course,
man. You're flying in a circle!" Byrd's flashlight:

The Big Parade in the Air 195

stabs a dazzling naked hole through the darkness, and in its unholy
glare Acosta turns savagely, his eyes red and bulging "I'm going
back!" his voice rasps brazenly. He whirls back to the controls, the
motors burst into a screaming crescendo and the America wheels
abruptly and spurts back toward the sea.

At such a moment a commander can do only one thing.
Byrd grabbed a heavy metal flashlight and stepped behind
Acosta. He lifted the flashlight, ready to bring it down in a
knockout blow on the pilot's skull. But before he could do this,
Acosta collapsed, falling nervelessly into the two feet of leg
room between the pilot seats. Calm young Bernt Balchen
slipped into his chair and took over the controls.

Balchen was piloting some two hours later at two-thirty in
the morning, Paris time when murky clouds below suddenly
parted for a split second. Through this break could be seen an
expanse of what appeared to be sea. Actually it was the English
Channel just off Ver sur Mer, a quiet fishing village which had
last known excitement when a ship of the Spanish Armada
foundered there in 1588.

The tanks of the America held only enough gas for another
half hour of flight. Since the sea below seemed calm, Byrd
decided to land in the water. "We landed voluntarily," he said
later, "choosing the sea as safer than unknown ground/ 7 By
this time all crew members were stone deaf, and Byrd scratched
out on a piece of paper, "We are going to land." He passed
this around, as Noville later said, "like an invitation to a tea
party." Balchen read, nodded. He pointed the huge plane
downward. Wheels touched water and were instantly shorn
from the fuselage. A second later came a mighty crash and the
plane went under. Byrd, Balchen, and Noville fought their way
out of the fuselage and rose to the surface. For a moment
Acosta seemed lost, but almost at once the dashing fellow
popped up, revived by the dip and smiling his flashing smile;
The men peered around and saw the shore about two hundred

196 The Big Parade in the Air

yards away. Noville inflated the rubber raft and in it the four
paddled ashore.

"The taste of France for hero worship has not been ex-
hausted/ 7 read a dispatch to the New York Times a few days
later. Byrd and his men had been rushed to a hospital, where
all four were found to be suffering varying stages of exhaustion.
Acosta had painfully fractured a shoulder and on Byrd's chest
was a large contusion. At Ver sur Mer the four were permitted
some sleep, but Paris was impatiently awaiting them.

In Paris, the men of the America found Chamberlin and
Levine, and it was as a group of six Heroes that the trans-
atlantic fliers were greeted by President Doumergue and other
high officials of France.

In Byrd, Paris found a new kind of inspiring Hero. Chiseled,
erect, aristocratic in Navy whites, he seemed a man where
Lindbergh had been a boy. Byrd was capable of salty speech
"High up in the clouds it was cold as hell," he told one admir-
ing group. Again, "I tell you, it was one hell of a strain."
Despite his chiseled features and erect bearing, Byrd possessed
a keen sense of humor and much enjoyed listening to yams
spun by the drily humorous Clarence Chamberlin. In public
Byrd made speeches and accepted honors with the dash of a
Virginia gentleman. Because of his rank and previous accom-
plishments, the precise French accorded him even higher official
honors than were given Lindbergh.

Emphasis on Byrd left the others free to enjoy Paris.
Chamberlin and his wife went sightseeing like tourists from
Iowa. Balchen discovered a cafe in Montparnasse called the
Viking and there the young man of the north established a
Hero-hangout. Dashing Bert Acosta soaked up night life at Joe
Zellf s. On the night of Commander Byrd's thirty-eighth birth-
day the group went en masse to the Folies Bergeres. The new
American Heroes seemed to be having a grand time in Paris,

The Big Parade in the Air 197

and newspapers lamented that Lindbergh had not been let
loose on the town to taste its rare pleasures. "It is not on the
record," declared a journalist solemnly, "that Colonel Lind-
bergh ever really enjoyed himself in Paris, unless doing barrel-
rolls and looping-the-loop in a French military plane consti-
tutes enjoyment."

Came a shift in the cast of Hero characters, for Clarence
Chamberlin at last became fed up with the antics of his erratic
transatlantic partner. An open break between these two became
public knowledge when Levine announced plans to fly back
across the Atlantic in the Columbia. Chamberlin felt this was
pushing good luck. He bowed out. Levine announced that his
probable pilot would be Fraulein Thea Rasche, and that as an
extra added passenger the plane might have a much-publicized
American lady known as Mabel Boll, the Queen of Diamonds.
After this had won suitable headlines, Levine dropped the
ladies to hire a French pilot named Maurice Drouhit, who
had been planning his own flight. By then Chamberlin and
Levine ceased appearing together in public. When queried
about this, Chamberlin answered tersely, "Our programs will
be separate from now on."

S

Joe College: See that fellow over there? That's Lindbergh.
Dumb Dora: Let's seewhen was it he swam the English
Channel?

Judge

Mother: Aren't you ashamed of yourself wearing so little

clothing to a party?

Flapper: Goodness no, mother. If I were ashamed of my-

self I wouldn't wear so little clothing to a party.

College Humor

He: What happened to your stenographer?

Him: She left she caught me kissing my wife.

Judge

Shiek: Has Tom learned to play the saxophone yet?

Sheba: It's hard to tell.

-Life

ist Flapper: The boy Tm going with now thinks of nothing

but necking.

2nd Flapper: What can you do with a fellow like that?
ist Flapper: Neck.

College Humor
198

Twelve Little Words 199

Chuck: I thought you promised to save me some of the

hooch you had.
Wally: I tried to, but it ate holes through everything

and I finally had to drink it.

College Humor

Bystander: Good heavens, you shot the -wrong man.
Chicagoan: What of it?

Judge

Show Girl: For heaven's sake, stop showing your ignorance.
Chorus Girl: My God, I knew I should have worn a petticoat!

Judge

Have you some of that gasoline that stops knocking?

Yes.

Then give my wife a glass.

Literary Digest

With such enormous events transpiring in the air, it would
seem impossible for anyone landbound to make banner head-
lines in 1927, Yet as June became July, and July approached
August, this feat was accomplished intermittently by a man
who apparently decided that in view of the soaring flights he
could make the headlines only by the shrewdest kind of under-
playing.

In this he was like a highly experienced actor, aware of
every possible trick of his trade. On a stage in the midst of a
group of youngsters with looks, adventure-appeal, and a super-
abundance of It, the seasoned performer would know that
only by relying on scene-stealing could he win the attention
of the audience. He could stand corner-stage and lingeringly
extract a long white handkerchief from a pocket during the
leading actor's soliloquy. Or wear different colored socks, to
strategically reveal this interesting fact as he sat observing a
highly emotional scene acted by others. Or he could be the

200 Twelve Little Words

old-time buffoon who would don ridiculous attire to stalk
wordlessly across the stage the low comedian who will wear
anything, do anything, to pull attention to himself.

The man who, by a combination of all such methods, fre-
quently won headlines in the summer the world went mad
had alreadylike an expert actor great prestige and a large
following. He was Calvin Coolidge, thirtieth President of the
United States. Coolidge's superb skill at capturing the spot-
light at moments during his somnolent administration has sur-
prised some historians, but it never surprised the few who knew
the silent Chief Executive well. The Coolidge horizon was
bounded by his sparse Vermont boyhood, and he seemed to
regard the Presidency of the United States as tantamount to
operating a small store. So long as the shelves were orderly and
expenses kept low that was enough. Thousands of office-
holders lost jobs as a result of Cautious CaFs ceaseless econ-
omies, but he never considered expanding or introducing new
ideas. In a devastating essay called "A Study In Inertia,"
Irving Stone has written: "Calvin Coolidge believed that the
least government was the best government; he aspired to be-
come the least President the country had ever had; he attained
his desire/'

Under Coolidge, the capital city of Washington was as quiet
as a New England village. A few stop-and-go traffic lights had
just been installed, but this was a sign of rare progress. In 1927
the Coolidge workday averaged a mere four hours. The Pres-
ident was much pleased by this, as was the rest of the country
which called his tenure the Era of Coolidge Prosperity.
Coolidge firmly believed that by easing the tax burdens of the
rich he benefitted all in other words, the rich as they grew
richer would take care of the poor. "The business of America
is business," he stated on one famous occasion. Again he said,
"brains are wealth and wealth is the chief end of man/ 7 His
grasp of economics was exposed as he solemnly declared;

Twelve Little Words 201

"When more and more people are thrown out of work, unem-
ployment results." Of all this, William Allen White stated:
"He was an economic fatalist, with a God-given inertia. He
knew nothing and refused to learn."

In little more than twenty years the tight-lipped Coolidge
had made an astounding rise from City Councilman to the
Presidency. "He ain't gabby/' opined the first voters to en-
counter him. He was not gabby in the White House either.
His four-hour work day was largely spent in listening to the
reports of subordinates or to receiving distinguished guests.
When the man across his desk ceased speaking, the pickle-
pussed President merely looked at him. Shortly the visitor rose
and left. For the rest of the time he walked about offering his
cold-fish handshake to White House tourists, rocked on his
Pennsylvania Avenue porch, prowled the White House kitchens
in search of excess spending, or threw temper tantrums because
Secret Servicemen did not instantly carry out his cryptic orders.

The man who cut the duties of office by seventy percent was
also able to nap every afternoon from two to four, his feet
neatly crossed atop the Presidential desk. Just about the only
thing to be said in favor of Coolidge is that he may have
realized subconsciously that he was ill-equipped for such high
office. But if he did not grow in mental stature during his
tenure, Coolidge gradually became aware that a spotlight of
national interest was eternally focused on him.

"Coolidge has been an old man from the age of twelve," one
observer decided. "He is spending his adolescence in the White
House." The adolescent in the joyless man found a new toy
in his ability to get publicity. Because of his inertia almost any-
thing Coolidge said or did was news, often with accompanying
photographs. But as always Cautious Cal took the limited view.
From the White House, he could project almost any image of
himself. Characteristically, he chose the most sedate. He
watched with a careful eye every detail of his quiet daily life,

202 Twelve Little Words

noting anything out of the ordinary that happened. Regularly
he parceled out these morsels to reporters. It became a major
news event when Mrs. Coolidge baked a souffle that her hus-
band liked.

As Coolidge evaluated his own news potential, the most ex-
citing material he had to offer stemmed from what newspapers
called the White House menagerie. The President and his
warmhearted wife had two collies named Rob Roy and
Princess Prim, together with a raccoon named Rebecca. They
also owned five assorted birds. Coolidge watched the antics of
this menagerie with an avid eye and instantly reported any
cute behavior to the waiting press. Such stories were designed
to make Coolidge himself seem simple, friendly, and con-
tented. But the important thing is that they came from
Coolidge. He was letting the world see him as he saw himself.

So the country became familiar with the man whose per-
sonality was once compared to a block of ice, and in whose
veins supposedly ran ice water. In photographs the dour man's
head seemed to be topped by black hair. Actually his hair was
sandy with a few glints of red. It was the only colorful thing
about him. In 1924, the Republican Party had waged its cam-
paign with the slogan Keep Cool with Coolidge, which com-
pletely summed up the President's philosophy. As Frederick
Lewis Allen has written: "Considering that he was in the
White House for five years and seven months, his Presidential
record was surprisingly negative. But it was just the sort of
record he preferred."

Rob Roy, Princess Prim, and Rebecca Raccoon the birds
had been left behind were members in top standing of the
Presidential vacation special which departed Washington early
in June. This was several days after the thundering excitements
of Lindbergh Day, and the President and his wife were bound
for the Black Hills of South Dakota on a vacation scheduled

Twelve Little Words 203

to last from June i$th to September i5th. For his 1927 change-
of-scene, Coolidge had chosen a territory far different from the
rocky hills of his native Vermont. The Black Hills were really
mountains, 3,500 feet above sea level, with travel folders en-
thusiastically hailing the region near the South Dakota-
Wyoming border as an American Switzerland. The Summer
White House would be in the i25,oa>acre Custer Park forest
reserve, famed for elk, buffalo, trout, natural caves, bottomless
lakes, and (it was promised) cool breezes. High altitudes would
help keep away annoying flies and mosquitoes. The White
House itself would be a thirty room State Game Lodge, and
reporters sent ahead to scout the area wrote: "Past its porch
elk, sheep, and deer stroll. Almost at its door is a stream
stocked with rainbow trout. One sleeps under blankets."

Coolidge's executive offices would be in the classrooms of a
school house in Rapid City, an automobile ride of thirty-two
minutes from the State Game Lodge. Nearby lay the fabled
town of Deadwood, hallowed by Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill
Hickok, Calamity Jane, and other legendary figures of the
Northwest. Also close by was Mount Rushmore, where the
sculptor Gutzon Borglum was preparing his massive sculptures
of the faces of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Theodore
Roosevelt out of the sheer mountainside.

South Dakota had been picked as Presidential vacationland
for reasons other than invigorating air and plentiful trout. In
legislative and other matters, the Northwest had felt slighted
in recent years. Party bosses, eyes on 1928, had pressured
Coolidge into traveling to this far region for the summer.
When the selection of South Dakota was announced all
animosity faded behind a huge eruption of local pride. This
became clear as the Presidential special approached Rapid City.
The final four hundred miles turned into a giant cheering
session, with South Dakotans gathered at whistle stops to ex-
press themselves in such cheers as:

204 Twelve Little Words

South Dakota is the sunshine state
All the people here are feeling great.

South Dakota was not a region noted for literary productivity^
yet now and through the summer its delighted inhabitants
exposed a happy talent for creating jingles. Most of these
rhymed the name Cal and as the Presidential Special huffed
along school children waved banners which read:

Well back you, Cal
Like we would a pal.

There was yet another reason for this warmth. It may be
hard to believe ? but Calvin Coolidge was the President who,
up to this point in history, had reached closest contact with
the people of his country. Even dynamic, picturesque Teddy
Roosevelt had been a remote figure compared to the block-of-
ice personality of Coolidge. One reason for this was radio, by
which the twangy, impersonal Coolidge voice could be heard in
any living room. Almost equally important were the movie
newsreels, in days before television the most dramatic method
of watching great events and personages. Coolidge had a great
partiality for Movietone News and others, perhaps because he
could run them off at will, observing himself in action. He
showed an almost childish fondness for newsreel cameramen.,
and this was never more apparent than during the Black Hills
sojourn. Because of various delays, the Presidential party did
not reach the State Game Lodge until after dark on the night
of arrival. Next morning Coolidge personally herded the entire
party two hundred yards down the road. Bags were stowed in
motor cars as before, and a second arrival at the summer White
House was staged in daylight for the benefit of newsreels.

On the placid mind of President Coolidge reposed such in-
ternational matters as the Second Geneva Naval Conference,
which like the first seemed doomed to failure. At home he was
slightly unpopular in rural districts because of a steadfast re-

Twelve Little Words 205

fusal to sign bills bringing farm relief. Just before Coolidge
departed for South Dakota, the great rise in stock market prices
suddenly halted, for all the world like the gasp which indicates
a healthy man is not as robust as he looks. Coolidge and Sec-
retary of the Treasury Mellon took due note of this, with the
result that both went to great lengths to proclaim greater faith
than ever in the future of America. Immediately stocks jumped
twenty-six points. Coolidge and Mellon were enormously
pleased with themselves. What they had done, however, was
to boost prices by exploiting their prestige and the great con-
fidence the public reposed in them. A trusting public which
had used up its savings began to borrow on farms, homes, and
cars for money to invest in the glorious American bull market.

None of this dawned on Coolidge, who after restaging the
daylight arrival at Custer Park promptly repaired to nearby
Squaw Creek where he donned rubber hip boots over his busi-
ness suit and, with a sedate gray fedora on his head, proceeded
to fish. This was the day an exhausted Lindbergh flew from
New York to St. Louis, and while he did Coolidge caught
seven rainbow trout, the largest one and seven-eighths pounds.
Returning to the lodge, he proudly held them up for the
admiration of Mrs. Coolidge, while the newsreel cameras
ground away.

Coolidge did have problems. So little happened around him
that even so simple a matter as catching seven rainbow trout
could embroil him in nationwide controversy. On the night of
the arrival at Custer Park, Rebecca Raccoon had slipped out
of her cage and climbed up into the limbs of a tree. For the
next half hour the President of the United States stood under
the tree, whistling gently to bring her down. Reporters
watched hungrily, and this mild scene became a major story
enshrined in news columns around the country.

Similarly, when Coolidge carried a tin of wriggling worms
on his first day's fishing, this too made news though of a

206 Twelve Litde Words

more explosive sort. Across the country, members of the Izaak
Walton League thought fishing for trout with worms unsports-
manlike. A howl of public protest arose, and the summer
White House was inundated with fishing flies, while various
publicity-minded individuals offered to rush to Custer Park to
instruct the President in their use. To all this Coolidge re-
acted sourly. "Ill let the fish teach me how to use flies/' he
gramped.

The clear air of South Dakota wrought no visible change in
the Coolidge personality. One of the hardships of office was
that so many people wished to lunch or dine with the President
of the United States. At such moments Coolidge said nothing
to his guests, leaving conversation entirely to the charming
Mrs. Coolidge. Yet guests felt impelled to address some remark
to the taciturn host. At one Black Hills luncheon a Republican
committeewoman turned with great animation to say, "Mr.
Coolidge, you must get a great many important dispatches from
Washington out here. How do they come by air mail?"

"Special pouch," Coolidge answered without lifting eyes
from food.

It was a moment Mrs. Coolidge had faced many times be-
fore and she hopped into the breach. "Oh, yes," she said, "we
get a great deal of mail. Even books and magazines if we send
for them "

"Not by special pouch," Coolidge snapped.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean they came by special pouch."

"You implied it."

At the Custer Park White House, Coolidge continued his
afternoon naps. Mornings he either went to the Rapid City
executive offices or fished. A good deal of his time was spent in
a rocking chair on the front porch of the Game Lodge. Since
the Lodge was in a public forest preserve, any citizen of the
United States willing to take a long auto trip might have the
privilege of standing a few feet from the nation's Chief Execu-

Twelve Little Words 207

tive as he sat in his shirt sleeves rocking "back and forth. So
many seized this priceless opportunity that Rapid City hotels
were jammed and neighboring localities began pioneering in
the American institution of the overnight tourist home. The
fact that crowds had eyes glued on him as he rocked never
bothered Calvin Coolidge. Several times during the summer he
called the White House valet to the side of the rocking chair.
The valet donned a white coat, extracted snipping shears, and
trimmed the sandy Presidential hair while hundreds gaped.

Oddly enough, Coolidge was a Yankee Doodle Dandy, born
on the Fourth of July. His fifty-fifth birthday fell on July 4,
1927 and suitable ceremonies were arranged by enthusiastic
South Dakotans. Yet this and other peaks of Coolidge's Black
Hills vacation only served to highlight the canny manner in
which the President spread himself in the department of pub-
licity. Between the arrival of the Presidential party and late
June, Coolidge was content to fish. He permitted photog-
raphers and newsreel cameramen to photograph him holding
his fishing catch, but never in the act of fishing. This last he
was saving and with reason! The worm controversy still raged
in the American press, focusing sufficient attention on him.
Weeks had passed since Coolidge first impaled a worm on his
hook, yet now the New York Times carried one of the strangest
story-heads ever to appear in its august pages:

RADIO BARS ANGLER
DEFENDING COOLIDGE
AS WORM FISHERMAN

Under this, the story begin: "The lowly angle worm is being
dragged into national politics by political foes of President
Coolidge with a view to causing loss of the anglers' vote if he
should be a candidate for re-election claims Fred B. Shaw,
former international fly fishing champion."

208 Twelve Little Words

Mr. Shaw reporters called him a rugged character of
seventy-three who looked forty-fivehad been scheduled to de-
liver an address Our President, Our Trout, and Our Fishing
Methods over radio station WABC in New York. Though a
vigorous member of the Izaak Walton League, Mr. Shaw could
see both sides of any question and was prepared to defend the
President: "It is my intention to offer honorable amends to our
President for the many slurs and gibes that have been launched
against him by anglers since it became known he was using
worms as bait for trout/' Immediately before this stout defense
went on the air, Mr. Shaw was told to make certain deletions
in his talk. He refused. Stalking from the radio station, he
called a press conference at which he charged that Democrats
were conniving to make Coolidge lose the next election. He
would, He declared, find another radio outlet for his speech of
vindication.

So the worm story raged and Coolidge calmly permitted it to
do so. Another running story involved his adoption into the
Sioux Indian tribe. Coolidge boasted a drop of Indian blood in
his ice-cold veins, and the South Dakota Sioux had decided to
christen him Great White Chief, an honor never before ac-
corded an American President. This was even more of an honor
because the Sioux had filed suit against the government for
seventy thousand dollars, claiming ownership of the land on
which the Custer Park game reserve stood. Another delicate
shading was provided by the fact that seventeen living members
of the Sioux tribe had taken part in the Custer massacre.

Even so, Chief Henry Standing Bear was determined to
honor Coolidge. He drew up plans for a solemn tribal cere-
mony in which Rosebud Robe, most beautiful of living Sioux
maidens, would present Coolidge with a war bonnet, the
feathers of which would reach the ground; Chief Chauncey
Yellow Horse would elucidate the honor bestowed on the Pres-
ident; and, finally, Henry Standing Bear himself would puff the

Twelve Little Words 209

pipe of peace before holding it out to the Great White Father.

Already theatrical agents were fanning out from major cities
to sign Rosebud Robe to a personal appearance contract, and
in this and other matters pertaining to the Coolidge ceremony
the Sioux showed a sense of publicity almost equal to the
President's. What Indian name should be given the Great
White Chief? This was a matter of vast import to the Sioux
and shortly became important to the rest of the country as
well. Every few days Chief Henry Standing Bear leaked a new
name to the press. Was Silent Waters the right name for
Coolidge, or would Solemn Warrior be better? The Sioux
chose and cast aside, faithfully informing the press each time.

For Coolidge's birthday on July 4th, cowboys and cowgirls,
Indians and prospectors, school children and parents, local
families, tourists, Republican committee members, business-
men, and miscellaneous dignitaries swarmed to Custer Park.
Not the least prominent among these was "Aunt Mary" Halley,
a pioneer grandmother, considered the best cake and bread
baker in the Black Hills. Rhapsodized the New York Times:
"Her cakes are baked from her own recipes which she carefully
guards. They have a richness that tickles the palate but does
not disturb the digestion."

Aunt Maty had been delegated to bake the official Coolidge
birthday cake and from her huge store of knowledge decided
on a sour-cream chocolate cake. At one-fifteen on July 4th,
Aunt Mary appeared on the doorstep of the summer White
House bearing this offering. Coolidge, in a blue serge suit and
stiff straw hat, accepted the gift. "I had a day of days," Aunt
Mary confided later. "I suddenly found myself in the center of
a group, pleasantly received by President and Mrs. Coolidge."

Aunt Mary's presentation of the cake was the signal for
South Dakota's birthday celebration to begin. Multitudes
jammed the spacious lawns of the Game Lodge, and straight-
way South Dakotans began to prove their new-found genius for

210 Twelve Little Words

jingles. From one end of the lawn a group of high school boys
and girls cheered in unison:

WelilceCal
He's Our Pal

From another side of the crowd came a competitive cheer:

We're With You, Cal
With You and Your Gal

Another:

He's Our Pal
Is Cal

And another:

Cal and His Gal
May God Be Their Pal

As the cheering sections vied to outdo each other, a group of
Boy Scouts presented Coolidge with a complete cowboy outfit.
The President smiled painfully as the beauties of this regalia
were indicated to him, especially the fact that down the sides
of the wide chaps stippled letters spelled out:

C

A
L

When the cowboy suit had been stowed back in its box
Coolidge began offering his lifeless handshake to local officials
and Republicans who had traveled from afar to greet him.

The President was an especial favorite of the Woman's
Christian Temperence Union, for he had never been known to
sip an alcoholic beverage, and his views on Prohibition were
characteristically negative. "I believe the law should be up-
held," was all he had ever said about the God-given right of
a man to take a drink. Groups of grateful WCTU ladies now
reached for his hand, thanking him fervently for such righteous
support.

Twelve Little Words 211

Temperatures in the Black Hills had "been reaching the
upper nineties, and members of the Presidential entourage
were sure Coolidge wished he had vacationed as usual in the
coolness of Vermont. July 4th was another scorching day and
after an hour the birthday ceremonies showed signs of sagging.
Coolidge may have been unable to detect signs of dangerous
overexpansion in the national economy ("There was a volcano
boiling under him, but he did not know it," H. L. Mencken
would write), but he did know when a celebration in his honor
was falling flat. Sizing up the unhappy situation, he disap-
peared inside the summer White House.

When he came back, the President wore the full cowboy
costume presented by the Boy Scouts. He made a curious, in-
congruous, and thoroughly astonishing sight: "Booted and
spurred, with flaming red shirt, a dashing handkerchief of blue
around his neck, fancy boots carrying silver spurs upon the
heels, chaps around his legs, a belt around his waist, and on his
head a ten gallon hat that looked as if it would hold fifteen."
Smiling sheepishly, Coolidge walked through the awe-struck
crowd until he stood in front of his wife. "How do I look?" he
asked her. "Like a real Westerner," she tactfully said.

Coolidge allowed newspaper photographers to take his pic-
ture in the cowboy outfit. Then he perched on the wooden
fence of a corral and mechanically lifted the ten-gallon hat up
and down for the newsreel boys. COOLIDGE AS COWBOY WINS
WEST'S HEART, newspapers headlined the next day, thus effec-
tively stealing space from Commander Byrd and his men, who
were being feted in Paris.

But the cowboy suit was no one-shot scene-stealing effort
with the President. He became deeply attached to it, wearing
the ten-gallon hat on all occasions. Far more surprising was
the sight that greeted those who visited the President after
dinner. One man so honored reported that he "found the
President seated in his living room wearing cowboy boots,

212 Twelve Little Words

chaps, and ten-gallon hat. There he sat late into the night
smoking his cigar. He is said to put on these clothes of the
West after dinner, using them as other men do a lounging
robe."

In addition to his skill at headline-stealing, Coolidge had
the most priceless asset of all an ace up his sleeve. Would he
run for the Presidency in 1928, or would he not? To the people
of the United States Coolidge seemed, during the halcyon
summer of 1927, to be giving a most effective demonstration of
a man running hard for re-election. Yet no announcement
came from the summer White House. Time was running short,
and an increasing procession of Republican bigwigs visited the
President in the Rapid City executive offices. Emerging, they
stood on the stone steps of the school house to inform the
twenty-five reporters assigned to the Black Hills that Coolidge
seemed certain to run again. COOLIDGE VISITORS SAY HE is CAN-
DIDATE, became a familiar headline. Everyone agreed that if
Coolidge did run again, he would be splendidly re-elected.
With just the slightest of exceptions, Coolidge Prosperity still
blanketed the land.

Only Silent Cal kept silent. Following his July 4th birthday
celebration, he parceled himself out with customary canniness.
Now at last he permitted himself to be photographed while
fishing, and captions under the pictures said he was using a red
spinner. In New York, angler Fred Shaw had finally delivered
his speech over station WGY, summing up: "It is perfectly
legitimate for the President to use worm-bait when fishing for
trout in the Black Hills, because in some places it is the only
bait to use." This, together with the President's use of the
spinner, closed the worm controversy.

Coolidge was not dismayed. On July 4th the civilian fliers
Smith and Bronte took off from Oakland for Hawaii. Fuel
tanks dry, they crashed twenty-five hours later on the leper-
colony island of Molokai, southeast of Honolulu. On this day,

Twelve Little Words 213

Coolidge made equal news by going on a picnic to an old
mining camp deep in the Black Hills. It was a steep, uphill
climb to the abandoned camp, and horses pulling the picnic
wagons puffed hard. Newsmen who raced ahead to be on the
spot before the Presidential Party beheld a strange sight: "Up
a steep mountain trailed a wagon drawn by two horses adorned
with American flags. In the wagon sat Mrs. Coolidge. Behind
the wagon, pushing it, was the President. Sweat poured down
his face, his coat was off, and his vest had climbed up, an-
nouncing the fact that the President wears suspenders/'

On this picnic Coolidge outdid himself. Not only did he
make news by shoving the wagon. He also donned hip boots
and panned for gold like an oldtime prospector. Cameras
clicked as he did. Then he fished, again permitting photog-
raphers to take pictures, and earning himself the headline:

COOLIDGE PANS GOLD;

POSES FOR PICTURES

AS TROUT FISHERMAN

On July i8th Commander Byrd and his crew, together with
Clarence Chamberlin, returned on the Leviathan. New York
staged another monster welcome, with Lindbergh and Floyd
Bennett riding down the Bay to greet the returning heroes. The
Byrd welcome cost twenty-six thousand dollars compared to
Lindbergh's seventy-five thousand dollars, yet it made headlines
and Coolidge temporarily bowed to the inevitable. But soon he
was back in the news by attending the Belle Fourche Rodeo
wearing the ten-gallon hat. Protests from the Anti-Rodeo
League failed to create the stir made by the Izaak Walton
League perhaps to Coolidge's disappointment. Yet, the rodeo
had its incident. As he stood surrounded by the reception com-
mittee, Coolidge suddenly broke silence to demand, "Where's
Badger Clark?" Badger Clark, author of such epics as "The
Cowboy's Prayer/ 7 was the President's favorite poet. The recep-

214 Twelve Little Words

tion committee was covered with confusion. Badger Clark had
not been included among the distinguished guests.

As July ended, Lindbergh began his cross-country tour to
promote aviation, winning headlines by the roaring receptions
he received in such cities as Boston. After many false starts,
the Sioux Indians finally settled on a name for the Great White
Chief. The President would be christened Leading Eagle
(Wamblee-Tokaha). Meanwhile, Coolidge let his personality
out another notch by permitting photographs in full cowboy
regalia astride a horse as he took a canter with a local woods-
man named Dakota Clyde Jones.

In one way, Coolidge was a special trial to those around
him. He steadfastly kept his watch on Washington time. Thus
when he arose at seven in the morning, it was in reality five,
Black Hills time. Coolidge was always the first to arrive at his
schoolhouse office, and Presidential Secretary Everett Sanders
experienced many headaches keeping the Coolidge appoint-
ment book straight. By August 2nd, when the President called
a press conference, the twenty-five Black Hills correspondents
had finally mastered the art of arriving in the Rapid City
schoolhouse at the right time.

August 2nd was the fourth anniversary of the death of
Warren G. Harding, as well as the dramatic midnight swearing-
into-ofEce of Coolidge by his Justice-of-the-Peace father in the
family's Vermont homestead. In view of this, reporters ex-
pected that the press conference would be no more than a few
perfunctory words about the anniversary. None suspected that
Coolidge was going to play his tantalizing ace. Nor did any-
one notice that Everett Sanders surreptitiously locked the door
after the reporters had assembled.

Coolidge stood behind his desk smoking a cigar in a stubby
ivory holder. "Is everyone in now?" he inquired in his flat New
England twang. Assured the entire press corps were present, he
told reporters to form a line and pass in front of him one by

Twelve Little Words 215

one. To each he handed a small slip of paper on which was
typed, "I do not choose to ran for President in Nineteen-twenty-
eight."

Reading this, the first reporter gasped and plunged for the
door. It was locked, and he like the others had to stand wait-
ing until the twenty-fifth man reached Coolidge. This gave re-
porters time to dwell on the inadequacy of the announcement
and one begged, "Mr. President, can't you give us something
more than this?" No flicker of satisfaction or amusement
showed on the Presidential countenance. Tightening thin lips,
he said, "There will be nothing more from this office today/ 7
Sanders unlocked the door, and the reporters raced for tele-
phones and telegraph wires. Next morning the country rocked
to the headlines:

COOLIDGE DOES NOT CHOOSE TO RUN IN 1928
STARTLES PARTY WITH 12-WORD MESSAGE

So Calvin Coolidge played his ace, providing one of the major
news sensations of 1927. I-Do-Not-Choose-to-Run came as a
shattering surprise to the country. Coolidge and Coolidge
Prosperity seemed to belong together. No one had really

thought Coolidge would end his pleasant White House tenure.
Said a shocked Senator Hiram Johnson, "I am astounded,"
After recovering from the initial surprise newspaper editorials
looked ahead: "The effect of the Coolidge message is like the

breaking of a log jam on a river in the lumber country. As long
as the President remained silent, the Presidential timber piled
up behind him unable to move. Now it will burst loose with
full vigor."

Still unable to assimilate the unwelcome announcement the
nation turned to examining the word choose. Was it a tight
word, or a loose one? Had the President used it in a Chaucerian
or Websterian sense? There was, pundits opined, a vast differ-
ence.

216 Twelve Little Words

Across the country collegiate youths lettered I Do Not
Choose to Run in 1928 on the sides of their Model T flivvers,
but newspapers took the statement with the utmost serious-
ness. Most believed that choose was a loose word which in-
dicated Silent Cal might still be prevailed upon to run. Will
Rogers examined the controversy with a humorist's eye and
quipped that choose was "a foxy word." No one else put it
better.

Several days after the Coolidge announcement a large dele-
gation of WCTU ladies from northwestern states descended
upon Rapid City. Outside the President's schoolhouse offices,
the portly matrons fell to their knees, bowed heads, and offered
up silent prayer that God in his infinite wisdom would make
Calvin Coolidge change his mind. The ladies remained on their
knees a considerable time, and at least twice Coolidge walked
to the window of his office to see if they were still there. They
were, and without altering his sour expression, the Chief Ex-
ecutive returned to his desk.

Nor would Coolidge say anything further to reporters. In
desperation, newsmen made a big event of the arrival at Custer
Park of young John Coolidge, the President's college student
son, who had been taking summer courses at the University of
Vermont. Asked his opinion of the "I-Do-Not-Choose" state-
ment, young John replied, "Father usually says what he means."
The passage of time proved him correct. Coolidge did not run
in 1928, even though he was reported to have thrown himself
on his bed in a tantrum when finally Herbert Hoover was
nominated in his place.

The Coolidge decision against running again may well have
been influenced by another event of 1927. Both before and
after the I-Do-Not-Choose statement, the bones of Coolidge's
predecessor in Presidential office were rattling in their resting
place. In November 1927 the infamous Teapot Dome scandals

Twelve Little Words 217

would reach the trial-point, thus bringing final disgrace to the
shade of Warren Gamaliel Harding. If, as is possible, Coolidge
realized certain of his own inadequacies as President, he may
have feared something similar for himself if he held office too
long. Get out while the getting is good, an inner voice may
have counseled.

But far more shocking to a man like Calvin Coolidge and
his WCTU cohorts was another scandal which enlivened the
summer of 1927. This was publication of a book called The
President's Daughter, by Nan Britton. Telling the all-too-
familiar American tragedy of a very human man, an older,
nagging wife, and a beautiful girl thirty years the man's junior,
it abounded in such convincing detail that few who read its 440
pages doubted that the true father of the daughter was the late
lamented Warren G. Harding. "Truth is patent in its every
chapter/' opined the journalist-biographer Samuel Hopkins
Adams.

In the book were sex scenes too hot for Hollywood. They
took place in a tiny White House closet where important
visitors stored coats, galoshes and rubbers. As one historian has
described the coat-closet assignations of Harding and his
twenty-year-old mistress:

The man was handsome and silver-haired. . . . The girl was
young, trim and blonde, with wide, intelligent eyes and the fresh
look of a college sophomore. In the White House hall outside she
had seemed demure, might have been the big man's devoted
daughter. . . .

With the closet door shut, the windowless cubby hole was pitch
dark and perhaps better so. For the two who outside had seemed
so heartwanningly handsome and respectable began kissing fever-
ishly, lips pressing against lips. For a few minutes this seemed to
suffice, then the man's heavy body bent forward, crashing the girl
hard against the wall. In answer to an unspoken signal, the hands
of each furiously began exploring the body of the other.

Nineteen twenty-seven was the world's greatest year of sen-

218 Twelve Little Words

sations all blazoned in full ballyhoo style on the front pages
of newspapers. The President's Daughter was just about the
only under-the-counter sensation offered by the tumultuous
year. The Republican Party tried to prevent publication, yet
overnight it became, says Paul Sann in The Lawless Decade,
"a kind of bootleg best seller. Many stores kept it under the
counter as if it were a collection of French postcards between
covers. But 50,000 Americans paid $5 apiece for it that summer
and fall."

No one knows whether Calvin Coolidge read The President's
Daughter, or was briefed on its contents. But he must have
been aware of the book's existence and of the sub rosa stir it
was creating in the summer of 1927. This and Teapot Dome
may have driven him to contemplate the unexpected things
that can rise to sully the reputations of those who fail to
measure up to high executive office. Get out while the getting
is good! The President's Daughter, under-the-counter best seller
of the year, may well have been a factor in Calvin Coolidge's
surprising I-Do-Not-Choose-to-Run.

O DOUBT Americans living through the
splendid summer of 1927 would be sur-
prised to learn that thirty-three years later in distant 1960
the two most momentous events of the Year of the Big Shriek
would be the Lindbergh flight and the execution on August
22nd of the so-called anarchists Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo
Vanzetti.

By the same token, those peering back at 1927 may be sur-
prised at the tumult of emotion stirred up by the Sacco-Van-
zetti case. With the passage of years the impression has grown
that Sacco-Vanzetti was considered a minor matter at the time 7
only to become heavy on the country's conscience in later years.
This is not so. True, few Americans in the Teeming Twenties
bothered to follow all ramifications of the involved case. It
was in and out of newspaper headlines for seven long years ?
and after its unhappy end the majority of Americans were only
too anxious to forget it in favor of the next big sensation. For
a time they succeeded. But Sacco-Vanzetti again rose to take
its place among the major happenings of 1927.

219

220 Sacco-Vanzetti

If nothing else, the bewildering story of Nick Sacco and Bart
Vanzetti to Americanize the first names of the pair, as their
adherents quickly didexposed the cleavage between the
American minority who thought for itself and the majority
content to let thinking be done for it. Those pondering the
trials and subsequent tribulations of the two men usually de-
veloped grave doubts about the integrity of the charge on
which they were convicted by the Commonwealth of Massa-
chusetts. Rather than murderers, the two Italian-born men
seemed to have been victims of the Red Scare sweeping the
United States immediately after World War I.

In that transition period, returning soldiers found that the
world might be safe for democracy but it was still rough on
the common man. There was unemployment and much dis-
content. Looking around for convenient scapegoats, a lot of
disgruntled citizens decided that radicals among foreign immi-
grants were responsible. Led by Attorney General A. Mitchell
Palmer the country began a hysterical campaign against for-
eign-born Reds. Most hated of these were the anarchists who
allegedly planned to throw bombs and upset the government of
the United States by violence. Fury was fanned when some
anarchists did toss bombs. One blew off the porch of Attorney
General Palmer's home in Washington, getting himself killed
in the process. Another exploded a bomb in the middle of Wall
Street. Anarchists, Mitchell Palmer shouted, were determined
to blow up the country.

Yet there were anarchists and anarchists. A few were bomb-
throwers, many more considered themselves philosophical
anarchists. These were dreamers rather than doers. In 1920
Bart Vanzetti, aged thirty-three, was such a man. After fifteen
years in this country he still peddled fish from a broken-down
cart which he pushed around the suburbs of Boston. Vanzetti
was a remarkable figure to be doing this. A bravura fellow, he

Sacco-Vanzetti 221

was tall, with a high, intelligent forehead, hawk nose, piercing
eyes, and an enormous drooping moustache. As he peddled,
Vanzetti passed out anarchist leaflets advocating a kind of
idealistic thought which has been called noble nonsense. Van-
zetti was, in fact, opposed to all existing orders. Where Com-
munists advocated more rigid laws, he wanted to abolish law.
Vanzetti's noble nonsense was somewhat Tolstoyan: he be-
lieved that, were legal restraint removed, people would behave
better of their own accord. No government, in his mind, was
far superior to government of the people, by the people. He
was also a pacifist, in 1917 he had hidden in Mexico rather
than be subject to the draft.

No one who knew Vanzetti thought him violent. He was a
man of sweeping good will The anarchist pamphlets he passed
out merely urged people to throw off their shackles by attend-
ing protest meetings against the existing order. "Freedom of
discussion to all Take the ladies with you," they ended.

Nick Sacco was a mild and unobtrusive shoemaker, a man
who spoke only when spoken to. (Vanzetti was likely to grasp
every chance to proselytize.) Sacco was a devoted husband and
father of two his son bore the poetic name Dante who
earned a good income in a shoe factory outside Boston. Sacco
and Vanzetti were intelligent men (Vanzetti particularly so)
but they had been leisurely in adapting themselves to the
United States. They had made no application for citizenship.
Both still spoke heavily accented English and wrote worse.

Sacco was hard at work at his factory bench on December 24,
1919 (Vanzetti later swore that at the same time he was ped-
dling fish) when a holdup gang attempted a store robbery in
Bridgewater, Massachusetts. The gang behaved like thorough
professionals, yet in planning the job they had overlooked the
fact that the store lay in view of passengers on streetcars which
clanged by at intervals. In mid-holdup, the trolley could be

222 Sacco-Vanzetti

heard heading down upon the scene. The thieves dropped
everything to flee in a most unprofessional manner. No money
was stolen, no one hurt.

Four months later, on April 15, 1920, a far more serious
holdup was staged in South Braintree, Massachusetts. Before
the horrified eyes of a gang of Italian ditch diggers, five men
in a stolen car accosted and cold-bloodedly killed a paymaster
and factory guard. The murderers got away with a payroll of
$15,776.51. None of this money, incidentally, was ever traced
to Sacco or Vanzetti. Nor was any real attempt made to track
down, or even explain, the other three murderers who might
have been in the stolen car.

On May 5th, Sacco and Vanzetti were arrested in an auto-
mobile containing Vanzetti's subversive leaflets. Both men had
loaded pistols in their pockets, which led police to question
them about the robbery in December and the double murder
in April. The result was confusion. Sacco and Vanzetti, still
clumsy with English, believed the questioning was about the
leaflets. "The charge of dual-murder seems utterly fantastic
when applied to this unworldly pair/ 7 stated novelist Phil
Stong, who covered the case as a young reporter. Soon, how-
ever, the police had decided that the confusing interrogation
added up to guilt: by 1920 reasoning, "Reds" who carried
pistols and distributed anarchist leaflets were capable of any
crime.

When finally Sacco understood what the questioning was
about he sent for his factory timecard proving he had worked
all through the day of the December holdup. But as ill-luck
would have it, on April i5th, Sacco had gone to the Italian
Consulate in Boston. Certain consular officials recalled his
visit, but this still left unaccounted the time required to travel
to and from Boston. The police became convinced that the
gentle little man could have detoured long enough to become
one of the five involved in the double murder.

Sacco-Vanzetti 223

Vanzetti had no real alibi for either December 24th or April
i5th. He was a familiar figure in the Italian districts of sub-
urban Boston where his periodic appearances were so frequent
as to be taken for granted. To him, December 24th and April
ijth were like other days of fish-peddling. This lack of specific
alibi allowed District Attorney Katzmann who had quickly
become convinced of the guilt of the foreigners to perform a
deft legal maneuver. He put Vanzetti on trial alone for the
bungled Bridgewater holdup. Thirty witnesses rose to say that
to the best of their recollection Bart Vanzetti had been selling
fish in Plymouth that day. Seated on the bench was the soon-
to-be-celebrated figure of fifty-seven-year-old Judge Webster
Thayer, a dried-up, narrow-minded jurist who hated Reds even
more than did the rabid District Attorney. At the end of the
trial Judge Thayer delivered an inflammatory charge to the
jury in which he said: "This man, although he may not
actually have committed the crime attributed to him, is never-
theless morally culpable, because he is an enemy of our existing
institutions . . . the defendant's ideals are cognate with crime. 7 '
Vanzetti was quickly found guilty and sentenced to fifteen to
twenty years in prison. District Attorney Katzmann's plan be-
came apparent. Vanzetti was now a convicted criminal.

The slight sympathy engendered among New Englanders by
this biased trial all but disappeared when the burgeoning
American Communist Party undertook to beat drums for Sacco
and Vanzetti. The Communists even provided a lawyer to han-
dle the defense in the second, or double murder, trial. Here the
suspicion arises that the Communists really wished the two
men to remain martyrs, for their lawyer hideously bungled the
case. Again, Judge Webster Thayer presided and many Bos-
tonians considered this a mistake. "They were fools to put
Thayer on that case," one Back Bay figure said later. "He's
conspicuously bigoted, and what is more he's maladroit." An-
other said: "I have known Judge Thayer all my life. I could

224 Sacco-Vanzetti

not say that I think [he] is at all times a bad man or that he
is a confirmed wicked man. But I say that he is a narrow-
minded man; he is a half-educated man; he is an unintelligent
man; he is full of prejudice; he is carried away with his fear of
Reds "

The second trial began on May 31, 1921 and again witnesses
painted a confusing picture. The prosecution offered sixty-one
people who placed Sacco and Vanzetti at the scene of the
killings. The defense countered with one hundred and seven
who swore the two had been elsewhere. Most damning to the
defense was the testimony of the Italian ditch diggers who wit-
nessed the crime. Yet it was noted that most of these men
were recent immigrants, terrified at being caught in the toils
of a murder trial and only too willing to answer Si, Si, Si to
prosecution questions. As before, Judge Thayer used his charge
to the jury as the excuse for a flag-waving, hate-spewing oration.
Frank P. Sibley of the Boston Globe, dean of reporters present,
later wrote that in all his years of covering courts he had never
heard a charge so slanted as Judge Thayer's: "His whole
manner, his whole attitude, seemed to be that the jurors were
there to convict these two men." Even so, the twelve New
England jurors took seven hours to find the pair guilty.

At this point the Sacco-Vanzetti case ceased to be a murder
trial. It now began to revolve about the question of justice in
an honorable state like Massachusetts. Could this go so far
astray as to convict innocent men? If so, must the entire legal
system of the United States be doubted? Few alive in those
times dared to face this squarely. As one Bostonian put it:
"This state has, I believe, the oldest legal code built on English
foundations in the United States. It worked very well for more
than three hundred years. We can't have fingers pointed at it
because of two interlopers who are inimical to our social sys-
tem and take so little interest in our institutions that they

Sacco-Vanzetti 225

avoided the draft. More than two men gave up their lives to
establish our order and maintain it/ 7

Still, some did begin to doubt Massachusetts justice as in
following months "evidence piled on evidence to throw massive
doubts on the conviction." One who began to wonder was a
patrician New England lawyer named William G. Thompson.
Later he explained his increasing preoccupation with Sacco
and Vanzetti by saying: "I went into this case as a man of
old American tradition to help two poor aliens who had, I
thought, been unjustly treated. I have arrived at a humbler at-
titude. Not since the martyrdoms of the sixteenth century has
such a steadfastness of faith, such self-abnegation as that of
these two poor Italians been seen on this earth. Nowhere in
my soul is to be found such strength and faith and gentility as
make the man Bartolomeo Vanzetti."

Thompson became attorney for the two men, and started
peppering Judge Thayer with appeals. The judge rejected them
all summarily, but their preparation and presentation took
much time. Simultaneously Judge Thayer's own behavior
called new attention to the case. In the eyes of the country,
a courtroom presided over by a Boston judge named Webster
Thayer seemed sacrosanct. Yet Judge Thayer was not as well
entrenched in Boston as his distinguished name implied, and
many Bostonians believed that he pursued the case of Sacco
and Vanzetti relentlessly in order to ingratiate himself with
old-line Bostonians. Declared one cynical reporter: "Thayer is
a country-club boy. He thought he'd get in good with the
Cabots and the Lowells and the Lodges by sending these Reds
over tootsweet. It backfired on him."

Whatever his motives, Judge Thayer talked too much. "Did
you see what I did to those anarchist bastards . . . ?" he de-
manded of locker room cronies. He laced his every day speech
with hate-references to "Dagoes," "Wops," and "Italian sons-
of-bitches." He gloated that he had "got those damn Reds

226 Sacco-Vanzetti

good and proper/' One person to whom such extravagant state-
ments were repeated was Robert Benchley, Harvard graduate,
wit, and drama critic of Life. In an affidavit placed before
the court, Benchley reported Judge Thayer's indiscreet talk.
Through Benchley top echelon American writers like Edna St.
Vincent Millay, Dorothy Parker, Heywood Broun, and John
Dos Passes rallied to the defense of Sacco and Vanzetti.

Over seven years the unusual case rolled to a climax in the
summer of 1927. One of its unusual aspects had come with
the involvement of an admitted criminal named Celestino
Madeiros. As the confessed murderer of a bank cashier in
Wrentham, Madeiros had been sentenced to die along with
Sacco and Vanzetti. In Dedham prison, Madeiros got to know
the other two and suddenly confessed to the South Braintree
murders for which they had been convicted. This might have
been true, for when he was arrested Madeiros had on his
person $2,800 approximately one fifth of the $15,766.51
stolen. Madeiros swore that he was a member of the notorious
Morelli Gang, which had staged many holdups in the Boston
area. Judge Thayer impatiently brushed this confession aside,
saying that a man sentenced to die for one murder might as
well confess to two more. But there were aspects of the
Madeiros confession which cried out for investigation.

Judge Thayer's last official act in the Sacco-Vanzetti case
was to sentence the men (and Madeiros) to death in July 1927.
Lawyer William G. Thompson, feeling that he had exhausted
his own legal ingenuity in the matter, retired in favor of At-
torney Arthur D. Hill. With the death chair looming, Hill
decided to concentrate on obtaining either a pardon or a com-
mutation to life-imprisonment from Governor Alvan Tufts
Fuller. Bluff, handsome, an automobile dealer in private life,
Governor Fuller now found himself caught in the whizzing
crossfire of articulate protest and conventional thought. On his

Sacco-Vanzetti 227

gubernatorial desk lay Sacco-Vanzetti appeals from such world
figures as George Bernard Shaw, Romain Holland, John Gals-
worthy, and Italian dictator Benito Mussolini. On the other
side, even heavyweight champion Gene Tunney had been heard
in the clamor. Speaking at an American Legion meeting in
Syracuse the ex-Marine had ringingly declared, "Radicalism
must be suppressed and the Legion can help in suppressing it!"
True, the clean-cut fighter did not mention Sacco and Van-
zetti by name, but in the summer of 1927 no one could speak
of radicalism without meaning them.

An unhappy Governor Fuller sought to remove himself from
this bewildering situation by postponing the execution date to
August ioth, then appointing a three-man committee of proper
Bostonians to consider the case further. The men he choose for
this were eminent: President A. Lawrence Lowell of Harvard;
President Samuel Stratton of the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology; and Robert Grant, retired judge of the Probate
Court. Yet seldom it would seem has a distinguished com-
mission done its work with so little true interest. Before the
Commission, witnesses testified that the foreman of the jury
had been heard to say, "They ought to hang, anyway." Other
witnesses swore that Sacco had been in Boston at the time of
the killings, while several pictured Vanzetti selling fish on the
murder date. A linguist charged that key testimony from the
Italian had been wrongly translated.

But through all this the only matter which seemed to con-
cern the committee was that a trial had been held in a Massa-
chusetts courtroom: twelve New Englanders had sat in the
jury box and a judge named Webster Thayer had been on the
bench and at the trial's end, a verdict had been duly rendered.
Brushing aside all doubt, the Commission reported to Governor
Fuller that it agreed with the 1921 verdict: "Complaint has
been made that the defendants were prosecuted and convicted
because they were anarchists. As a matter of fact, the issue of

228 Sacco-Vanzetti

anarchy was brought in by them as an explanation of their
suspicious conduct."

The only surprising feature of the Lowell Commission re-
port was a censure of Judge Thayer for his out-of-court con-
duct:

From all that has come to us, we are forced to conclude that
the Judge was indiscreet in conversation with outsiders during the
trial. He ought not to have talked about the case off the bench,
and doing so was a grave breach of official decorum. But we do
not believe that he used some of the expressions attributed to
him. . . . Furthermore, we believe that such indiscretion in con-
versation did not affect his conduct at the trial or the opinions of
the jury. . . .

At Dedham Prison, the news was relayed to Sacco and Van-
zetti. "It is not every prisoner who has a President of Harvard
throw the switch for him," Heywood Broun had written that
morning in the New York World, but Sacco and Vanzetti did
not seem comforted. Sacco, on the thirteenth day of a hunger
strike, was barely able to mutter, "I told you so, I told you so/'
Informed that the execution date of August loth would stand,
Vanzetti wrote out a statement which read: "Governor Alvan
T. Fuller is a murderer. . . . He shakes hands with me, makes
me believe he was honest intentioned. . . . Now, ignoring all
proofs of our innocence, he insults us and murders us/ 7 At his
side when he wrote was Warden William A. Hendry. Like most
people who came in contact with the prisoners Hendry had
become deeply devoted to them.

Outside prison walls, protest mounted. Governor Fuller's
confusion was further confounded by the fact that most of the
protests came from beyond the state. The Massachusetts man
in the street held to a near-hysterical belief that the legal
processes of the Commonwealth must be upheld. Despite the
passage of seven turbulent years, Sacco and Vanzetti were still
"Reds," "damn Reds," or "goddam Reds" to most voters in
the Bay State. Even the clergy failed to commiserate with the

Sacco-Vanzetti 229

doomed men. Wrote one Protestant clergyman to Governor
Fuller: "You will, I am sure, allow me to express to you my
admiration of the way you have done your duty in the Sacco-
Vanzetti case. You have been wise, patient., dignified, and
courageous worthy of the best traditions of the Common-
wealth."

Not all Bostonians supported the Governor, however. Pro-
fessor Felix Frankfurter of Harvard University had early called
Judge Thayer's conduct of the 1921 trial "contemptible/ 7 and
nothing had happened in intervening years to change the
opinion of this outstanding legal light. Edward Holton James,
nephew of the philosopher William James and novelist Henry
James, was a sharp thorn in the side of Boston officialdom.
Smartly attired, looking every inch the Back Bay aristocrat,
James diligently attended rallies for Sacco and Vanzetti. As the
day of execution approached he assaulted a cop, shouting,
"Down with the police!" In court he refused to plead. "I'll not
stand up before murderers, whether they are judges, police
officers, or governors," he declared. He was fined seventy-five
dollars and permitted to return to the picket lines marching
around the State House and similar points of legal importance.
Shortly police began arresting other pickets, and among those
bagged by the local law were Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dorothy
Parker, and John Dos Passos. Each was fined two dollars for
disturbing the peace.

The last days of Sacco and Vanzetti mounted to intense
drama, with the entire world watching. Shortly before the
execution hour on August loth, Governor Fuller gave the
doomed men a twelve-day stay, so that he might consider new
petitions Hooding his desk. In the minds of some, this was not
altogether a generous act. Time Magazine called the reprieve a
brutal shock to Sacco and Vanzetti: "Society, through its legal
machinery in Massachusetts had started to bare the skins of
prisoners Sacco, Vanzetti, and Madeiros for the touch of
Death. Then, with a reprieve of which the melodrama was a

230 Sacco-Vanzetti

cheap insult to whatever dignity human life may have, virtually
mumbled Live on for another twelve days longer. Our mind is
not quite made up!'

As the days ticked off, word leaked from the State House
that Governor Fuller would do no more. Now only the highest
forces in the land could save the two. Attorney Hill decided
to try to find a member of the United States Supreme Court
who might order a review of the case. Chief Justice William
Howard Taft, was vacationing in Canada. Hill reached him by
telephone, but the connection was poor and Taft kept shout-
ing, "Telegraph! Telegraph!" Hill did so, and Taft replied that
it was impossible for him to act since he was outside the
borders of the country. The lawyer next turned to three as-
sociate justices who were vacationing in New England. Justice
Louis Brandeis, at Chatham, Massachusetts, refused to inter-
vene because his wife had become interested in the case and
in so doing had become friendly with Mrs. Sacco. Justice
Holmes, at nearby Beverly, Massachusetts, said he felt unau-
thorized to meddle in a state case. Justice Harlan Fiske Stone,
off the Maine coast, echoed Justice Holmes. Hill then rushed
to see United States Attorney General Sargent, at Ludlow,
Vermont. The Attorney General listened for three hours, then
declared he could not act because Department affairs were in
the hands of subordinates in Washington.

Hill now appealed to Acting Attorney General Farnum in
Washington. Farnum refused to move unless requested to do
so by Governor Fuller or the Lowell Commission. Hill fran-
tically appealed again to Justice Holmes, asking for a writ of
habeas corpus. The Justice refused. Then Hill began directing
petitions to Governor Fuller six in all. The Governor did not
reply. Hill finally telegraphed to President Calvin Coolidge
who, after smoking the pipe of peace with the Sioux Indians,
was on the verge of departing for Washington by way of
Yellowstone Park. Coolidge gave no answer.

Sacco-Vanzetti 231

On the morning of Monday, August 23rd a day many con-
sider Massachusetts* day of infamy Governor Fuller walked
briskly into his office in the State House. "It's a beautiful mom-
ing, isn't it, boys?" he said to the horde of reporters waiting
there. No one agreed. On this beautiful morning Boston was
like an occupied city. Boston Common, for the first time in
history, was closed to public orators. The full Boston police
force, on twenty-four hour duty, roamed mid-city arresting
picketers and protesters. Riot squads equipped with automatic
rifles, hand grenades, and tear-gas bombs were busy breaking up
street corner meetings.

If Boston looked like an occupied city Charlestown Prison,
where Massachusetts had its electric chair, resembled a be-
leaguered fortress. As night fell, search lights, machine guns,
and hoses protected the prison walls. No one was allowed to
approach closer than a thousand feet. Only relatives of the
doomed men were allowed to enter the prison, and on the way
to the death cells these unhappy folk were required to pass
within sight of the electric chair. Among those who made this
grisly walk were Sacco's fourteen-year-old son and Vanzettfs
sister Luigia, who had just arrived from Italy.

At the zero hour Sacco and Vanzetti with Madeiros met
death stoically. A single newspaper reporter representing the
Associated Press was allowed in the execution chamber and ac-
cording to him Sacco shouted Viva Anarchia! as he sat down
in the death chair. Some who followed the case felt that the
reporter, stationed thirty to fort} 7 feet from the death chair,
heard exactly what he wanted to hear. The words were too pat,
and besides the fiery Vanzetti was more likely to cry out Long
Live Anarchy! than the mild Sacco.

Nor was it like either man to speak his last words in Italian,
for both had become accustomed to speaking English in prison
surroundings. But it is certain that the articulate Vanzetti did
say before entering the death chamber: "I want to tell you that

232 Sacco-Vanzetti

1 am innocent and that I have never committed any crime, but
sometimes some sin I am innocent of all crime, not only this,
but all. I am an innocent man. I wish to forgive some people
for what they are now doing to me."

The ghastly event had a suitably ghastly finale. The account
by the Associated Press reporter in the death chamber was suf-
ficiently harrowing, but on top of this the New York Graphic
piled more horror by printing an alleged eyewitness account of
the execution by Jack Grey. Grey was a curious reporter for he
had once been the nation's top safecracker. The Graphic em-
ployed him because he was on a first-name basis with most
hardened criminals. Though the world knew only one reporter
had been permitted in the Sacco-Vanzetti death chamber, the
Graphic carried the headline SACCO-VANZETTI ROASTED ALIVE
above a story by Grey. "Come into the deathhouse with me,"
it began. Next Grey described Sacco in the electric chair:

Elliott, the official killer, stood to the right of him with a
fiendish grin on his face. . . . He leaped, literally leaped, to the
switchboard. . . . The switch went in ... Sacco's hands . . .
doubled into a knot. The veins in his long, thin, white hands began
to rise and kept on rising until I thought they would burst and
drench all of us with blood. . . . Sacco's neck was swelling to a
huge inhuman size. . . . The saliva was literally pouring out of his
mouth. . . . Try to compare 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit [the tem-
perature of the death shock] with 100 degrees in the shade when
you complain of the heat and you get some idea how cultured and
conservative Massachusetts roasts her murderers alive. . . . And
how these Bostonians get a dead man out of the chair! . . . Elliott
. . . started to put on the electrode and now I observed that Van-
zetti was getting nervous. . . . There was a sickening stench of
scorched flesh in the abattoir.

With Sacco and Vanzetti dead, a sickening stench also filled
the nostrils of many citizens of the United States. Some with
eyes glued on Massachusetts had failed to realize what a symbol

Sacco-Vanzetti 233

the case had become around the world. In Paris news of the
execution flared into riots as angry mobs attacked the American
Embassy. In Geneva protesting crowds took control of the city,
smashing forty thousand dollars worth of plate glass and rain-
ing merchandise in many stores. In Germany, Japan, South
America, and other sectors of the globe there was furious in-
dignation. "The world scene/' reported Time, "was like a
balloon full of illuminating gas with leaks which are invisible
until ignited. The electricity from Boston ignited demonstra-
tions from Detroit to New South Wales, from Sweden to
Mexico."

Anxious to evade feelings of guilt, the United States cast
about uneasily for quick distraction. It was instantly provided
by aviation. Once more the summer had turned into a period
of air-madness. Indeed, with Lindbergh on his triumphant
three-month tour of major cities, it had never really been other-
wise, lindy-worship still had the forty-eight states in a tight
grip. In big cities, the tumultuous Lindbergh welcomes had all
the hysterical adoration of Washington, New York, and St.
Louis. The waving, grinning Hero sat in the back of an open
car while hundreds of thousands roared.

But if Plucky lindy retained the old magic, there was some-
thing new about transoceanic flights. This was noted by Com-
mander Byrd who said: "On both sides of the Atlantic rose the
clamorous tocsin of aerial emprise . . . But about the middle
of August the pendulum began to swing back."

Commander Byrd was too much the Virginia gentleman to
say so, but it was the Dole Race to Hawaii which ended the
grandiose spell, turning the aviation-summer sour. Trail-blazing
flights to Hawaii had already been made by Maitland and
Hegenberger and, to a slightly lesser extent, by Smith and
Bronte. The Dole Prize Race was daredevil stuff, in the words
of Commander Byrd "hasty and ill advised." Before the race,
three pilots were killed on trial flights. Of fifteen planes

2 34 Sacco-Vanzetti

entered, only eight were able to start on August i6th. One
could not lift its heavy load off the ground. Two promptly dis-
appeared Into the Pacific, and a rescue plane sent out to find
them joined the list of fatalities.

The race was won by Art Gobel who after 26 hours stepped
smiling from his cockpit and said, "Gee, folks, it's good to be
here." Only Gobel and his runner-up Martin Jensen successfully
finished the Dole Race. Behind them the 2400-mile stretch of
Pacific had claimed the lives of nine men and pretty Mildred
Doran.

On August 25th only two days after the Sacco-Vanzetti
execution a nation in search of distraction shifted eyes to
Brunswick, Georgia, where slight, music-minded Paul Redfern
started on his flight over uncharted waters and unexplored
jungles to Rio de Janeiro. The young pilot took off without a
radio, in the face of adverse weather reports. He was spotted
three hundred miles east of the Bahamas, where he flew over a
steamer to drop a note that said: "Point ship to nearest land,
wave flag for each hundred miles." After this Redfern joined
the missing, but he has enjoyed a distinction not shared by
other aviators lost in 1927. For years his name popped up in
the news as explorers in Central American jungles brought back
tales of a white man held captive by native warriors. Despite
the frequency of such reports, Paul Redfern has never been
found.

Now the supreme challenge was a flight from Europe to
America. Princess Lowenstein-Wertheim took off for New York
from Croydon Airdrome near London in a plane piloted by
Captain Leslie Hamilton. Soon the world wished that the
Princess had remained content to be the first woman to fly the
English Channel. Her plane, the St. Raphael, was never seen
again.

From Germany two low-winged monoplanes named Bremen
and Europa took off for America. In them as passengers were

Sacco-Vanzetti 235

Baron Guenther von Huenfeld, who would make the flight suc-
cessfully a year later, and the American correspondent H. R.
Knickerbocker. Over England the planes ran into a fog bank
and turned back. "No one could fly in such weather/' one pilot
said. The Princess Xenia hopped from the tip of Ireland, and
in several hours turned back. Charles A. Levine, still in Paris,
made front pages by periodically announcing that he and pilot
Maurice Drouhit were on the verge of a take off in the tried-
and-true Columbia.

Then the plans of the erratic Levine hit a snag, and as a
result visitors to Croydon Airport beheld one of the stranger
sights of the aviation summer. Suddenly a monoplane of much-
described color and contour appeared over the field. "A big
plane rocking and careening, dipping and swerving, as it four
times circled the field in irregular fashion." Frantic land crews
sent appeals to the local hospital, for they saw tragedy in the
craft wobbling above them. An ambulance raced to the field,
where men stood in tense postures as, with a great bounce, the
plane made a lopsided landing.

Out of it stepped none other than Charles A. Levine, who
had solo-piloted the Columbia from Paris. To those excitedly
clustering around him Levine proudly admitted that he had
never flown solo before. He had decided the time had come
to do it, he stated. As a result, he had bravely taken off from
Le Bourget for London. From Paris came a different story.
Pilot Maurice Drouhit charged that Levine had made the flight
to escape a subpoena from a French court. "I have had only
2000 francs of my two months' pay of 100,000," Drouhit
sputtered. This was bad enough, but Levine had also tried to
use the proud Gallic ace as an aerial chauffeur. That morning
the Millionaire Junkman had ordered Drouhit to fly him to
Deauville for the races. "I am no taxi driver," Drouhit had ex-
ploded, thus commencing the events leading to threat of sub-
poena. "I am not going to chase Mr. Levine to London,"

236 Sacco-Vanzetti

Drouhit now declared. "If I saw him I would feel like killing
him, and the English would put me in jail."

If a Europe-to-America flight was the supreme challenge,
one from America to Europe still seemed a possibility to
many. Though the Atlantic had been spanned by three great
flights in forty-one days, attempts from this side of the water
continued. Some of the pilots involved were inexperienced,
others flew inadequate planes. None of the planes was equipped
with radio, so that when they fell in the Atlantic authorities
had no idea where to search. Today the names of men who
made these disastrous flights are forgotten who but their im-
mediate families remembers Captain Terence Tully and Lieu-
tenant James Medcalf?

Yet equipment and experience were no guarantee of success.
The Old Glory, owned by William Randolph Hearst, boasted
the ultimate in scientific equipment and a top navigator-pilot
team in James De Witt Hill and Lloyd Bertaud, who for a
time had been scheduled to fly with Clarence Chamberlin in
the Columbia. The Old Glory's destination was Rome, and at
the last moment Philip Payne, editor of the New York tabloid
Daily Minor, had announced plans to go along as the second
transatlantic passenger. Payne's statement provoked much
drama, for Mr. Hearst was not inclined to risk the life of the
editor who single-handedly had opened up the Hall-Mills case
and whose indiscretion had sent the orchidaceous Earl Carroll
to jail. But Payne considered his Hall-Mills sensation a failure
and was stung by the scorn of his colleagues in the Earl Carroll
matter.

Altogether, he was in a morose state of mind, but a firm one.
Defiance of Mr. Hearst required courage, yet Payne possessed
it. He sat in the Old Glory on September jth when it flew
from Roosevelt Field to a two mile stretch of smooth beach at
Old Orchard, Maine. Next day the Old Glory roared toward

Sacco-Vanzetti 237

Rome with the thunderous support of the Hearst press behind
it. The radio signal of the plane was WRHP: William Randolph
Hearst's Plane. For a time reports signed WRHP came cheerful
and confident from the Old Glory. Suddenly, after fourteen
hours, came SOS-WRHP, SOS-WKHP. Five ocean liners swung to
race toward the signals. A day later one found wreckage, but
no bodies.

Not every late summer flight was a tragedy. In 1926, Detroit
businessman Edward S. Evans had joined with journalist-ex-
plorer Linton Wells to establish a new round-the-world- travel
record. In a truly spectacular junket, the two utilized train,
boat, auto, and plane to set a world-girdling record of twenty-
eight days, fourteen hours and thirty-six seconds. In 1927 an-
other Detroiter named Edward F. Schlee decided that by using
only a plane he could beat the Wells-Evans record. He en-
listed as his partner William S. (Billy) Brock, a onetime mail
pilot, and the two took off on August 2yth without fanfare in
a Stmson-Detroiter named Pride of Detroit. The first stop was
Harbor Grace, Newfoundland. Neither Brock nor Schlee was
a trained navigator, yet they flew the plane unerringly to
Croydon.

Every split second counted with the peerless pair and after a
quick nap at Croydon they raced to Munich. The world began
to pay attention as, on the third day, they winged from Munich
to Belgrade. Reports of bad weather forced a stopover in Bel-
grade, where reporters rushed to interview them. Schlee de-
clared that the plane really deserved credit for the flight. "Pride
of Detroit is more faithful than a woman," he testified fondly.
Next the pkne zoomed toward Stamboul, Turkey, a flight of
some five hundred miles. There trouble appeared. Turkish of-
ficials refused the permit necessary to continue the flight "Fly-
ing the Atlantic is a cinch compared to flying over Turkey,"
quipped Billy Brock. Yet Brock and Schlee, who never seemed

238 Sacco-Vanzetti

to sleep, argued the Turks Into providing the permit. They
raced on from Constantinople to Bagdad 1075 miles, two
days* flying in one.

On the eighth day they landed at Karachi, India. Brushing
aside an official reception, they serviced the plane. On to
Allahabad, the one-third mark of the journey and with this
landing came the unhappy realization that despite excellent
progress they were running behind the Wells-Evans record.

On the eleventh day Pride of Detroit reached Calcutta.
Again the two flyers ignored an ofEcial reception at the Ameri-
can Embassy to work over the plane. Whereupon the reception
came to them. Dinner-jacketed diplomats stood around watch-
ing the two Americans wield wrenches and wipe spark plugs.
On the twelfth day the astonishing adventurers reached Ran-
goon. On the thirteenth, bad luck again struck. The men who
had so skillfully navigated over unknown territory missed
Bangkok, the official stop, to land at Hanoi, French Indo-
China. On the fourteenth day they overhauled the plane in
the morning, then set off for Hong Kong. On the fifteenth day,
they calmly landed at Shanghai.

This was the last day of good fortune. Flying toward Tokyo,
Pride of Detroit ran into a severe thunderstorm and for the
first time made a forced landing sixty miles short of Tokyo.
Japanese officials forbade the pair to fly a straight course to
Tokyo because of war fortifications. On an altered route the
plane was buffeted dangerously by a belching volcano and
pelted evilly by rain. Again a forced landing, at Omura. Now
the two men undertook an agonizing appraisal: they still had
not reached the halfway point, yet two-thirds of their time had
been used up. Next day a typhoon delayed flight further. On
the nineteenth day the plane swooped into Toyko, with both
men determined to fly the Pacific in the desperate hope of beat-
ing the record.

Unknown to them American public opinion agitated by

Sacco-Vanzetti 239

the Dole losses, Paul Redfem, the Old Glory, and others was
attempting to prevent Pride of Detroit from making the 2500-
mile overwater hop to the tiny Midway Islands. Protests in-
undating the Department of Aeronautics in Washington urged
that land planes be stopped from long overwater flights. Other
citizens had cabled Brock and Schlee in Tokyo begging them
to abandon the flight. Family pressures were heavily exerted.
Among the messages was a cable from Schlee's ten-year-old
daughter Rosemary: "Daddy Please take the next boat home
to us."

Official Washington instructed diplomats in Tokyo to dis-
courage the fliers by warning that Army and Navy facilities
would not assist during a transpacific hop. This was taken to
mean that if Pride of Detroit fell into the ocean the Navy
would not search for survivors. Yet the dauntless pair might
still have kept on had not word come from the Midways that
the gasoline needed for a jump to Hawaii had not arrived.

At this, the two threw up their hands. Why risk lives in a
jump to a spot where they was no waiting store of gasoline?
"We quit because the whole world seemed to be against us/'
lamented Billy Brock. Sadly Brock and Schlee dismantled Pride
of Detroit and returned home by slow boat.

A nation with its eyes fixed on the daring peregrinations of
Brock and Schlee also had another pair of travelers to observe.
Mayor James J. Walker of New York City had embarked on
one of the grandest of grand tours of Europe. Insiders around
New York's City Hall, together with all Broadway, knew that
the dandy Httle Night Mayor had become infatuated with a
dark-haired, bright-eyed dancer named Betty Compton. Walker
was forty-six, Betty half his age. Walker's political supporters
were concerned to paraphrase the popular-song-to-come, They
called it madness, but he called it love. Rumors of the illicit
romance had begun to reach an impressionable voting public

240 Sacco-Vanzetti

and it had been decreed that on his European junket the Mayor
must be accompanied by Mrs. Janet Walker, his wife of many
years.

The record fails to show exactly how Mrs. Walker felt about
this, but her position was not exactly enviable. Mrs. Walker
was a small, plump lady, with the smallest female foot in New
York City and possibly in the United States. It may be that
she hoped to enjoy the trip to Europe in the company of her
erring spouse, but it soon became apparent to her (and the
world as well) that her presence was only window dressing.
New York's gaudy, fast-stepping Jimmy was determined to en-
joy himself in his own inimitable way. In vaudeville terms, his
European jaunt was to be a single act.

Aboard the Berengarid, Mrs. Walker sunned herself while
the breezy Mayor cavorted. At the deck-sports competition, he
was called upon to award prizes. The first nine winners were
pretty girls. Mayor Walker kissed each resoundingly, then
danced with them interchangeably through a carefree night. In
New York, the Night Mayor seldom rose before noon and he
saw no reason to change his habits now. When the ship
docked the Mayor of Southampton stepped aboard, wearing an
official expression and full diplomatic attire. Jimmy Walker
was not yet awake, but shortly he rose to greet his fellow mayor
wearing bright yellow pajamas and sipping a matching glass of
orange juice.

In London the Mayor unveiled a wardrobe that gave English
tailors the shivering shakes. Beau James was a slight man
whose song-and-dance flamboyance made it possible for him to
wear tight-fitting, pinched-in double-breasted suits. In London,
he burst out in wasp-waited double-breasted jackets of violent
hue. With them he affected cream-white flannels and black-
and-white sport shoes. The Mayor's sartorial trademark was a
hatbrim snapped down jauntily over one eye, and he even con-
trived to wear a tall silk hat in such debonair fashion. In Lon-

Sacco-Vanzetti 241

don he first tried a flat straw hat, or skimmer, then changed to
a rakish panama. So attired he seemed, in the words of one
august journal, "a chipper urchin among the graybeards."

By day Mayor Walker dashed to luncheons, ceremonial
handshakings, tours of inspection, and official dinners. He
always managed to be late, and missed one important function
entirely. At night he investigated London night life, diplomat-
ically calling it superior to New YorFs. The vintage wines and
liquors that caressed his palate especially delighted the Night
Mayor; they were so different from the raw stuff imposed by
the Eighteenth Amendment. Mayor Walker took full ad-
vantage of all opportunities to drink, and responded in flowery
terms to the toasts addressed to him.

Next, the Walkers journeyed to Ireland to visit the birth-
place of the Mayor's father. Here, for a brief time, the Mayor
calmed down. He kissed babies and grandmothers, dined with
tenor John McCormack, and made a sentimental speech stand-
ing on a chair in the kitchen of his ancestral home in Castle-
comer. But with this done, he reverted to normal. He was late
for the mail steamer which took the Walkers to England, and
in London quickly resumed his all-night hoofing.

Mayor Walker's next stop was Berlin, and either humorously
or by mistake Berlin newspapers referred to him as Mayor Jazz
J. Walker. If this was intended as insult Berlin still simmered
over the Sacco-Vanzetti execution the dapper little Mayor did
not take it so. He was reported to be delighted with the name,
considering it apt for a man who had once written a song called
"Will You Love Me In December as You Do In May? 7 ' But
aside from pleasure at being called Jazz J. Walker, the Mayor
did not enjoy Berlin. He was no beer drinker and the night life
was too realistic for his cultivated taste.

The Lido, near Venice, to which he traveled with the utmost
speed, was far more to his liking. Indeed, he behaved there as
if his middle initial might also stand for Jazz. The Mayor,

242 Sacco-Vanzetti

with his skimpy frame, was never one to be photographed in a
bathing suit, but photographers did catch him lolling on the
beach in colorful garb. Delighted reporters discovered him stay-
ing up until five in the morning dancing. When this news was
flashed to the United States, the New York Times felt im-
pelled to editorialize: "It is a comfort to New Yorkers to think
of their Mayor dressed in a double-breasted gray coat and con-
trasting trousers as he reclined upon the sunny sands assimilat-
ing the wisdom he has acquired on his Grand Tour. They are
proud to realize that his motto has been to improve each
shining hour, even if this meant activities far into the night,
including a tour of Venetian ballrooms lasting until dawn."

Such carping did nothing to dampen the Mayor's bubbling
vitality. In Venice he was guest of honor at a luncheon at the
Hotel Royal Danieli. When it ended the Mayor quipped, "Best
lunch I've ever drunk." In Rome he cocked an irreverent eye
at St. Petefs Basilica and observed, "They must have passed
the hat around several times to build all this/' He was received
by the Pope who, gauging the calibre of his man, interrogated
Walker about the health and welfare of the Italian-bom prize-
fighter Johnny Dundee. On a tour of the Catacombs, the
Mayor cracked, "Wish we could find some Catacombs in New
York's subsoil. It would save some money when we build sub-
ways."

From Rome the Walkers went to Paris, where the Mayor
alighted dressed in a chocolate-colored crush hat, matching
blue shirt and suit, green and brown tie, beige topcoat, and
lavender pocket handkerchief dashed with brown and purple.
Again the reception committee had donned severe formal attire,
and some members felt insulted by the Walker informality.
The quick-witted Mayor noticed this and, sniffing the intoxicat-
ing air, asked "How the hell can you be dignified in these sur-
roundings?" A member of the committee inquired about his
plans for the Paris stay. "Indefinite," the Mayor grinned. "How

Sacco-Vanzetti 24 3

can such a gamin be definite?" one committee member whis-
pered to another.

The Walkers repaired to the finest suite in the Hotel Crillon,
where twelve servants stood ready to do their bidding. The
Mayor immediately hastened out on the town. That night he
sat in the front row to watch tawny, American-born Josephine
Baker in the Folies Bergeres. Next day he was guest of honor at
a luncheon of the American Club and addressed his remarks
to "Fellow refugees from the Eighteenth Amendment."

At the Paris City Hall, he cast a knowing eye over the paint-
ings of lush nudes on the wall of the Mayor's office and said,
"If I had an office like this, I'd have a hard time keeping my
mind on my work." Next day he was an hour late for an official
luncheon. The toastmaster, a man with a luxuriant red beard,
undertook to chide him for this. When Mayor Walker rose
to his feet he said, "All human sins such as lateness may be
condoned, but as for whiskers that's a man's own business."

Jimmy Walker's champagne-taste stay in Paris topped off a
more earthy one by some twenty thousand members of the
American Legion, most of whom had brought wives along. This
was the tenth anniversary of the arrival of the American Ex-
peditionary Force, and the Legion was determined to make its
rendezvous in Paris a resounding event. Some Parisians, alarmed
at the thought of so many rugged ex-doughboys, left the city
for the duration of the Legion stay. Paris in the Twenties had
little use for the average American tourist, who seemed to have
too much money and not enough manners.

But the American Legion turned out to be not such a head-
ache. For one thing, the Legionnaires seemed to be swallowed
by Paris. Wearing Legion hats instead of tin ones, carrying
suitcases instead of Army packs, canes rather than guns, the
ten-years-older doughboys came and saw but failed to conquer.
"They were in evidence everywhere and in a hilariously happy
mood," writes Al Laney, in his book Paris Herdd, "but at the

244 Sacco-Vanzetti

same time they were curiously invisible/' Singly and in groups,
Legionnaires toured old battlefields and haunts, but most of
them were unexpectedly quiet about it. Perhaps it was the
presence of so many wives; perhaps the passage of years; per-
haps the money invested in the long trip. In any event, the
Legion seemed to behave better in Paris than at Legion conven-
tions in the United States.

Paris was pleased, and what appeared to be the entire city
turned out for the climactic Legion Parade, which among
other things introduced drum majorettes to French view. Long
before the parade was scheduled to begin Parisians were packed
along the Hne of march. Those who established themselves
early saw a curious sight which represented the extremes in
American culture. Three days before, the American dancer
Isadora Duncan had seated herself in a motorcar in Nice. She
failed to notice that the long end of her Italian scarf had be-
come entwined in one of the front wheels. The car started
with an unexpected jerk and the scarf around her neck tight-
ened like a noose. Miss Duncan was not a light woman, but
she was snapped out of the car by the neck like a feather. She
landed violently on the pavement and lay there while one of
the rear wheels passed over her body, breaking her back. Within
a few minutes she was dead.

So the Paris multitudes lining up for a view of the Legion
Parade beheld another procession wending its way along the
line of march. It was the funeral procession of Isadora Duncan,
en route to Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Over the great dancer's
coffin lay her famous purple dancing robe. Her brother Ray-
mond in his classical sandals, toga, and long hair followed the
casket with bowed head. Isadora Duncan was a highly popular
figure in Paris where she was considered to represent the finer
qualities in the American spirit. Yet in the tumult and excite-
ment of the Legion visit her funeral had been all but over-
looked.

Sacco-Vanzetti 245

Or so it seemed. The Paris Herald, whose reporters scrambled
all over Paris in search of human interest stories about the
Legion, headlined its account of the funeral FEW ATTEND

ISADORA DUNCAN RITES AS COMPATRIOTS PARADE. Under this, a

perfunctory story began "It was a sad motley little procession
that followed the body of the greatest dancer since the ancient
Greeks." But if reporters had followed the funeral procession to
its destination they would have found some five thousand of
the plain people of Paris gathered to pay last respects as Isadora
Duncan was put to rest. Not a word of this appeared in Paris
papers the next day; there was too much about the parading
Legion.

In the United States, as the American Legion marched and
Jimmy Walker wisecracked, i6-year-year Lois Eleanor Delander
where is she now?- was crowned Miss America in the Atlantic
City Beauty Pageant . . . The makers of Old Gold cigarettes,
launched during the year by a giant advertising campaign, an-
nounced that the new smoke had proved a success and that
Old Golds were here to stay. . . . On Broadway the play
Burlesque, with Hal Skelly and Barbara Stanwyck, opened. The
story of a no-good burlycue comic and his true-blue Lou (She
was a dame, in love "with a guy), it was called by one critic a
stunning, crafty show. In the crafty show, the small part of a
piano player was filled by a youth named Oscar Levant.

In the Pictorial Review (15^ circulation 2,400,000, Robert
W. Chambers was represented by a serial called the "Sun
Hawk"; Dr. Will Durant by the "Breakdown of Marriage"; and
rough, tough Jim Tully by "Clara Bow, a Modem Nell Gwyn"
(From Brooklyn Slum to Beverly Hills Mansion. A Modern
Fairy Story, Sad, Gay, Fascinating) .... In the upper-echelon
literary world there was much agitation over the runaway best
seller Trader Horn, the autobiography of a seventy-three-year-
old tinware salesman in darkest Africa. With a foreword by

246 Sacco-Vanzetti

John Galsworthy, this purported to be Trader Horn's life
"With such of his philosophy as is the gift of age." At Man-
hattan cocktail parties, where the old Trader had rapidly be-
come a stellar attraction he showed a monumental capacity for
drink but none whatsoever for philosophy. Could the life story
of Trader Horn be a fake?

Early in October Mayor Walker returned to his native land.
Somewhere in mid-Atlantic, Hizzoner must have realized that
his playboy tour of Europe had made a bad impression on New
Yorkers, not to mention others in the land. Ship-news reporters
climbing aboard ship to interview him found a serious chief
executive of the nation's largest city. Gone was the snappy,
wisecracking Jazz J. Walker. No gaudy attire covered his trim
frame. Instead, he wore a serious expression and a severe blue
suit. The hat cocked as always over one eye was an unobtrusive
gun-metal gray. Demurely at his side stood plump Mrs. Janet
Walker. The Mayor informed reporters that he had enjoyed
his vacation surely the understatement of i927!but that the
chief virtue of the trip was that it had revitalized him for the
rigors of office. He would, he vowed, wade into the problems
on his City Hall desk with renewed vigor.

Unhappily, he was given scant time to impress the public
with this new personality. For once again aviation seized the
headlines. On October nth late in the year for a trans-
atlantic flight George Haldeman and Ruth Elder hopped for
Paris in the plane American GirL Miss Elder was the onetime
dental assistant and beauty contest winner who had announced
in midsummer that she would try to be the first woman to
span the Atlantic. Her statement coincided with so many
others that little attention had been paid it. Yet unlike her
rivals Miss Elder had battled through obstacles to achieve a
take off. Hers was unashamedly a commercial flight. As the
American Girl winged toward Europe her manager-backer sat

Sacco-Vanzetti 247

in a Manhattan hotel anticipating movie, vaudeville, and testi-
monial offers. "I've promoted projects in Canada and Fve pro-
moted oil wells," he told reporters. "Now I'm promoting the
first girl across the Atlantic.' 7

Ruth Elder was indeed a nifty jane to promote. Newspaper
readers who had treated her as a human curiosity now looked
again and found a stunning girl. If Lindbergh was the All-
American Boy, Ruth Elder in a somewhat more sophisticated
way was the All-American Girl. With her wide smile, she
looked exactly like the Pepsodent ads in contemporary maga-
zines. Even the New York Times became smitten by her, report-
ing in warm detail that she was smaller than her photographs
made her seem and that she spoke with a soft Alabama drawl.
From here on the Times unprecedentedly called the All-Ameri-
can girl "Ruth."

Miss Elder had been bom in Alabama, migrated to Florida
with her family. Aviation-struck, she had taken lessons at a
nearby flying field from George Haldeman. Arriving at Roose-
velt Field with Haldeman in the American Girl, she increased
her allure by setting a new style. The possessor of one of the
first boyish bobs in recorded history, she decided to let her
hair grow back into a full bob. "While this happened she
wound a scarf around her head gypsy fashion, and soon girls
across the country were doing the same. Miss Elder also wore
plus fours and golf socks in the Clarence Chamberlin manner.
Altogether, she added up to the image of an attractive, intrepid
aviatrix.

Ruth Elder was married. Her husband, Lyle Womack, had
departed for Panama on business just before the October nth
take off. He had done so in the belief that he had persuaded
his adventure-minded wife not to attempt the flight that year.
Others had also objected, and the uproar around Miss Elder's
pretty head much resembled the pressures applied to Brock

248 SaccoVanzetti

and Schlee. "Even if she succeeds, what will she have accom-
plished for the common good?" demanded Katherine B. Davis,
an eminent sociologist of the day.

Other women echoed this, and newspapers like the New
York World editorially suggested that Miss Elder be officially
restrained. While seeming to accede, the two fliers went ahead
and plotted a course to Europe which would keep the Ameri-
can Girl far south of the Great Circle Route, cold and hazard-
ous in October, The southerly course would be near shipping
lanes. Even so, American Girl ran into heavy squalls several
hundred miles after the take off and flew straight into the teeth
of them for eight terrifying hours. At one point the plane
heaved so dangerously that the comely Ruth Elder crept out
on the tail to balance it. Other times she relieved Haldeman at
the controls. At one danger point Haldeman was forced to
dump gasoline to help the pkne in its fight against the storm.
Next the oil pressure began to fall. "Look for a ship," Halde-
man finally ordered. Five hours later Ruth spied the Dutch
tanker Barendrecht

Still hoping to reach Europe, she dropped a note: "How far
are we from land and which way?" On deck, in large letters,
the captain painted: "True south, 40 west, 360 miles, Terceira,
Azores." This meant that the American Girl was more than
500 miles from the coast of Portugal. Haldeman brought the
plane down into the choppy ocean. He and Ruth climbed out
on a wing, from which a lifeboat rescued them. For a moment
the American Girl bobbed in the water, then gasoline ran over
her steaming engine and caught fire. Came a fearsome ex-
plosion. Flames shot up in a pyramid higher than the rescuing
ship. In Paris a week later, Miss Elder was sad about the loss
of her plane. "It was like watching an old friend drown/' she
said.

So a woman had yet to span the Atlantic by air, and in Old
Orchard, Maine, hope flared anew in the breast of Mrs.

Sacco-Vanzetti 249

Frances Grayson, the Long Island real-estate dealer who had
also announced plans for a transocean hop. After Ruth Elder's
take off, Mrs. Grayson with pilot Wilmer Stultz and navi-
gator Bryce Goldsborough had flown in her amphibian plane
to the Old Orchard runway used by the ill-fated Old Glory.
On October 23rd, these three took off on a nonstop Sight to
Copenhagen.

After Eve hours, Stultz decided the flight was impossible and
turned back. It was a livid Mrs. Grayson who alighted from
the plane at Old Orchard. She announced that she had not
been consulted about a turn-around and never would have per-
mitted it. ""Next time/' she stated ominously, "will be dif-
ferent." Residents of Old Orchard recall that the determined
woman began carrying a revolver in her handbag. To news-
paper reporters and other favored folk she displayed this ugly
weapon. "I'd kill them both before I let them trick me again/'
she promised.

No one took this very seriously. It was now mid-October, and
it seemed unlikely that there would be another transatlantic
attempt this year. . . .

fO

F ALL those enjoying life during the
rambunctious summer of 1927 Flaming
Youth, the paper-profits rich, the aviation-happy, the pleasure
mad, the Shipwreck Kelly gawpers -there was one group to
which the season brought extra added thrills. This lucky group
comprised the sport fans, for in that field the year hit diz-
zying heights. "In 1927, the sports world wore seven-league
boots," Grantland Rice has written. Nineteen twenty-seven
will almost certainly go down in history as the greatest year in
sports, and no fan the word is a contraction of fanatic who
lived through the year or looks back on it will dispute the
statement.

At year's end, sports-cartoonist Robert L. Ripley drew a pic-
ture called Breaking the Tape. It showed a manly figure at the
finish line of a foot race. As the runner touches the tape it
breaks to form the words World's Records. Yet 1927 was
epochal not only because of records broken and new one estab-
lished, though there were plenty of these. Rather, the year's
250

The Greatest Year in Sport 251

real thrills lay in the personalities dominating the various
sports. In golf there was Robert Tyre "Bobby" Jones, Jr.
Twenty-five-year-old Bobby Jones was a golfing amateur.
Among professionals, Walter Hagen was the picturesque player
to watch and read about. Tennis offered the flamboyant figure
of William T. "Big Bill" Tilden.

On the distaff side of tennis stood twenty-one-year-old Helen
Wills, she of the poker face, the individual green and white
sunshade, and the unswerving confidence. Writers of the year
hailed the headstrong determination of twenty-eight-year-old
Tommy Hitchcock, the rising star in polo, a game which here-
tofore had been dominated by men in their mid-forties. Johnny
Weissmuller retained his place as the country's leading amateur
swimmer by setting new world's records. Eleanor Holm, age
thirteen, and Ray Ruddy, fifteen, were the coming stars of the
aquatic field.

Each of these was outstanding a few with special drama.
Helen Wills had been out of tennis competition during 1926
recovering from an operation for appendicitis. In her absence
Molla Mallory regained the Woman's National Singles cham-
pionship. At Wimbledon in mid-igzy it was apparent that the
enforced rest had aided the game of the cucumber-cool Miss
Wills. Her strokes were stronger, her ability to place balls more
unerring than before. She quickly trounced Molla Mallory, and
in the finals bested Senorita Lili de Alvarez, a contest watched
attentively by King Alfonso of Spain, Returning to the United
States, the fresh-looking young girl in the sunshade easily re-
won the national singles title. Eventually she completed a full
year of tournament play with the loss of only one set.

In international competition, America's big setback of the
year came with loss of the Davis Cup to France. The year be-
fore, Vincent Richards, America's ranking player, had caused a
sensation by joining the emotional Suzanne Lenglen in the
ranks of tennis professionals. This firmly re-established thirty-

252 The Greatest Year in Sport

four-year-old Bill Tilden as number one. Teamed with Little
Bill Johnston, Francis Hunter, and R. Morris Williams, Big Bill
Tilden was unable to defeat the dazzling French team of
Lacoste, Cochet, Borotra, and Brugnon. So, for the first time
in history, the Davis Gup departed for a country where English
was not spoken. The lanky Tilden, teamed with Francis
Hunter, was able to win the national doubles, though the
canny Lacoste won the singles, as he had in 1926.

Bobby Jones greatest of golfers was in 1927 a student at
Emory Law School. One of the numerous remarkable things
about Jones was that he did not often play in tournaments;
three or four a year, whereas the professionals against whom he
was matched played golf the year round. Yet Jones always, or
almost always, won. He began 1927 in almost-always fashion,
going down to defeat before Tommy Armour in the United
States Open. He then traveled abroad to defend his British
Open title at the historic St. Andrew's course. Newspapers
made much of the fact that here Bobby Jones for the first time
would be under the immediate scrutiny of the Scots who had
invented the game of golf. This may have inspired the young
American, for he immediately began outdoing himself. The
Scots responded by calling him "Bawby" and dubbing him
"the gr-reatest gowfer in the wur-rld." All Scotland itched to
see Bawby Jones in action: "Excursion trains stopped to watch
him. Clergyman, grandmothers, cripples, policemen, made shift
to get a view." At one green Bawby respectfully eyed the forty
yards between his ball and the hole. 'This is the longest putt I
ever had to make/' he said quietly. He made it and won the
tournament as well. Cheering Scotsmen carried him to the
clubhouse on their shoulders. Back home, Bobby Jones calmly
won his third U. S. Amateur title.

Golf professionals and other tournament players always
heaved a sigh of relief when Bobby Jones decided against enter-

The Greatest Year in Sport 253

ing a tournament. He did not play in the Western Open,
which left Walter Hagen free to trounce Wild Bill Melhorn,
Gene Sarazen, Bobbie Cruikshank and others. Hagen, chunky,
debonair, and bibulous, was by far the most colorful of all con-
temporary golf pros. Best dressed, however, was dark-haired
Johnny Farrell who this year quietly went about winning such
tournaments as the Metropolitan Open, Wheeling Open,
Shawnee Open, Eastern Open, Massachusetts Open, Philadel-
phia Open, Pennsylvania Open, and Chicago Open. Finally
the well-dressed pro simultaneously held eight titles more than
any other golfer had ever won at once.

Whiskery, with jockey Linus "Pony" McAtee up, won the
1927 Kentucky Derby. Yale student Sabin Carr set a world's
pole-vault record, while DeHart Hubbard set a new broad-jump
mark. The Columbia crew won an unexpected victory at the
Poughkeepsie Regatta. The thirteen-year-old Zittenfeld twins,
Phyllis and Bernice, set a new mark in swimming the Hudson
River from Albany to New York. George Young, seventeen,
swam from California to Catalina Island.

In another indication of the tumultuous times, the curious
sport of six-day bike racing became more popular than ever.
After-theater crowds and Broadway celebrities suddenly dis-
covered the ragged competition still dominated by the veteran
Iron Man, Reggie McNamara. Instead of going to night clubs
and speakeasies, the thrill-hungry jammed Madison Square
Garden to watch the six-day riders.

At the other end of the sports spectrum, the aristocratic
game of polo was thrown open to the masses. At Meadow-
brook, Long Island, for two dollars to five dollars a head, the
common man could watch this exciting spectator sport, pre-
viously known only to the rich. In 1927, the American team,
composed of Devereux Milburn, J. Watson Webb, Malcolm
Stevenson, and Tommy Hitchcock (substitute: 2i-year-old

254 The Greatest Year in Sport

Winston Guest), defeated an English team to retain the Inter-
national Cup for the United States.

All this was a part of sport's noblest year but only parti
For the two sports which reached true heights were baseball
and prizefighting: those to which Americans have always re-
sponded with the wildest enthusiasm. With singular lavishness
1927 offered not only all-time greats in both these sports, but
colorful and contrasting rivals as well.

In baseball the great Babe Ruth was the dominant figure. A
huge, friendly overgrown-boy-of-a-man, Ruth had achieved
prominence in the national game when baseball reeled from
the disgrace of the Black Sox scandal of 1919. Almost single-
handedly he had by the vigor of his personality, his unspoiled
honesty, and his ability to clout balls into the bleachers kept
the game alive. In 1921, he had hit fifty-nine home runs to set
an all-time record. Before his arrival, the New York Yankees
had never won a pennant. After his arrival, they began to.

As a tribute to Ruth's greatness, the mighty new Yankee
Stadium was informally called The House That Ruth Built.
"Babe isn't a man, he's an institution," Hoe Berg, the erudite
catcher, summed up.

In 1927 the institution lusty, untutored, uncouthfound
himself challenged by a clean-cut rival. Lou Gehrig was big,
shy, handsome and a Columbia man. When he first appeared
in uniform at Yankee Stadium a player said, "I've just seen an-
other Babe Ruth." It was almost true. Gehrig, a highly com-
petitive player, loved baseball as much as Babe Ruth did. So
the national game boasted not only a titanic figure, but a young
and colorful challenger-of-titans as well.

The same exciting contrast existed in prizefighting. From
1919 to 1926, Jack Dempsey had been boxing's Olympian.
Where Babe Ruth appeared a jovial, harmless man, the
Manassa Mauler stood before the public of the Twenties as a

The Greatest Year in Sport 255

terrifying figure. Indeed, it is hard today to recapture this
menacing Dempsey. He was considered the abysmal brute, and
it is said that playwright Eugene O'Neill, a fisticuffs fan, used
the popular image of Dempsey in creating the name-character
in his play The Hairy Ape.

"Dempsey was a mixture of two men," Grantland Rice has
written. "In the ring he was a killer, with steel fists and iron
jaw. Outside he was gentle, courteous, patient, considerate." In
the interest of million-dollar-gates, promoter Tex Rickard,
aided and abetted by Dempsey ? s canny manger Jack Kearns,
placed only the first Dempsey before a credulous public. The
idea of a brutish Dempsey was carefully nurtured by these two
astute men.

An early step in the campaign to persuade the public that
Dempsey was a menacing brute came when in 1921 the Ma-
nassa Mauler was matched with Georges Carpentier, the Orchid
Man of France. Dempsey always entered the ring with a three-
days' growth of black, stubbly beard and a terrible scowl.
Carpentier, on the other hand, was slight, graceful and almost
too good-looking. "Michelangelo would have fainted for joy
at the beauty of his profile," burbled Neysa McMein, the noted
magazine-cover artist. Heywood Broun, a sportswriter then,
spoke for the male sex when he said, "He has the body of a
Greek statue "

At Boyle's Thirty Acres, across the Hudson in New Jersey,
Dempsey finished off the Orchid Man in four mild rounds. (In
a preliminary James Joseph "Gene" Tunney, billed as the
Fighting Marine, defeated Soldier Jones.) Realizing that the
Carpentier fight had been a trifle one-sided, Rickard in 1923
matched the champion with a fighter who also looked the
brute. This was Luis Angel Fiipo, Wild Bull of the Argentine
Pampas, and by defeating Firpo in a slug-fest Dempsey ap-
peared to become more the abysmal brute.

For the next three years Dempsey failed to defend his title.

256 The Greatest Year in Sport

He lived well, married movie star Estelle Taylor, and under-
went an operation that brought a new shape to his nose. Then
in 1926 Dempsey fought Gene Tunney, as much his opposite as
Gehrig was Babe Ruth's. Dempsey was a slugging fighter.
Tunney proudly called himself a boxer, practitioner of the
manly art of self-defense. Where Dempsey could be scowlingly
ferocious, the placid Tunney always seemed clean-cut and gen-
tlemanly.

To many, Tunney was a young man easy to admire but hard
to like. He appeared to live entirely by logic, insisting that
brains were far superior to brawn. Sports writers found him
reluctant to discuss his ring career but eager to talk Shakes-
peare, for he was a recent convert to culture who read the
Rubdiydt between sparring sessions in his training camp.

The first Dempsey-Tunney bout was fought in September
1926, through a light rain at the Philadelphia Sesquicentennial
Exposition in Philadelphia. At the end of ten rounds, Dempsey
was tired and worn, Tunney cool and fresh. The Fighting
Marine got the decision, to become heavyweight champion of
the world. Still, the canvas had been slippery, the weather wet.
Had these conditions blunted Dempsey's panther-like style? No
one could say. The happiest man at fight's end was Tex
Rickard, for with such questions hanging unanswered a return
match between the two men became inevitable. And such was
the lush crop of heavyweights available that Rickard could go
through the elaborate pretense of a series of highly profitable
elimination bouts during 1927, the winner to meet World's
Champion Gene Tunney!

The first elimination came in February, with a Jack Delaney-
Jim Maloney fight, won by Maloney. Jack Sharkey next beat
Mike McTeague, then Maloney. Late in July Jack Dempsey
and Jack Sharkey fought at Yankee Stadium, in a brawling
bout which also exposed a strange quirk in the temperament of
American fight fans. While the elimination bouts ran their

The Greatest Year in Sport 257

course, Gene Tunney had embarked on the inevitable (in
1927) money-making vaudeville tour. It was noted on tour
that Tunney was almost never addressed as Champion or more
familiarly as Champ. "Prizefighting is popular because, watch-
ing it, people are vicariously purged of their primitive inclina-
tions/' one pundit of the day stated. Jack Dempsey had always
aroused crowds in this manner Tunney did not. With his de-
feat by Tunney, the world had taken another look at Dempsey,
and approved what it saw. No longer did he resemble the
abysmal brute. He was a brutal fighter, but isn't a prizefighter
supposed to be brutal? Outside the ring, people suddenly
realized, he lived quietly with Estelle Taylor, whose pet name
for him was Ginsburg. So in defeat Jack Dempsey had re-
mained the Champ the verbal accolade no one ever bestowed
on Tunney.

This public switch toward Dempsey was already an estab-
lished fact by the time the ex-champion entered the ring for
the July elimination bout with Jack Sharkey.

The crowd (which included Heroes Chamberlin and Byrd
in ringside seats) gave Dempsey a thundering ovation and, in
a way, this ovation won him the fight. Lithuanian-bom, Boston-
bred Jack Sharkey was in top fighting trim. At twenty-five, he
was speedy and eager, on the upswing of what looked like a
triumphant career. He radiated a cocky confidence too much
perhaps for the crowd that cheered Dempsey booed him.
This annoyed Sharkey, who rushed from his corner to begin a
slugging match:

They drove their fists into each other savagely, scarcely bother-
ing to protect themselves. Eighty thousand people, swarming
around them in the night, bellowed with joy. They drove each
other back and forth around the brightly lighted enclosure, grunt-
ing, snuffing for breath, dripping sweat and blood.

Sharkey soon had the thirty-two-year-old Dempsey weary,
and the frenzied crowd stood on seats to see the ex-champ

2 $8 The Greatest Year in Sport

felled by a knockout blow. But now Sharkey did something in-
explicable. The booing of the crowd rankled in his heaving
chest, and instead of flattening the groggy Dempsey, he sud-
denly turned to the mob and shouted, "Here's your bum
champion. How do you like him?"

Sharkey stood glaring out at the crowd for a moment, then
turned back to resume fighting only to discover that the few
seconds' respite or perhaps the words of scorn had rekindled
Dempsey's fury. There was no knockout blow by Jack Sharkey
that night. Instead the fighters went after each other with
new ferocity. Dempsey was known to feel that his celebrated
fighting crouch left his head open to punishment and that
battering might harm his eyes. Sharkey was notoriously weak
in the solar plexus. Each went for the other's weak spot.

It was Sharkey's tender solar plexus that Dempsey aimed for
in the seventh round. His right hand delivered a shattering
blow which most ringsiders thought landed on the waistband
of Sharkey 's trunks. Sharkey grunted, his face contorting with
pain. Dropping his arms, he looked appealingly at the referee.
Plainly he thought Dempsey's blow a low one to the groin.
Yet, Jack Sharkey was a contender for the heavyweight
championship of the world: he should have known better than
to stand defenselessly in front of the Manassa Mauler. With-
out waiting, Dempsey sent a thunderbolt left to Sharkey's jaw.
Face still twisted with the groin-pain, Sharkey toppled to the
canvas, lay motionless through the count.

Was Dempsey's solar-plexus punch foul? World's Champion
Gene Tunney, seated coolly at ringside, thought not. The
highly respected sportswriters Grantland Rice and Joe Wil-
liams thought it was. Fight fans across the country were
similarly divided. It was hoped that motion pictures of the fight
would show, but at the second in question Dempsey's broad
back was to the camera. Sharkey's body bore no telltale bruises
and the Boston fighter complicated matters by failing to lodge

The Greatest Year in Sport 259

an official protest. So Dempsey's hand was held high and pro-
moter Tex Rickard glowed with happiness as he officially in-
formed reporters that Dempsey would fight Gene Tunney in
Chicago two months hence. Rickard had even more reason to
be happy, for the Sharkey bout had built up a $1,083,529 gate,
which in days before big-bite income taxes was divided as
follows:

U.S. Government $ 98,502

NT. State 49,251

Dempsey 352,000

Sharkey 210,426

Rickard (balance) 373*3 50

Never in American history has a sporting event been awaited
with such feverish anticipation as the Dempsey-Tunney fight
of September 22, 1927. Before it the national frenzy rose to
such a pitch that the New York Times pontificated in an edi-
torial headed THE THRILL HUNTERS: " Whatever place the year
1927 may take in history, no future chronicler of our times
can fail to note that people will contribute about $3,000,000
to see two men fight for something less than forty-five minutes.
It will not only be an index of the prosperity of the period, but
it will reveal to the historian how much the 2oth century
American was willing to pay for a thrill/'

The bout was to be held at Soldiers Field in Chicago, which
the ingenuity of Tex Rickard had stretched rubber-like to a
point where 150,000 fans could be accommodated. "This fight
will be my life's achievement," Rickard declared, pointing out
that the anticipated Soldiers Field throng would fill two
Yankee Stadiums, two Yale Bowls, or pack the Polo Grounds
to capacity and leave 100,000 waiting outside.

But would all ticket-buyers be able to see the ring? Long
before September 22nd vaudeville comedians got loud laughs
by wisecracking that the five dollar bleacher seats would be as
far off as Milwaukee. Said the humor magazine Judge: "Ladeez

260 The Greatest Year in Sport

and Gentlemen! In this cornah, Mr. Takes-Us Rickard, heavy-
weight publicity champ of the woild. And in that cornah,
Battling Sucker-Public, the woild's champeen lightwit. CLANG!
Takes-Us leads with three-thousand columns o publicity,
catching Battling Sucker between the eyes. He follows up with
a $40 blow to the pocketbook. Battling Sucker is out! But hell
come back for more. It's the old circus game. He'll cough up
$20 or $30 or $40 for a ticket marked Ringside that's about half
a mile from the ring and stand on the back of cardboard seats
with thousands of other suckers trying to get a glimpse of two
bums dividing up over a million dollars!"

Both Dempsey and Tunney earned tidy sums ahead of time
by allowing the public to watch their training sessions at one
dollar a head. As many as eight thousand people attended
some of these workouts. "My plans are all Dempsey/ 7 stated
Tunney when reporters asked him his strategy for the great
fight. Dempsey, the oldster of 32, seemed heavy in the legs at
some training bouts and sportswriters began calling him a
hollow shell of his former self. This and other criticism crept
under the ex-champ's tough hide, for just before the fight he
released an ill-advised Open Letter accusing Tunney of con-
niving with Philadelphia gambler Boo Boo Hoff to secure a
friendly referee in the bout the year before. Tex Rickard
summed up public feeling when he said of the surprising letter,
"It makes me sick." Such things, however, were meat to the
passionless Tunney, who condescendingly replied:

My dear Dempsey Your open letter to me has been brought to
my attention. My reaction is to ignore it and its evident trash
completely.

However, I cannot resist saying that I consider it a cheap appeal
for public sympathy. Do you think this is sportsmanlike?

Gene Tunney

To which Dempsey snarled back, "Til murder that big book-
worm in less than eight rounds. . . ."

The Greatest Year in Sport 261

According to newspapers, Dempsey lost favor with many
fans because of the open letter. Yet it was not apparent in the
numbers of ticket holders who now descended on the city of
Chicago. "Even Al Capone seems lost in the crush/ 7 wrote
Grantland Rice, while another scribe reported it impossible to
walk on the sidewalks in the Loop. Thomas Cook & Son had
anticipated the future by chartering planes to fly a wealthy few
to the fight, but the vast majority came by train. Out from
New York rolled the Madison Square Garden Special, the Jim
Corbett Special, the Billy Duffy Special, and the Tex Rickard
Special. The Twentieth Century Limited stretched three times
its normal length. In all, the New York Central ran thirty-five
specials, the Baltimore and Ohio the same.

"Governors, Mayors, Senators, and millionaires!" burbled
press accounts. From Los Angeles came Douglas Fairbanks,
Harold Lloyd, John Barrymore, and Charlie Chaplin. The
Broadway contingent was led by David Belasco, Florenz Zieg-
feld, and Al Jolson. From the ranks of millionaires came Otto
Kahn, Bernard Baruch, Charles M. Schwab, and Julius Rosen-
wald. In New York, those unable to travel to Chicago might
see what was advertised as a reasonable facsimile of the real
thing. At the yist Regiment Armory at Park Avenue and
Thirty-fourth Street, two fighters would re-enact the Chicago
fight as it came over tie radio. "See the Dempsey-Tunney
Bout Reproduced in the Ring by Expert Boxers," the ads for
this event suggested. "As soon as each round is completed in
Chicago, the fighters in New York will reproduce the battle
here."

On the big morning both Tunney and Dempsey jogged five
miles. In the afternoon Dempsey rested while Tunney im-
proved his mind by examining manuscripts in a private library
in the suburbs of Chicago. At Soldiers Field an army of 6,800
ushers and special policemen received last minute instructions
for handling the unprecedented throng. Eagle-eyed reporters

262 The Greatest Year in Sport

noted the genteel Tunney influence in the armbands worn by
the ushers they read TUNNEY-DEMPSEY BOXING EXHIBITION. As
night fell and the fans were assembling, Soldiers Field turned
into a place of surprising beauty, causing one reporter to write:
"The veil of darkness over it all; the rippling sea of humanity
stretching out as far as the eye could see; the Doric columns of
Soldiers Field glowing a soft white along the upper battle-
ments of the arena; and finally the ring itself where two men
would fight it out with their fists in a pool of white light
these were the high spots of an unforgettable spectacle."

From a favored spot at ringside, the celebrated larynx of
Graham McNamee warmed up, bidding a network of eighty-
two stations:

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience
This is a big night. Three million dollars worth of boxing bugs
are gathering around a ring at Soldiers Field, Chicago Burning
down on us are 44 looo-watt lamps over the ring All is darkness
in the muttering mass of crowd beyond the light The "mike" is
fixed on the ring floor in front of us The crowd is thickening in
the seats There's Jim Corbett Mayor Thompson of Chicago in
a cowboy hat Irvin Cobb John Ringling Tex Rickard in a
beige fedora It's like the Roman Coliseum

Here comes Jack Dempsey, climbing through the ropes
white trunks, long bathrobe Here comes Tunney He's got on
blue trunks with red trimmings Hear the roaring of the crowd.
Both men are in the ring now They're getting the gloves out of
a box tied with a pretty blue ribbon The announcer shouting in
the ring trying to quiet 150,000 people Robes are off.

Jack Dempsey, fresh-shaven in Philadelphia, entered the ring
with his traditional three-day growth of forbidding black beard.
In contrast, Tunney looked pink and white. Referee Dave
Barry called the two men to him and repeated the rules. He
put great emphasis on the fact that in Illinois and only in
Illinois the fighter still on his feet when a knockdown occurred
must retire to a neutral comer. Only after he got there could

The Greatest Year in Sport 263

the referee began to count. "Do you understand, Champ?" he
asked Tunney. It was one of the few times Tunney had been
addressed as Champ and the self-possessed young man made a
mental note of it. He nodded his head, indicating he was
aware of the instructions. "Understand, Jack?" Barry asked the
glowering Dempsey. The ex-champion also nodded. "Then may
the best man win," Barry said, and the greatest ring spectacle
of all time the Fight of the Ageswas on.

Until the seventh round, the five-years-younger Tunney
seemed to be in control. It was gentleman versus brute, as at
Philadelphia. Tunney himself has written: "I had been out-
boxing Jack all the way. He hadn't hurt me, hadn't hit me with
any effect. I wasn't dazed or tired. I was sparring in my best
form." As at Philadelphia, Tunney's sparring his refusal to
trade slugging blows infuriated Dempsey. "C'mon, and fight,"
he taunted. In the past Tunney had fought vicious slugfests
with Harry Greb and others. But as world's heavyweight
champion he seemed satisfied to keep jabbing and dancing
away, winning his victories on points.

To some sportswriters at ringside, Dempsey resembled the
hollow shell of pre-fight stories. But suddenly, in the seventh,
the hollowness filled with furious energy. As Graham McNamee
pictured the scene to a palpitating radio public:

Gene is stabbing Jack off oh-o Jack wandering around Gene
Dempsey drives a hard left under the heart Jack pounded the
back of Tunney's head with four rights Gene put a terrific right
hardest blow of the fight Gene beginning to wake up like a
couple of wild animals Gene's body red hits Dempsey a terrific
right to the body Jack is groggy Jack leads hard left Tunney
seems almost wobbling they have been giving Dempsey smelling
salts in his corner Some of the blows that Dempsey hits make
this ring tremble Tunny is DOWN down from a barrage they
are counting six-seven-eight

What McNamee had described apparently without know-

264 The Greatest Year in Sport

ing it was the Long Count, the most controversial ticked-off
seconds in all "boxing history. Dempsey, full of splendid energy,
had unleashed a left swing that hit Tunney square on the jaw:
"With all his accuracy and power, Dempsey hit me flush on
the jaw, the button. I was knocked dizzy/' Such were the
moments for which the Manassa Mauler crouched in wait. Like
a fury he closed in, landing seven crashing blows. Battered by
superhuman rights and lefts, Tunney lost consciousness. He
slumped against the ropes and slid to a sitting position on the
canvas.

By Illinois rules, Dempsey must now retire to a neutral
corner while the referee counted. But Dempsey, his vaunted
killer instincts fully aroused, stood over his fallen opponent
ready to land a punch the moment he got up. Referee Dave
Barry, remembering the instructions given both fighters, paused
uncertainly for two seconds. Then he rushed to Dempsey, en-
circled the ex-champion with his arms, and shoved him in the
direction of a neutral corner. Dempsey then recalled the
Illinois rule. Barry waited until Dempsey reached the corner.
He then bent over Tunney to begin one, two.

At ringside the official timekeeper had already reached four,
and it is these priceless seconds over which fight fans have
argued endlessly since 1927. According to Tunney's story, con-
sciousness came back as Dave Barry reached two. 'What a sur-
prise!" he has written. "I had eight seconds in which to get
up. ... I thought what now? I'd take the full count, of
course. Nobody but a fool fails to do that/'

As Dave Barry tolled nine, Tunney got to his feet. Dempsey
tore in for the kill. But, says Tunney, "My head was clear. I
had trained hard and well, as I always did. I was still in the
proverbial pink/' His legs felt light and elastic, and he im-
mediately began the light sparring-and-flicking that drove
Dempsey into a rage of frustration. More than this was bother-
ing Dempsey, however. He had knocked his man down for

The Greatest Year in Sport 265

what, with his great ring savvy, he knew was more than ten
seconds. Yet his opponent had been permitted to rise and
resume the fight. From here on Dempsey's legs seemed heavy
and so no doubt was his heart. . . .

In the last three rounds the fight reverted to its early pattern,
with Tunney's skillful jabbing putting him ahead on points.
Yet Dempsey's knockdown might still cancel this out. As the
gong clanged to signify the end of the tenth and final round,
Graham McNamee could only prolong the agony of the radio
audience:

Yes, Tunney, I feel sure, retains his championship because at
the last moment Dempsey was practically out on his feet. And,
ladies and gentlemen, I assure you there were no fouls in this fight.
There were no fouls here. There was nothing questionable that I

Saw TUNNEY WINS, GENE TUNNEY IS STILL WORLD ? S CHAMPION

GENE, GENE! Here is Tunney come to say something

Tunney: Hello, everybody! It was a real contest all the way
through. I want to say hello to all my friends in Connecticut and
elsewhere. Thank you!

McNamee: And now Jack comes out of the ring half beside him-
self with anger, and we hope he is not going to knock all the type-
writers and telegraph operators over. Well, at the last moment
JACK, JACK! Well, we wanted Jack to say hello, too He boxed a
real good fight. Gene Tunney managed to master him, but by no
great margin and there was one time when Tunney might have
taken the long road himself back to oblivion.

So the Battle of the Century ended. Ten people died of
heart attacks while listening to Graham McNamee's highly
charged account of the bout, and next morning the front page
of the New York Times was topped by a headline worthy of a
declaration of war

GENE TUNNEY KEEPS TITLE BY DECISION AFTER 1O ROUNDS
DEMPSEY INSISTS FOE WAS OUT IN yTH AND WILL APPEAL
15O,OOO SEE CHICAGO FIGHT, MILLIONS LISTEN ON RADIO

266 The Greatest Year in Sport

In trains and cars leaving Chicago, fight fans argued pros
and cons of the Long Count. Most of the details of these
arguments were provided by newspapers, for events in the
spectacular seventh had occurred so fast that few observers
were aware of their real significance. Further, most of those at
the fight had been so far away from the ring that such subtle
nuances were lost.

But with the exception of Dempsey, everybody appeared
happy. The Fight of the Ages had been a more-than-a-million
gate- actually over two-and-a-half million! Of the $2,658,000
take Tunney received $990,000 and those addicted to pinpoint
mathematics figured he earned $7,700 while reclining on the
canvas during the Long Count. Dempsey's take-home was
$447,000, making his income from two bouts during the year
an approximate $800,000. This, noted one commentator, was
a fee slightly in excess of that paid out to bricklayers and
plumbers for a similar period of service. Of his Tunney fight
money, Dempsey gave $75,000 to his manager, Leo Flynn, and
lesser amounts to handlers. After a moderate tax bite the rest
was his own, and he sensibly considered it sufficient. The
Manassa Mauler never fought again. Tunney fought once
more, knocking out Tom Heeney in a mild battle in New York.
Then the champion who never was called Champ retired to
the life of a self-made millionaire.

Sports fans recovering from the hysteria of the Battle of the
Century were given no time for catching breath. Simultaneously
with the end of the Dempsey-Tunney fight, the game of base-
ball exploded into stupendous thrills. Nineteen twenty-seven
has been called the Yankee Year, the finest that New York
team has ever known. With the so-called Murderers Row bat-
ting order of Ruth, Gehrig, Bob Meusel, Tony Lazzeri plus the
pitching of Waite Hoyt, Herb Pennock, and George Pipgrass
the Yanks swept through a brilliant season that set an Ameri-

The Greatest Year in Sport 267

can League record of one hundred and ten games won and
forty-four lost. In this mighty year the Yanks won the pennant
by a comfortable margin of nineteen games. As if this were not
enough, the conquering team won most games in the final,
suspenseful innings. Five O'CIock Lightning, their eighth and
ninth inning rallies came to be called.

Baseball excitement built from peak to peak through the
season. On July 4th the Yankee-Athletics double-header, held
at Philadelphia, attracted a smashing 72,641 paying patrons,
But it was not the near-flawless Yankee playing that did this.
Rather it was Ruth and Gehrig, the Home Run Twins. From
the first day of the season these two were locked in a deadly,
day-to-day home-run rivalry. First Gehrig was in the lead, then
Ruth, making a seesaw between the greatest pair of power
hitters the game has ever produced.

In 1927 George Herman "Babe" Ruth was, at 32, a national
figure. "He snarled traffic and jammed parks everywhere,"
Frank Graham has recalled. "His progress was like that of a
president or a king." Ruth's bat was half-a-pound heavier than
others. He gripped it low for maximum swing, and the crack
of it hitting a pitched ball made a clean, almost symphonic,
sound. His confident jog trot around the bases, arms close to
body, almost mincing along with short, quick, pigeon-toed
steps, was imitated by sand-lot ball players across the country.
Ruth loved life, and the greatest thing in life was baseball.

But in 1927, as in other years, the great Bambino had head-
aches. He was, as Red Smith would say later, "unschooled, un-
polished, profane, widely uninformed, rowdy, generous, bull-
headed, warm and utterly natural, and gloriously himself." This
child of naturebrutalized by a saloon-keeper father; tobacco
chewer and whiskey drinker at the age of ten; discoverer of
baseball at a school for incorrigibles kept bumping into the
sharp edges of alleged civilization. Yet, Red Smith continues:
"he was in no sense stupid, though there were many things he

268 The Greatest Year in Sport

did not know. His mind was a blend of shrewdness and sim-
plicity, quick perception and cheerful innocence. It was, in its
special way, a great mind."

Ruth's chief irritations were provided by Miller Huggins,
manager of the Yankees. Huggins was a small man with the
instincts of a martinet and a limited knowledge of human be-
havior. He expected George Herman Ruth to give an example
of clean living to other members of the team. With Huggins
at tie Yankee helm, the freewheeling Babe was in constant hot
water, receiving five thousand dollar fines and frequent sus-
pensions from play. In addition, the Yankee front office wanted
the Sultan of Swat to set an example to the rest of the country.
The front office supported Huggins.

Yet Ruth persisted in living life his own way. He liked to
drink, though he never got drunk. He liked to gamble, and
during a vacation at Havana race tracks lost a neat forty thou-
sand dollars. He also liked good-looking girls, and was keeping
close company with one he would soon marry. Ruth could
double or triple his baseball salary by vaudeville tours and
testimonials. He earned far more money than he ever needed,
and spent much of it for $250 suits and expensive touring cars
which he drove with his own happy brand of individualism.
"Hey," a New York traffic cop once yelled at him, "this is a
one-way street." "I'm only driving one way," Ruth roared back.

1927 was the most Ruthian of years. Early in January news-
papers reported that the Bambino had been ordered arrested in
California for employing under-age children in his vaudeville
act. The Yankee management, juvenile authorities, and even
police might take Babe Ruth with dead seriousness, but the
public viewed him with indulgence. The charge that Babe Ruth
would victimize children was considered preposterous. He loved
children and children loved him the Sultan of Swat was noth-
ing but a big kid himself. In the words of his wife-to-be: "Babe
and kids went together. He was bluff and blunt, but he could

The Greatest Year in Sport 269

reduce the shyest of kids to the status of boon companion in
three minutes or less."

When Babe Ruth ran afoul of the law, news stories had a
way of making splash headlines, then fading away as the
charges remained unproved. Later in 1927 the Babe was
charged with attacking a cripple at the corner of Broadway
and Seventy-second Street, in New York. A young woman
(Ruth's companion, the cripple charged) had accused the lame
man of insulting her. Whereupon a huge fellow (Ruth, claimed
the cripple) punched him. In court the charges proved ground-
less but Ruth, who wanted his public to admire him, took the
matter gravely. Said a news account: "Of all those in court,
none was more serious than Mr. Ruth, who stood before the
bench with arms folded, a giant immobile figure."

The Bambino had a special reason for wanting public ap-
proval in 1927. Early that year he had signed a three-year con-
tract for $210,000 or $70,000 per annum. This was the highest
salary ever paid a baseball player, and the fact that a man
without education had been put in a higher salary bracket than
the President of the United States caused much hue and cry.
This, in turn, drove Ruth to vow that he would prove himself
worth an annual $70,000.

The best way to do this was a break his record of fifty-nine
home runs, set in 1921. He set out to do so and immediately
found himself aided by two factors. One was the new and
livelier baseball introduced that year. The other was the
presence of Lou Gehrig immediately behind him in the Yankee
batting order. With Gehrig in that spot, there was no point in
deliberately passing Babe Ruth on balls. So the Babe got more
and better pitches in 1927, and the ball was livelier than before.

Even so, he began the season in a manner that was exciting
but not great. He and Gehrig slugged it out on an even basis
until the late-season date of September 6th. On that day, in
the fifth inning of a game in Boston, Gehrig smashed his forty

270 The Greatest Year in Sport

fifth home run of the year. It placed him ahead of Ruth, who
had so far hit only forty-four. This seemed to light a bonfire
under the Sultan of Swat. The season had less than a month
to ran, and he was thirteen home runs behind his 1921 record.
However, supermen rise handsomely to the right challenge. In
this September 6th game Ruth proceeded to clout no less than
three home runs. Said the Times: "The reign of a great
monarch was being seriously threatened here this afternoon
when the king himself rose in his wrath, struck three mighty
blows in his own behalf that removed all doubt that for the
moment at least the master home run swatter of the age is
still George Herman Ruth, called the Babe."

So Ruth had forty-seven homers to Gehrig's forty-five. Next
day the monumental man connected twice, bringing his total
to forty-nine. By September lyth, he had fifty-two. Gehrig
reached forty-seven, to remain there for the rest of the season.
Then the country turned to enjoy the Dempsey-Tunney fight.
But on the morning after the fight, the sports world discovered
that Babe Ruth had clouted number fifty-six. On September
27th, he hit his fifty-seventh, with bases full. "One every game
now, until sixty," Ruth grimly promised reporters. On Sep-
tember 29th, he hit two more, tying the 1921 record. Fittingly,
number fifty-nine was a tremendous clout, again with bases
full. Of it, one sportswriter said: "That, countrymen, was a
wallop. It went halfway up the right field bleachers. The crowd
fairly rent the air with shrieks and whistles as the bulky mon-
arch jogged majestically around the bases behind the three
other Yankees, doffing his cap and shaking hands with Lou
Gehrig, who was waiting to take his turn at bat."

Now Ruth must hit a single home run to achieve his goal.
Only two games remained. Could he, would he do it? Suspense
became unbearable as Ruth did not in the next-to-last game.
In the final game of the season the Yanks faced Washington
southpaw Tom Zachary at the Yankee Stadium. Came the

The Greatest Year in Sport 271

eighth inning, the moment of Five O'Clock Lightning. The
score was 2-2, with a Yankee on base. It was Ruth's last time
at bat: he must do it now or join Casey in Mudville.

The first ball was fast, a called strike. The next came high,
a ball With the third pitched ball, Ruth's massive body coiled
like a spring. The great arc of his home-run swing commenced
while the crowd sat breathless. Through the ball park rang a
clear and beautiful sound the symphonic ring of the Babe's
bat connecting with a well-pitched ball. The fans hardly
needed to watch its soaring flight- this was a home run! Bel-
lowing, cheering, pounding each other, seventy thousand peo-
ple jumped to their feet to give Ruth what must be the most
tumultuous ovation ever accorded a ball player.

After such a stunning finale to the regular season, the World
Series of 1927 could only be an anticlimax. The Pittsburgh
Pirates, having earned the doubtful honor of facing the greatest
team the game had ever known, were hardly in a winning frame
of mind. The first game was played at Pittsburgh, and in sport-
ing fashion the Pirates permitted the Yankees to take the field
first for a practice session. From home dugout the National
League champs watched Ruth and Gehrig hit practice home
runs that shot out of the ball park. Sportswriters noted that
the rugged Pirates seemed to wilt physically.

In play, the series became a World Series of Errors all by
Pittsburgh. Babe Ruth hit two more home runs, while Herb
Pennock and George Pipgrass pitched exceptional games. De-
feated in three straight games, the Pirates came to life slightly
in the fourth. This, however, was largely the result of relaxa-
tion induced by resignation to inevitable defeat. Final scores
were 5-4, 6-2, 8-1, and 3-2 all in favor of the Yanks.

But to salve any disappointment over the World Series, fans
could immediately turn to football. This game, until recently
the exclusive property of polite Ivy League colleges, had at-

272 The Greatest Year in Sport

tained nationwide prominence with rugged teams like Notre
Dame, Georgia, and Southern California outstanding. Harold
"Red" Grange, most colorful player in the game, had turned
professional two years before. In 1927, the outstanding players
were Caldwell of Yale, Lane of Dartmouth, Oosterbaan of
Michigan, Wilson of West Point, Flanagan of Notre Dame,
and Drury of Southern California. Most remarkable record of
the year would be made by Alton Marsters, a sophomore triple-
threat halfback of Dartmouth who gained 1,934 yards in eight
games, nearly 700 more than the mighty Red Grange during
his best season in 1924.

Even so, the notable football personality of the year was not
a player, but a coach. Since 1918 the Notre Dame teams of
Knute Rockne had won sixty-four games, lost six, tied two. For
this he had been raised in 1926 from an $8,500 annual salary
to $10,000. Lately Rockne had branched out into lecturing,
writing, and after-dinner speaking. A man who looked like an
angry bulldog, and often behaved like one, he has been de-
scribed as "teacher, fighter, psychologist, orator, scientist, actor,
salesman, and diplomat." He also had what is recalled as a
rollicking sense of humor. Using these diverse talents, Rockne
had become nationally famous for his between-halves pep talks
to Notre Dame teams. In these sessions, he rose to histrionic
heights. "Win it for the Gipper," Rockne would beg his teams,
while tears flowed down his rough cheeks. Notre Dame's all-
time top player had been George Gipp who was worshiped by
all players after him.

To Rockne and to football fans all over the country the
season of 1927 was full of excitement and bruising thrills. At
the same time, it was bewildering and inconclusive, for none
of the top teams of the day escaped defeat. Yale and Pitt were
the leading teams in the East, but Yale lost to Georgia and
Pitt was tied by Washington and Jefferson. The almost un-
beatable Notre Dame was tied by Minnesota and defeated by

The Greatest Year in Sport 273

Army. Georgia, after defeating Yale, lost heartbreakingly to
Georgia Tech in the final game of the season. Minnesota was
tied by Indiana and Notre Dame. Big Ten leader Illinois was
tied by Iowa State. On the West Coast, Southern California
was tied by Stanford and beaten by Notre Dame. At the
Tournament of Roses on New Year's Day, Stanford would
play Pitt

// W of

.ATE in October, Lindbergh finished his
around - the - country aviation - promotion
tour, and Charles A. Levine returned by ship from Europe. The
gripping aviation summer appeared to be over. With a sigh
of regret or perhaps relief the American public began to
accustom itself to finding only routine news in the papers.
Through November news stories revealed that Secretary of
Commerce Herbert Hoover, because of his efficient handling
of Mississippi Flood Relief, was considered the outstanding
candidate for the Republican nomination in 1928. Al Smith
was still top man in the Democratic camp. In Washing-
ton, oil millionaire Harry Sinclair and former Secretary of
the Interior Albert Fall went on trial for their part in the Tea-
pot Dome scandal. Newspapers claimed that a suicide wave
among college and high school students was in full swing, but
insurance company statistics failed to bear this out. Andrew J.
"Bossy" Gillis was elected mayor of Newburyport, Massa-
chusetts. Lita Grey Chaplin collected a $825,000 divorce settle-
ment from her movie-comedian husband. Of this, $200,000
was to be devoted to the education of the couple's two sons.
The remainder ($625,000) was the eighteen-year-old girl's con-
solation for devoting two years of her adolescence to a middle-
aged spouse.
274

End of the Big Shriek 275

Mr. and Mrs. Martin Johnson revealed plans for another
penetration into Darkest Africa. Earl Carroll was paroled from
a Federal penitentiary, having served with good conduct his
sentence for perjury in the girl-in-the-champagne party. In
Chicago, where gangster killings had become a fearsome com-
monplace, Al Capone gave a press interview which indicated
that he had entrusted himself to the ministrations of a press
agent. The purpose of the interview was to announce the gang
lord's departure to Florida for the winter, but in the course of
it he vigorously denied that his crime empire raked in a
munificent seventy-five million dollars a year. In a statement
that exposed the press-agent touch he tried to paint himself a
friend of humanity. "I've been spending the best years of my
life as a public benefactor/' he declared virtuously. "But all I
get is abuse the existence of a hunted man. I'm called a
killer. . . ."

Behind front page stories were matters cultural. Indeed, the
autumn of 1927 had proved an exciting one for culture-hounds.
Those who enjoyed books could pick from a dazzling assort-
ment of newly published volumes, among them: The Woman
at Point Sur, by Robinson Jeffers; Meanwhile, by H. G. Wells;
Death Comes for the Archbishop, by Willa Gather; Circus
Parade, by Jim Tully; A Good Woman, by Louis Bromfield;
Little Sins, by Katherine Brush; We, by Charles Augustus
Lindbergh; Mother India, by Katherine Mayo; What CAN a
Man Believe? by Bruce Barton; Men Without Women, by
Ernest Hemingway; The Companionate Marriage, by Judge
Ben Lindsey and Wainwright Evans; The Mad Carews, by
Martha Ostenso; The Grandmothers, by Glenway Wescott;
Jalna, by Mazo de la Roche; The Human Body, by Dr. Logan
Clendening; Mosquitoes, by William Faulkner; and Carry On,
Jeeves, by P. G. Wodehouse. Harold Bell Wright, perhaps the
most popular novelist of the time, was favoring his public with
God and the Groceryman. ("Full of Wrighteousness," quoth

276 End of the Big Shriek

one critic.) The amazingly prolific E. Phillips Oppenheim was
represented by his one hundredth book, a story of high-toned
intrigue called Miss Brown of XYO.

The Broadway theater offered a harvest almost as rich. The
early 1927-28 season brought not only Burlesque, but The Trial
of Mary Dugan, with Ann Harding and Rex Cherryman; The
Letter, with Katharine Cornell; The Ziegfeld Follies, with
Eddie Cantor; Women Go On Forever, with Mary Boland,
Osgood Perkins, James Cagney, and Sam Wren; Four Walls,
with Muni Weisenfreund, the soon-to-be Paul Muni; the
original, non-musical Porgy, with Rose McClendon and Frank
Wilson; the zestful Good News, with its sprightly 'Varsity
Drag"; and a forgotten item called High Gear, with a dewy-eyed
ingenue named Shirley Booth. At the Republic Theater on
Forty-second Street the seemingly indestructible Abie's Irish
Rose finally advertised "Last Weeks" after a run of five long
years. A few blocks uptown was Dracida, with Bela Lugosi
("Ye who have fits, prepare to throw them now" Alexander
Woollcott), ("See it and creep" John Anderson).

Motion picture quality did not match that of books and
plays. Clara Bow was still the country's number-one box office
attraction, and her big-eyed charms were on display at New
York's Criterion in Wings, a spectacular aviation picture, with
Richard Aden and Buddy Rogers. The Hottest Jazz Baby of
Them All was also appearing in Hula, in which she portrayed
an Irish colleen turned Hawaiian grass skirt dancer. Featured
with her in this was the stone-faced English actor Clive Brook,
also visible in a second concurrent film. This was the first of
the gangster pictures, the memorable, mature, and timely
Underworld, with George Bancroft, Fred Kohler, and Evelyn
Brent.

The Big Parade had moved from the Astor to the Capitol in
New York, and its run at popular prices was about to start.
Around the country Seventh Heaven was cleaning up finan-

End of the Big Shriek 277

dally, and impressionable women were advised to take at least
four handkerchiefs with them to this superior tear jerker.
Moviegoers in search of average films could find them in The
Patent Leather Kid, with Richard Barthelmess, based on the
slang-and-sport stories of H. C. Witwer; William Haines in
Spring Fever, with Joan Crawford; Rolled Stockings, with
Louise Brooks and James Hall; Will Rogers in A Texas Steer;
An American Beauty, with Billie Dove, Lloyd Hughes, and
Alice White; and Marion Davies in Quality Street.

But if movies seemed weak, they were actually in a stronger
position than ever. For The Jazz Singer had opened at the
Warner Theater in New York. Up to this moment a few
Warner Brothers films had been accompanied by a symphonic
sound track. Also, there had been Vitaphone Shorts featuring
singers and monologists. But now, incorporated for the first
time in a full-length picture, Al Jolson sang three songs and
spoke a snatch of dialog. On the Hollywood sound stage as the
first song ended, the great man was so carried away that to the
assembled extras he shouted his familiar, "You ain't heard
nothin' yet!" These informal, not-in-the-script words were re-
tained on the sound track, and suddenly at the Broadway
premiere the singer's electric personality flooded the theatre by
means of the new medium. The audience rose to its feet and
cheered, and another ovation came at the picture's end.

Motion picture critics of the day seemed strangely obtuse
where sound was concerned. Mordaunt Hall of the New York
Times hardly mentioned the innovation in his next-morning
review. Instead, he hailed Jolson as the possessor of "the voice
with a tear" and complimented May McAvoy on her per-
formance in a saccharine role. Time took an even odder tack,
saying that by means of this, his first movie, the fulsome his-
trionic talents of Broadway's Al Jolson could at last be seen in
the hinterlands. A 1928 publication called Mirrors of the Year,
recalling the milestones of 1927, does not even mention The

278 End of the Big Shriek

Jazz Singer. Yet the public quickly discovered the rich attrac-
tions of sound. Long lines formed in front of The Jazz Singer
box office, and in Hollywood the Warner Brothers rousingly
congratulated each other on having pioneered a winner.

On Thanksgiving Day of the Year of the Big Shriek, Ameri-
cans boasted some twenty million cars in which to travel the
country's roadsthere were no highways then. This had, in-
deed, become the era of the automobile. "In a position of
honor/' writes Frederick Lewis Allen in Only Yesterday, "rode
the automobile manufacturer. His hour of destiny had struck.
By this time paved roads and repair shops and filling stations
had become so plentiful that the motorist might sally forth for
the day without fear of being stuck in a mudhole or stranded
without benefit of gasoline . . . Automobiles were now made
with such precision . . . that the motorist need hardly know a
spark plug by sight . . ."

Of the twenty million cars on American roads almost ten
million were the ugly, clumsy, cheap, and altogether endearing
(in retrospect) Ford known as the Model T or, more ele-
gantly, as the Flivver or Tin Lizzie. Over the past decade the
Tin Lizzie had come overwhelmingly to symbolize a period
when Americans thought of motor cars as a method of getting
from one place to another. But with Coolidge prosperity,
paved roads, and frequent gas stations, Americans began to
conceive of touring in automobiles, as well as impressing neigh-
bors with the opulence of cars.

So began an era in car-making which one editorial writer
called the craze for external beauty. Leader in this advance to-
ward automotive design was General Motors, the combine
which had risen to challenge the supremacy of Henry Ford. To
the buying public General Motors offered no less than seven
different makes of car: Chevrolet, Oldsmobile, Pontiac, Oak-
land, Buick, LaSalle, and Cadillac. Ford, in turn, manufactured

End of the Big Shriek 279

only the redoubtable Model T and the high-priced Lincoln.
"If the auto war between Mr. Ford and General Motors Cor-
poration were symbolized by armaments/' wrote Time at this
point, "Mr. Ford would be a cannon and GM a machine gun."

Early in 1927 it became apparent that General Motors, with
its wide variety and nifty design, was winning the automotive
war. Henry Ford had piled up a fortune of $347,000,000 from
his Model T and customarily paid income taxes in the vicinity
of $2,500,000. A small percentage of this money had been de-
voted to bringing back the past by restoring wayside inns, sub-
sidizing country fiddlers and in the teeth of such mad crazes
as the Charleston and Black Bottom attempting to revive
square dancing. In short, Mr. Ford appreciated the past and did
not relish change. Yet he was also America's most conspicuous
self-made man, a primitive mastermind who could not tolerate
any competition. In April 1927 Henry Ford's last Model T
flivver rolled from his Detroit factory. On May 3ist he abruptly
closed the factory, except for sections of it that made parts for
the ten million Fords still in rattling action. While the Ford
Motor Company lost one million dollars a day, Henry Ford
and his engineers set out to regain supremacy in the low cost
car field by producing a new Ford car.

In several ways, 1927 had been a difficult year for the opinion-
ated genius of the Ford Motor Company. Henry Ford was, in
the polite phrase of Time, a Hebrew-phobe. His vast empire
employed no Jews. His private newspaper, the Dearborn Inde-
pendent, spread such rabid anti-Semitic propaganda as the fake
Protocols of Zion. Yet to the American public Ford seemed a
paragon among self-made millionaires, and the Jews for a long
time dared not fight back. Then in 1927 a Chicago attorney
named Aaron Sapiro decided he had been libeled by a Dear-
born Independent article which began "A band of Jew bankers,
lawyers, advertising agencies, produce buyers .... is on the
back of the American farmer/' Sapiro sued for one million dol-

280 End of the Big Shriek

lars and in court thoroughly disproved the Ford charges. On the
witness stand. Ford revealed himself ignorant of almost all
worldly matters except the construction of motor cars. The
Sapiro trial ended in a mistrial, and with this Ford was advised
by his legal staff to apologize to the Jewish people for everything
the Dearborn Independent had said about them since 1920, as
well as withdraw from circulation a Ford-subsidized book called
The International Jew.

All this was gall to the proud spirit of Henry Ford. Still, it
may have caused him to sink himself with special zeal into the
new Ford car the Model A, it would be called. Through the
summer Ford and his associates bent over planning boards,
labored in the factory, and finally reached a proving ground
obscured from view by a towering wooden fence. In October
word came that the first Model A Ford was officially off the
assembly line and that Henry Ford's gaunt face had worn a
happy smile as he finished a trial drive in it.

Mr. Ford was still losing one million dollars a day. He was
determined, therefore, to place the new car before the public
in record time. In an announcement which told that the
Model A had been constructed at a cost of $100,000,000 of his
own $347,000,000, Ford revealed that in less than a month 550
of the new models would be ready for display in strategic spots
across the country. Meantime, tests on the enclosed proving
ground continued. Several times the new model was drastically
readjusted. Finally word leaked that the Model A was being
tested on roads around Detroit. Newspaper photographers sta-
tioned themselves at intersections over the countryside, and one
at last succeeded in snapping the new car as it shot by at sixty
miles per hour. In a blurred photograph the Model A looked
something like a poor man's Lincoln and that, indeed, is what
it turned out to be.

In an extremely opinionated lifetime, Henry Ford had often
expressed contempt for advertising. Get a good product, he be-

End of the Big Shriek 281

lieved, and you don't need to advertise. But this was a changing
world, and Mr, Ford was forced to use advertising in carrying
his new model to the public. Display date for the new car was
set at Friday, December 2nd. In the five days before that the
Ford Motor Company spent two million dollars to mate the
biggest advertising splurge the world had known to that mo-
ment. Full-page advertisements in some two thousand news-
papers across the country announced "THE NEW FORD CAR will
sell at a SURPRISINGLY LOW PRICE the minute you see the pic-
ture of the new Ford you will be delighted with its low smart
lines and the artistic color combinations. There, you will say,
is a truly modern car. . . ."

Those reading the ad to the end and what American did
not? found that the Model A would be full of innovations.
Gone were the three foot-pedals that had been a Model T
trademark; instead, Model A boasted a standard gear shift. No
one would have to crank the new model, then dash around to
the wheel to adjust the spark; Model A had a self-starter like
any other car. It also had four-wheel brakes, four cylinders,
steel-spoke wheels, windshield wiper, speedometer, and stop-
light. The new car could travel fifty-five to sixty-five miles an
hour, get twenty to thirty miles to a gallon of gas. Model A
would be available in body types from Tudor sedan to snappy
roadster. Eager purchasers found a choice of four body colors:
Niagara Blue, Arabian Sand, Gray, and Gunmetal Blue.

But the most exciting feature of all was the cost the full-
page ad had been absolutely right in calling this SURPRISINGLY
LOW. In characteristically informal manner, Henry Ford had
gathered his associates around him one day on the fence-
enclosed proving ground. Then he himself had figured that the
Model A could be sold at a price almost identical with Model
T. A new roadster would cost $385 as compared to $360 for the
Model T. The Tudor Sedan would be priced at $495, the exact
price of the old. Thus, Ford would still lead the low price field.

282 End of the Big Shriek

The most expensive Model A model was the coupe. This cost
$550. The cheapest Chevrolet model was $625; Chrysler, $870;
Whippet, $755; and Star, $650.

The five-day saturation advertising brought a Ford-conscious
public to a state of churning excitement. Never before, wrote
a pundit, had newspaper readers been worked up to a point
where advertising matter became front-page news. "There has
never been more public excitement in Denver except at the
time of the famous robbery of the United States Mint/ 7 re-
ported the Denver Post. A magazine called the Independent
(not to be confused with the Dearborn Independent) stated:
"Had the high talents of the late P. T. Barnum, the brothers
Ringling, and Tex Rickard been united in one grand effort, it
is doubtful whether they could have brought to pass any such
spectacle."

Police were needed to regulate the crowds around Ford
showrooms in Kansas City, Cincinnati, Norfolk, Omaha,
Boston, St. Louis, Richmond, Chicago, Washington, Philadel-
phia, Jacksonville, Indianapolis, New York, New Orleans, and
Atlanta. In London, Englishmen paid sixpence to view the new
marvel of the age. The cars had been transported in ungainly
crates, to hide the new body contours, then stored away in
the depths of showroom buildings like Christmas presents.
Dealers were advised to whitewash showroom windows to add
to the mystery of the unveiling. Early Friday morning the
whitewash was wiped away, and the fun began.

Nervous Ford officials got the first intimation that the new
model was a success at a preview unveiling on the night of
December ist. This was held in the Empire Room of the
Waldorf-Astoria, in New York City. Ford salesmen in evening
attire led important guests from model to model: "Elegant
people climbed in, out, and under the new car, and all agreed
it was a true quality offering." The venerated Oscar of the
Waldorf, one of those who examined the new car most

End of the Big Shriek 283

thoroughly, made the perfect remark for the occasion. 'Tm
going to sell my two big cars and buy two of these," he said,
while Ford representatives beamed. Another reporter followed
two Lorelei-Lee gold diggers, swathed in furs and glittering with
diamonds. "It's a beaut," one of these connoisseurs of cars told
the other.

Even Ford dealers were astounded at the rumpus over the
official unveiling on December 2nd. In New York City, nearly
a million in all stormed the major Ford display room at 1710
Broadway. Another sixty-five thousand tried to get in a down-
town display room on Broad Street. Outside a special show-
room on Park Avenue, forty thousand turned up, while thirty
thousand milled around an uptown showroom on i2jth Street.
Learning this, Eastern Sales Manager Gaston Plantiff realized
he had made a colossal blunder. He should have hired Madison
Square Garden for the unveiling of the new Ford and, with
this realization, he went downtown and rented it as a supple-
mentary showroom. In the auto city of Detroit, 114,000 visited
the display at the Ford Highland Park plant. In Newark,
eighty-year-old Thomas Alva Edison examined his old friend's
product and made another quotable remark: "It's an awful lot
for the money," he said. On Wall Street, Ford stock zoomed
skyward.

Delivery of the new models was promised for January, but
with such unprecedented turmoil, the date was more likely to
be April or May. Nevertheless, people frantically waved money
and insisted in placing orders. At 1710 Broadway the rate of
orders was one thousand a day. One inspired crook described
as a "rascal" by the local press circulated through the crowds
with open order book. He could, he said, promise immediate
delivery in return for an on-the-spot twenty-five dollar bonus.
His pockets were crammed with greenbacks when police
grabbed him.

The new Ford was a huge success, and Americans told them-

284 End of the Big Shriek

selves that resulting sales would benefit the entire auto in-
dustry and further swell the national economy. Only editorial
writers seemed to take an unhappy view. In the New York
Evening Post one such dipped his quill pen to write a nostalgic
paean to the old Model T:

The old Ford dript oil into our upturned faces as we lay under
it on country roads at midnight. The new Ford is shown off like
a modiste's mannildn to a generation which has lost the joy of
getting its hands dirty. The old Ford ruined ten million pairs
of overalls. The new Ford is unveiled in hotel ballrooms by sales-
men in dinner jackets.

The new Ford is new; but it isn't a Ford. It has theft-proof
coincidental locks, pressure grease-gun lubrication, and five steel-
spoke wheels; it is as silky as a debutante and as neat as a watch;
it will go sixty-five miles an hour and thirty miles on a gallon; it
has a gas-tank behind the engine and a switch for all lights on the
steering post; it was made with Johannsen precision gages, accurate
to the incalculable fraction of an inch, and it wipes its own wind-
shield.

It is a remarkable piece of machinery, but it isn't a Ford, be-
cause the Ford was an educational institution as well as a machine.
The old Ford, the old, black, rusty, cantankerous, obstinate, sput-
tering Ford, brought wisdom to many fools and made many wise
men go raving, tearing mad. This new lily-of-the-valley isn't going
to teach us anything. It looks as if it would run indefinitely with-
out complaint, which is all wrong. It is made for serenity and com-
fort, which is also all wrong. Where is the gas-tank? Out in front
where it can be reached. Where is the timer? Up on top where it
can no longer bark your knuckles. Where are the brake-bands? In
a ridiculously exposed position where their value as trainers of
character and refined language is completely lost.

We are degenerating. We are entering a period of Roman
luxury. The new Ford is a garage car. Back to the pioneer days
when we threw sand under the fan belt and tightened the horn
with a dime!

While Model A was Topic A around the country, Calvin
Coolidge orated that the United States prosperity was sound as
a dollar. Thus he gave several newspaper cartoonists an

End of the Big Shriek 285

identical idea. They drew a healthy male figure, stripped to
the waist, standing in a doctor's office. Attending him was a
medical man marked Dr. Coolidge, listening with visible satis-
faction to the patient's heartbeat through a stethescope. "Sound
as a dollar/' the caption read.

In New York, the great Negro cafe singer Florence Mills
died and was given a bang-up Harlem-to-Broadway funeral. The
1928 edition of Emily Post's Book of Etiquette hit the book-
stores for Christmas purchase. Also for the Christmas season,
colored bed linen went on sale for the first time ever at
McCutcheon's, on Fifth Avenue.

On Broadway, Helen Hayes opened in Coquette. Another
important opening was the musical comedy Funny Face, with
Fred and Adele Astaire and Victor Moore (not to mention
Betty Compton, Mayor Walker's flapper date), as well as a top
Gershwin score including the lilting "S'Wonderful." Other
recent openings on the Gay White Way were Bernard Shaw's
The Doctor's Dilemma with Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne;
A Connecticut Yankee, with a score by two newcomers named
Rodgers and Hart (hit songs: "Thou Swell" and "My Heart
Stood Still"). Playing "An Unidentified Man" in The Racket
was Edward G. Robinson. In a tiny part in the cumbersome
operetta Golden Dawn was Archie Leach, soon to become
Gary Grant. Mae West, as yet to find her true art form as the
Gay Nineties harlot in Diamond Lil, opened in a play of her
own devising called The Wicked Age. Percy Hammond, drama
critic of the Herald-Tribune, flatly called her the worst actress
in the world. Rumor had it that the doughty Miss West was
stalking him with a horsewhip.

In the concert world, Geraldine Farrar gave a Standing
Room Only recital at Carnegie Hall. Douglas Fairbanks and
Lupe Velez opened in a film called The Gaucho. On December
5th, in the midst of the Ford-furore, The Bridge of San Luis
Rey, by Thornton Wilder, was published. Critics praised it,

286 End of the Big Shriek

while booksellers predicted that it would be the gift-book of
the year for Christmas.

Yet in the midst of such distractions, 1927 remained the
Lindbergh Year. On December gth it was announced that the
Lone Eagle would next take off on a good-will flight to Mexico.
He would spend Christmas in Mexico City as the guest of
Ambassador and Mrs. Dwight Morrow and their daughter,
Anne. Instantly the United States and its neighbor to the south
lighted up with fresh excitement. The flight to Mexico was
only seven hundred miles shorter than the flight to Paris, over
much uncharted territory. This would be another thrill for a
thrill-happy world, and in Mexico City, inhabitants began act-
ing like Parisians on the night of May 22nd. Lindbergh would
land at Mexico City on December i4th, and that day was
ordained a national holiday the first Mexican holiday ever de-
clared in honor of a gringo American. Correspondents in
Mexico reported: "All Mexicans speak of Lindbergh with eyes
that sparkle, words that sing."

Nor had the American press changed concerning the nation's
number one Hero. Lindbergh took off from a rain-soaked
Boiling Field in Washington on December i3th. Describing
this, the New York Times pulled out all stops to record: "In-
tent, cool, clear-eyed and clear-headed, under conditions re-
quiring supreme moral and physical courage, America's young
viking of the air lifted his gray Spirit of St. Louis from a hum-
mocky, soggy, puddle-bespattered morass with an underhanging
fringe of threatening mists just before noon today, pointed its
nose southward and was off again on a new, hazardous venture
to a foreign land personifying again in the hearts of his people
their unofficial ambassador of good will. And, as always, he flew
alone. . . ."

Once again, as Lucky Lindy flew, the world stood rooted. By
now everyone expected Lindbergh to land unfailingly on time,
wherever he went. But for a brief time on the Mexico City

End of the Big Shriek 287

flight, he was lost. This brought extra drama to a story which
on newspaper tickers in American city rooms unfolded this way:

TALLULAH LA
TO MANY U S NEWSPAPERS

AN AIRPLANE BELIEVED TO BE COL LINDBERGHS WAS SIGHTED AS
IT PASSED OVER TALLULAH BY FRANK HULE A TRAIN DISPATCHER AT
ELEVEN TEN CENTRAL TIME TONIGHT

ASSOCIATED PRESS.

HOUSTON TEXAS
TO MANY U. S. NEWSPAPERS

AN AIRPLANE BELIEVED TO BE THAT OF COL LINDBERGH PASSED
OVER HOUSTON AT TWO TWENTY OCLOCK THIS MORNING

ASSOCIATED PRESS.

Detroit

New York Times
New York City

Mrs. Evangeline Lodge Lindbergh, the flier's mother, declared
that his latest undertaking was a matter that concerned him alone.
... She then returned to her class (she teaches chemistry in the
Cass Technical High School) .

Mexico City
To Many U. S. newspapers:

Thousands of Mexicans were at the Valbuena Flying Field at
dawn this morning eager to greet Col. Lindbergh. ... At 8:40
President Calles arrived accompanied by his entire cabinet . . .
Ambassador Morrow, seated between President Calles and General
Obregon. . . . With reports at 10:30 that Col. Lindbergh was
half way between Tampico and Mexico City, the huge crowd
(more than 25,000) began to mill around eager to get good posi-
tions. Nine Mexican Army airplanes hopped ofi to meet him. One
of the planes doing stunt flying went into a nose dive and crashed
several hundred yards in front of the Presidential stand. The pilot
was not injured. Federal soldiers constantly arrived. . . . 10,000
men in and around the inclosure. . . . Returning scout planes
landed at 11:42 without having sighted Col. Lindbergh. . . .

288 End of the Big Shriek

Silence almost approaching gloom prevailed over the great crowd
as the 25th hour passed with Lindbergh's whereabouts unknown.
. . . The authorities set fire to dry grass which covers the field to
make a smoke signal. . . . Although hoping for the best, both
President Calles and Ambassador Morrow were unable to conceal
grave emotions. . . .

The Associated Press

In addition to Mexican President Calles and Ambassador
Morrow, humorist Will Rogers was among the distinguished
guests awaiting Lindbergh. These three nervously paced the
center of the airfield, while around them men grew silent and
plucked the dead grass on which they sat in the sun and women
wrapped their shawls more tightly. In the first hours of the
vigil a huge blackboard reporting the Lone Eagle's progress had
been toted around the field for all to see. As time passed with
no further word, the blackboard disappeared. Suddenly it re-
appeared, with the chalked-up word that the Spirit of St. Louis
had been spotted over nearby Toluca. Almost immediately the
speck of the plane itself could be seen. There was a roar and
the crowd went into transports of excitement. In the New York
city room of the Herald Tribune the ticker began to click out
more of the story-
Mexico City

New York Herald Tribune
New York City

The intrepid American flyer brought his Spirit of St. Louis down
on Valbuena Field at 2.39. ... He had covered more than 2,000
miles in 27 hours, 15 minutes . . . from the crowd delirious
shouts of joy . . . motorcycle police rushed toward the spot . . .
Lindbergh was lifted upon the shoulders of his new Mexican ad-
mirers and placed into an automobile which began a slow trip to
the Presidential stand. . . . The American hero seemed tired
when he marched up to the President, but he was smiling happily.
Speaking through an interpreter, President Calles assured him of
Mexico's delight. . . . The greeting not entirely formal. The

End of the Big Shriek 289

President grasped the flyer's hand warmly and threw his arms
around the Colonel's shoulder. . . .

Jack Starr-Hunt

MEXICO CITY

PRESIDENT CALVIN COOLIDGE
WASHINGTON D C

IT PLEASES ME PROFOUNDLY TO SEND YOUR EXCELLENCY MY
MOST CORDIAL FELICITATIONS AT THIS TIME WHEN COLONEL LIND-
BERGH HAS ARRIVED AT MEXICO CITY AFTER HIS NOTABLE FLIGHT
ACCOMPLISHED WITH GREAT SUCCESS

PLUTARCO ELLAS CALLES
PRESIDENT OF MEXICO

WASHINGTON D C
COLONEL CHARLES A LINDBERGH
MEXICO CITY

THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES ARE PROUD TO APPLAUD THE
SUCCESSFUL CULMINATION OF ANOTHER OF YOUR COURAGEOUS VEN-
TURES I WISH TO ADD MY HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS TO YOU IN
BEING THE FIRST TO FLY WITHOUT A STOP BETWEEN THE CAPITALS
OF THE TWO NEIGHBOR REPUBLICS

CALVIN COOLIDGE

Mexico City
New York Times
New York City

President Calles issued a statement tonight. . . . "The latter
portion of Col. Lindbergh's flight over territory absolutely un-
known to him over zones of a particularly difficult and dangerous
nature because of a lack of means of communication and the
deviation from his original route . . . put to the proof his great
skill for navigating aloft. His marvelous resolution and energy
alone prevented him from coming down and maintained him in
his firm intention to reach Mexico without a stop."

Detroit

New York Times
New York City

"That's all that matters/' said Mrs. Lindbergh, told of her son's

290 End of the Big Shriek

safe landing in Mexico City. "He has always talked of seeing
Mexico."

Mexico City
New York Times
New York City

This has been in some ways the most interesting flight I have
ever made. ... I managed to get completely lost in the fog over
Mexico . . . something went wrong. I guess it was me. ... I
am sorry that those waiting for me had such a long time under
the hot sun but I was just as anxious to come down as they were
to have me. . . . After 10 o'clock the moon came up and I think
the first sight of the ground after leaving Washington was some-
where in Mississippi. Then I laid a course for the Gulf and hit it
fairly close ... fog for two or three hours ... it was necessary
to come down low over the water sometimes only 200 or 300 feet
above the white line of surf ... it was far from pleasant flying.
... I recognized Tampico by the oil tanks despite the heavy cur-
tain of fog which lay over it ... unable to get beneath the fog I
went up again and set a compass course for Mexico City. ... I
must have made some bad errors for when I dived down out of
the clouds iVi hours later there was not a sign of Mexico City. I
got completely lost. I knew I was in a bad country to play around
in. I tried to puzzle it out by the watersheds. . . . But it was not
until I saw a sign of the Hotel Toluca that I really managed to get
located and then set my course again for Mexico City. ... I saw
the planes of the Mexican Army coming to greet me. ... Of the
reception I can only say that it was equal, in all its sincerity, with
that which I received in France and England. . . . Mexico has
some splendid pilots. ... I am grateful to President Calles. . . .

Charles A. Lindbergh

NEWARK N J

COL CHARLES A LINDBERGH
MEXICO CITY

HEARTIEST CONGRATULATIONS I KNEW YOU WOULD MAKE IT

RUTH ELDER

End of the Big Shriek 291

MEXICO CITY
NEW YORK TIMES
NEW YORK CITY

MORROW AND I HAVE RESIGNED AS AMBASSADORS IN MEXICO NOW
THERE IS ONLY ONE

WILL ROGERS

Telephone call from American Embassy in Mexico City to Mrs.

Lindbergh in Detroit:

"We made it mother. I have already been presented with a fine
Mexican sombrero."
A moment later (another voice) :

"This is Ambassador Morrow. I congratulate you on your son.
May I extend to you a cordial invitation to spend Christmas in
Mexico City with your son?"

COL CHARLES A LINDBERGH

MEXICO CITY

(FIVE SIMILAR TELEGRAMS)

THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED IN NICARAGUA

PANAMA GUATEMALA HONDURAS SALVADOR

THE GOVERNMENTS OF NICARAGUA PANAMA GUATEMALA HON-
DURAS SALVADOR

MEXICO CITY

TO THE GOVERNMENTS OF NICARAGUA PANAMA GUATEMALA HON-
DURAS SALVADOR

I ACCEPT WITH PLEASURE THE HONOR OF YOUR INVITATIONS

CHARLES A LINDBERGH

DETROIT

AMBASSADOR DWIGHT W MORROW
MEXICO CITY

I SHALL BE GLAD TO SPEND CHRISTMAS WITH YOU AND CHARLES
IN MEXICO

EVANGELINE L LINDBERGH

So the thrills of the Year the World Went Mad carried up
to the last moment. Yet all were not happy thrills some were
sad and shocking. Even as Lindbergh was feted in the first days

292 End of the Big Shriek

of his Mexico City stay, the U.S. destroyer Paulding on patrol
through rough weather in the Atlantic off Provincetown ?
Massachusetts, rammed the submarine 8-4. The sub, which had
come to the surface without signal during a trial run, had
thirty-nine crew members and one civilian aboard. When
rammed it sank heavily to the ocean floor. Two years before
the Navy had gathered a salvage fleet in an attempt to raise
the S-5i off Block Island. Now a similar force was hurriedly
reassembled under the direction of Commander Edward Ells-
berg. Divers going below found that six men remained alive in
the submarine's torpedo room. "Is there any hope?" the men
asked in tapped-out words. "Yes, there is hope," the diver
tapped back.

But was there? The American public, accustomed to the
wonders of the past year, could not comprehend why the six
could not be saved. A great fleet hovered above the 8-4, while
rescue sirens wailed balefully. "Please hurry, air getting bad,"
the men below tapped. Secretary of the Navy Wilbur, arriving
in Provincetown, became the target of nationwide frustration.
Was the salvage being bungled? newspapers demanded. Had the
first airhoses been attached to the wrong vents, as sensational
papers charged? Crackpots of all types descended on Province-
town with ideas for raising the sub. One suggested that every
craft in the area be attached to the sunken craft, which by
main force could be dragged inshore. Days passed and rescue
efforts got nowhere. If any section of the sealed-off part was
opened, tons of water would rush in. Tapping from the tor-
pedo room dwindled, which meant the six survivors were dying.
Commander Ellsberg talked of waiting until summer to raise
theS-4. . . .

In Los Angeles a young man named W. Edward Hickman
decided he needed fifteen hundred dollars for college tuition.
He obtained it by driving to the playground of a junior high
school and beckoning to an attractive twelve-year-old named

End of the Big Shriek 293

Marian Parker. 'Tour father sent me to get you/' he told her.
The trusting Marian got in beside him. She was a bright-look-
ing child with a sunny disposition, but to Hickman this
counted for naught. He cold-bloodedly strangled her, then dis-
membered the body by clumsily chopping off the legs. He next
telephoned the girl's father, saying Marian had been kid-
napped but would be returned unharmed on payment of one
thousand five hundred dollars.

The two men agreed to rendezvous that night on a dark
road. At the appointed moment Marian's father drove up be-
side Hickman's car. "Is my daughter alive?" he asked. Hickman
held up Marian's body wrapped in a blanket. The child ap-
peared to be asleep. "Give me the money, and I'll leave her
down the road a little way," Hickman instructed. Parker
handed over the money. Hickman drove a short distance,
stopped to place Marian's body on the ground. Her father
rushed to the child, opened the blanket and never in his own
words could describe what he saw.

The hunt for Hickman fanned up and down the Pacific
Coast. Finally, he was captured in Seattle^ As his train pro-
ceeded southward crowds gathered at every stop. These were
not vengeful crowds, but rather curious folk out for a glimpse
of a killer. Could it be, moralists asked, that the unending sen-
sations of the year had left the public drained of emotion,
completely jaded? It seemed so, as the peculiar reactions of the
Hickman crowds were reported. Their apathy seemed to say:
we've had everything else this year, now here's a chance to look
at a murderer. In Los Angeles, thousands lined the route Hick-
man took from train to jail. Again there was neither anger nor
hostility. Simply a passive, gloating curiosity.

Christmas 1927 came, and with it a final sensation. On
December 23rd, Mrs. Frances Grayson's amphibian plane
Dawn took off from Roosevelt Field on a twelve hundred mile
flight to Harbor Grace, Newfoundland. This was to be the first

294 End of the Big Shriek

leg of the hop to Denmark which the ambitious woman had
attempted in late summer. Mrs. Grayson had a different pilot
for the new venture, Oskar Omdal, a lieutenant in the Nor-
wegian Navy. Bryce Goldsborough, navigator and radioman,
was once more aboard. Fred Kohler, Wright Whirlwind engine
expert, was flying as far as Harbor Grace. With Mrs. Grayson
went the trusty revolver which she allegedly waved at Old
Orchard with the promise to use it on any pilot who dared
turn back. Reporters saw her slip this weapon into the depths
of her fur-lined flying suit. "Is that your badge of authority?"
she was asked. The compact, attractive woman gave a Mona
Lisa smile.

Mrs. Grayson's departure was so unexpected that her finan-
cial backer in Denmark was unaware of it. The American pub-
lic, still simmering over the aviation deaths of late summer,
was given no time to protest Mrs. Grayson had consulted
Clarence Chamberlin and Bernt Balchen, and presumably both
had advised against a flight late in the year. Wilmer Stultz, her
pilot of the previous attempt, warned the flight was foolhardy.
Yet Mrs. Grayson went. Reminded by reporters that her sched-
ule would have her flying the Atlantic on Christmas Day, she
gave an answer which may help explain her determination:
"All my life Christmas has been the same. Same friends, same
gifts that don't mean anything. Telling people things you don't
mean. But this one will be different!" Another clue to her per-
sonality may be found in her behavior just before stepping into
the cockpit of the Dawn. Lifting her eyes heavenward, she in-
quired of the universe, "Am I a little nobodyor a great
dynamic force?"

Neither the Dawn nor its crew was seen after the pre-Christ-
mas take off, and the disappearance holds several mysteries
within its own mystery. One, naturally, is whether Mrs. Gray-
son used the revolver on her crew, as she threatened to do in
the case of another turn-back. Still, it is unlikely that she

End of the Big Shriek 295

would be able to shoot three able-bodied men. One man per-
haps, but not three especially when the three must have been
aware that she carried a revolver. More likely she turned it on
herself when death became inevitable. Yet the question re-
mains.

Almost equally tantalizing is why no radio messages ever
came from the plane. Radio operator Goldsborough, a much-
respected expert in his field, had promised to send reports al-
most from the moment of departure. None came. Later, a radio
base at Sable Island, Newfoundland, reported a message which
said, "We are in trouble." But this appeared to come from a
small emergency set Goldsborough had taken along. On Christ-
mas Day, the dirigible Los Angeles, Navy destroyers, and rescue
planes covered the area between Maine and Newfoundland,
but there were no signs of the plane. Closing its account of the
Grayson flight Time wrote sententiously: "There are no head-
stones in the graveyard of the sea." Soon the flight of the
Dawn, with its four dead, was just another ill-fated attempt of
the year 1927.

During Christmas Week, college student John Coolidge de-
lighted reporters by appearing in Washington in a heel-length
raccoon coat typical of collegians of the time. With this
formidable garment he, like other Joe College types, went hat-
less. Sheiks and shebas in Washington and elsewhere did the
Charleston and Black Bottom, or fox-trotted to such dansapa-
tion melodies as "My Heart Stood Still," "Ain't She Sweet?
(See her comin' down the street)," "Mary Lou (I love you),"
"Blue Skies," "Hallelujah," "Side by Side," and "Diane," the
theme song of the tear-jerking Seventh Heaven.

It was a good Christmas in bookstores, with The Bridge of
San Luis Rey, highly touted by Dr. William Lyon Phelps, a
favored gift. Runner-up in fiction popularity were Willa
Gather's Death Comes for the Archbishop, Rosamond Leh-

296 End of the Big Shriek

mann's A Dusty Answer, and Sinclair Lewis 7 Elmer Gantry, the
last suitable only for those conditioned to robust reading. In
the non-fiction field Andre Siegfried's America Comes of Age
had been a Yuletide best seller; in biography Andre Maurois'
Disraeli; in travel books Richard Halliburton's The Glorious
Adventure; in mysteries S. S. Van Dine's The Canary Murder
Case, with its ineffable Philo Vance.

Of all those prepared to enjoy themselves during the Christ-
inas holidays of 1927 none found richer fare than Broadway
first-nighters. No less than thirteen plays opened between
Christmas and the New Year. Among them were Behold the
Bridegroom, by Pulitzer Prize winner George Kelly, with Judith
Anderson; Bless You, Sister, with Alice Brady and Charles
Bickford; Venus, by Rachel Crothers, with Cissie Loftus,
Patricia Collinge, and Tyrone Power, Sr.; Celebrity with Crane
Wilbur; Paradise, with Lillian Foster, Elizabeth Patterson, and
Minnie Dupree; It Is To Laugh, by Fannie Hurst, with Edna
Hibbard; L'AfgZon, with Michael Strange; Excess Baggage, with
Miriam Hopkins; Paris Bound, by Philip Barry, with Madge
Kennedy; The Royal Family, by Edna Ferber and George S.
Kaufman, with Otto Krager and last but by no means least
S/iow Boat, by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II, from
the book by Edna Ferber. S/zow Boat, the greatest of all Ameri-
can operettas, opened gloriously on December 28th before an
audience that mixed the elite of Park Avenue and Broadway.
In the cast were Charles Winninger, Edna May Oliver, Jules
Bledsoe, Howard Marsh, Helen Morgan, Norma Terris, and
Sammy Puck and Eve White.

While most of the nation applied itself to holiday matters,
a few deep thinkers undertook to evaluate progress in 1927.
With a start, they realized that the world had indeed moved
forward. Twelve months before, the country had anticipated
the trial of Daddy and Peaches. Now such spicy matter seemed
adolescent and outmoded. Somehow the country in a manner

End of the Big Shriek 297

resembling the product of Henry Ford had progressed from
Model T thinking to Model A.

What brought this change? Partly the natural course of
events. But mainly the reason seemed to have been aviation. A
country that had been mesmerized by such local sensations as
the death of Valentino, the antics of Daddy Browning, and
the Queens Village murder had, with the coming of the
aviation-summer, raised eyes to encompass the world. Lind-
bergh, Byrd, and Chamberlin had spanned the Atlantic, Mait-
land and Hegenberger the Pacific, Brock and Schlee had nearly
circled the globe. Altogether the world seemed a smaller place,
requiring American minds to grow bigger. Also, the Lindbergh
receptions in Paris, London, and Mexico had been as wildly
enthusiastic as those in Washington and New York people
were the same the wide world over. America, with leadership in
the air, was now a vital part of the world. Aviation had given
America's shell of isolation its final crack.

Aviation was still inextricably mixed with the image of Lind-
bergh. Elmer Davis, evaluating the departing year, saw in the
clear-eyed Lone Eagle a signpost pointing upward on a road
that led from the Era of Wonderful Nonsense to an Era of
Comparative Sanity. Why else, he asked, would the nation go
mad over Lindbergh:

What conceivable impulse could have stirred up a nation im-
patient of exactitude and devoted to ballyhoo to fiing itself in an
ecstasy of adoration at the feet of a man who is everything that
the average American is not? It suggests some dissatisfaction with
the way we are going, a feeling that the things we are doing are
not the things that ought to be done, or that our way is not the
right way to do them; it suggests a pervasive insecurity, a loss of
confidence. ... It is possible that the qualities conspicuously
present in Lindbergh are the qualities that the nation at large needs
most acutely.

Others saw in science the force that would transport the
United States to nobler heights. Only the readers of scientific

298 End of the Big Shriek

magazines knew the full wonders in this field. One new dis-
covery was television. In 1927 the image of Secretary of Com-
merce Herbert Hoover had been flashed from Washington to
New York. "One of the most spectacular culminations of re-
search during the year/' this was called. Dr. Herbert E. Ives of
the Bell Laboratories was the pioneer who accomplished it.
Viewers today would hardly recognize his effort as television,
for as seen on a small receiving set the image looked like a half-
tone, two inches high, printed in the pink sheet edition of a
daily newspaper.

Yet such wonders as television were in the happy future.
Much closer to the national interest was the paradox of Pro-
hibition. The Eighteenth Amendment was the law of the land
and by it Americans were supposed never to touch an alcoholic
beverage. Yet as New Year's Eve approached newspapers pre-
dicted the wettest holiday the nation had ever known. AMERICA

TO GREET NEW YEAR WITH REVEL AND DIN, Said One aCCOUnt:

"When the New Year arrives on the stroke of midnight he will
find awaiting him a madder, wetter, merrier welcome than has
ever been accorded any of his predecessors/ 7

In New York, night clubs took newspaper space to advertise
that despite threats of law enforcement they would remain
open until at least eight a.m. New Year's Day. Veiled refer-
ences to drinks and expensiveness filled these ads. The Cafe
Des Beaux Arts, promising a peppy show and orchestra to-
gether with souvenirs, noise, and fun makers, warned that
prices were high: a cover charge of seven dollars and fifty cents
a person in the Parisian Room; ten dollars in the Grill; and
fifteen dollars in the Gold Room.

Another New York night club listed a gala unveiling for New
Year's Eve. This was Mae West's Club Deauville, at Park
Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street. Here a New Year's Eve Supper
was advertised for a cover charge of ten dollars. Together with

End of the Big Shriek 299

this went "A Program of Distinctive and Unique Entertain-
ment Conceived and Directed by the Distinguished Star in
Person/ 7 At Les Ambassadeurs the name the gangster owners
still could not pronounce the night's entertainment would be
Lew Leslie's Revue, with Adelaide Hall. Texas Guinan, having
been padlocked out of the Three Hundred Club, would bellow
the new year in at the Century Club, on Central Park West.
Clayton, Jackson, and Durante were at the Parody Club, en
route to the Silver Slipper where the madcap trio found greatest
fame.

Theatres, too, asked top prices. S/iow Boat, already the hit of
the decade, charged twenty-five dollars a seat for New Year's
Eve. Musicals like Funny Face, Hit the Deck, Good News, A
Connecticut Yankee, and Manhattan Mary (with Ed Wynn)
got fifteen dollars a seat. Dramatic shows like Burlesque, Broad-
way, The Royal Family, and The Trial of Mary Dugan charged
ten dollars. Movie palaces along the Main Stem advertised spe-
cial Welcome the New Year shows, but retained what were
euphemistically called popular prices. Moviegoers could choose
among W. C. Fields and Chester Conklin in Two Flaming
Youths, at the Paramount; William Haines in West Point, at
the Capitol; Norma Talmadge in The Dove, with Gilbert
Roland and Noah Beery; John Gilbert and Greta Garbo in
Love; John Gilbert (again) and Jeanne Eagels in Man,
Woman, and Sin; and Lon Chaney in London After Midnight,
with Marceline Day and Conrad Nagel.

For those at home radio offered music and fun for the mid-
night hours. Over WEAF from ten o'clock at night until two
in the morning a parade of dansapation included B. A. Rolfe
from the Hotel Park Central; Cass Hagan, Hotel Roosevelt;
Ben Bernie, Palais D'Or; and Vincent Lopez, Casa Lopez.
Over WOR came the orchestras of Larry Siry, Fletcher Hender-
son, Bernhard Levitow, Hale Byers, and Jimmy Carr. At mid-

300 End of the Big Shriek

night WJZ would sedately broadcast services from Trinity
Church in downtown Manhattan.

Now only New Year's Eve remained of the Year the World
Went Mad. . . .

Exactly how Peaches Browning disported herself at this
merry moment is not on the public record. But Peaches, now
sweet seventeen, was earning fifteen hundred dollars a week as
part of a vaudeville dance act and would in time amass over
one hundred thousand dollars which in emulation of Daddy
she invested profitably in metropolitan real estate. Daddy
Browning, a reformed character, had confined himself this
Christmas season to presenting gifts to boy and girl tots under
the age of ten. Explaining this, he said wistfully, "I won't have
to come in contact with any young ladies or girls. It isn't good
for me to have to come in contact with young ladies or girls."

Shipwreck Kelly, also a potent vaudeville attraction, was
already in training for the summer of 1928, when he would
shatter his twelve-day flagpole-sitting record. In Sing Sing
Prison, with less than two weeks to live, Judd Gray immersed
himself in the Bible, while Ruth Snyder, her behavior increas-
ingly irrational, dickered with magazine editors to sell a non-
existent autobiography. Lindbergh was in Belize, British Hon-
duras, having arrived there by way of Guatemala. Commander
Byrd was deep in plans for air-conquest of the South Pole.
Charles A. Levine was in Brooklyn with his wife and daughter
Eloyse never again would he achieve newspaper headlines.
The likeable Clarence Chamberlin had resumed his career as
master-pilot.

In honor of New Year's Eve, Calvin Coolidge had permitted
Mrs. Coolidge to arrange for Army buglers to stand on the
White House lawn, to play Taps just before midnight and
Reveille just after. Crowds gathered to watch this simple cere-
mony, then lined up to shake the limp hand of the President

End of the Big Shriek 301

of the United States. In this country the Sacco and Vanzetti
case seemed to be forgotten, but in Paris a memorial service
for the martyred pair generated so much emotion that it turned
into trouble. Mayor Jazz J. Walker, immaculate in top hat and
tails and still wearing New York City like a boutonniere
made holiday whoopee with Betty Compton on his arm. Babe
Ruth, Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, Henry Ford, Ruth Elder
all these greeted the bright New Year according to varying
tastes.

The crowds gathering to welcome the New Year at Times
Square were a year older -but what a year! Yet each fondly
expected 1928 to be bigger and better. The weather was clear
and nippy, with no deluge of rain like the year before. Police
had accumulated more experience with heavy traffic and no
jam of motor cars clogged the streets around Broadway. Slowly
at 11:59:50 the illuminated ball atop the Times Tower began
its slow descent, and a happy cheer rose from the jampacked
throng. Horns and whistles blew. Off with the old, On with
the new! Nineteen-twenty-seven the Year the World Went
Mad was gone.

It would never come again!

The author is indebted to Patricia Collinge Smith and James
Nichols Smith for generous use of their collection of Lind-
bergh phonograph records. To the United States Weather
Bureau for data concerning the weather on January i, 1927.
To Richard Jablow, for advice. To Professor Edwin Arthur Hill
of the College of the City of New York, for assistance. To Mrs.
Ad Schulberg and to William Poole, of the Thomas Y. Crowell
Company, for encouragement.

In an effort to catch the flavor of the period, the chief
sources relied upon were contemporary ones like the New Yor&
Times, New Yorfe Sun, Time, and Literary Digest. However,
the following books also yielded source material and quotes:

ALLEN, FREDERICK LEWIS: Only Yesterday
BISHOP, JIM: The Mark Hellinger Story
BRITTON, NAN: The President's Daughter
BROWN, WENZELL: They Died in the Chair
BRUNO, HARRY: Wings Over America
COOK, FRED j.: The Girl in the Death Cell

DURANTE, JIMMY and KOFOED, JACK: Night Club

GRAHAM, STEPHEN: New York Nights
GAUVREAU, EMILE: My Last Million Readers
GRANLUND, NILS x.: Blondes, Brunettes, and Bullets

GREEN, ABEL and LAURIE, JOE, JR.: S/101V Biz

303

304 Bibliography

LANEY, AL: Paris Herald

LEIGHTON, ISABEL (ed.) : The Aspirin Age

LINDBERGH, CHARLES A.: The Spirit of St. Louis

We

MARKET, MORRIS: That's New York!

MERZ, CHARLES: The Great American Band Wagon

MORRIS, LLOYD: Incredible New York

RICE, GRAOTLAND: The Tumult and the Shouting

SANN, PAUL: The Lawless Decade

STOKES, HORACE (ed.) : Minors of the Year

WALKER, STANLEY: Mrs. Astor's Horse

The Night Club Era

WHALEN, GROVER: Mr. New York

A & P Gypsies, 6, 16
Abie's Irish Rose, 6, 276
Acosta, Bert, 79, 97, 117, 122,

175, 191, 194, 195, 196
advertisements (1927), 13, 172
advertising slogans, 13, 172-173
airmail, 178, 191
Allen, Freerick Lewis, 126, 278
American Legion, 145, 243-245
Arbuckle, Fatty, 172
Armour, Tommy, 5, 252
Astaire, Fred and Adele, 285
Atkinson, }. Brooks, 52

Balchen, Bernt, 121, 191, 192,

195, 196, 294
Banky, Vilma, 172
Barnes, Ralph, 135
Barry, Jack, 263, 264
Barrymore, Ethel, 6
Barrymore, John, 7
baseball (1927), 266-271
Battle of the Long Count, 259-

266

Bellanca, Guiseppe, 116, 174-

175

Benchley, Robert, 226
Bennett, Floyd, 21, 115, 193,

213

Berlin, Irving, 15
Bernie, Ben, 15, 75, 299
Bertaud, Lloyd, 117-118, 121,

189, 236-237
Big Parade, The, 7, 276
Blythe, Richard, 118-20, 122,

123, 133, 146, 150, 159
Bogart, Humphrey, 172
Boll, Mabel, 197
books (1927), 17, 80-1, 275-6,

285,295

Borden, Lizzie, 173
Bow, Clara, 7-8, 245, 276
Brandeis, Justice Louis, 230
Britton, Nan, 217-218
Broadway, 3, 25
Brock, William, 189; around the

world flight, 237-239
Bromfield, Louis, 81
305

306

Index

Bronte, Emory, 189, 212
Broun, Heywood, 22 6, 228, 255
Browning Case, trial of, 40-50
Browning, Dorothy Sunshine,

26-27
Browning, Edward West, 24-

50, 85-86, 300

Browning, Mrs. Frances Heenan

"Peaches," 24-50, 85-86, 300

Bruno, Harry, 118-19, 122 > 12 3?

133, 146

Burrage, Vice-Admiral, 144, 153
Byrd, Commander Richard Eve-
lyn, 21, 79, 114, 115, 118,
120, 123, 133, 161, 162, 175,
190-197, 211, 213, 233, 257,
300

Byrd Flight, take-off, 192; flight,
192-196; reception in Paris,
196-197; in New York, 213

Cagney, James, 3, 276

Capone, Al, i, 19, 51-52, 2 75

Carpentier, Georges, 255

Carr, Sabin, 253

Carroll, Earl, 6, 19-20, 275

Chamberlin, Clarence, 79, 97,
114, 116, 118, 121, 123,
174-188, 194, 196, 197, 213,
257, 294, 300

Chamberlin-Levine Flight, take-
off, 177-180; flight, 180-185;
reception in Germany, 185-
188; in Paris, 196-197

Chamberlin, Mrs. Wilda, 176,
188

Chaplin, Charlie, 7, 19, 84, 274

Chaplin, Lita Gray, 19, 84, 274

Clark, Badger, 213-214

Clayton, Jackson, and Durante,

71-75, 299

Cliquot Club Eskimos, 6, 16
Coli, Francois, 112-114, 117,

121, 168
Composographs, 22, 40, 41, 43-

44

Compton, Betty, 62, 239, 285,
301

Coolidge, Calvin, 4, 11, 52, 77,
133, 142, 1 55-i5 8 > lS6 ; ca-
reer, 199-202; vacation in
Black Hills, 202-216, 216-
218, 230, 284, 300

Coolidge, John, 216, 295

Crawford, Joan, 9-10, 75

"Crazy Words, Crazy Tune,"
17,41-42

Dalhart, Vernon, 113, 133
Davis, Elmer, 77, 78, 126, 297
Delander, Lois Eleanor ("Miss

America 1927"), 245
Delaney, Jack, 5, 256
De Leath, Vaughn, 147-148
Dempsey, Jack, 5, 254-266
Dole, James D., 188
Dole Pacific Flight, 188, 189,

233-234

Doran, Mildred, 189, 234
Dos Passes, John, 226, 229
Dragonette, Jessica, 6, 16
Drouhit, Maurice, 197, 235
Duncan, Isadora, 244-245
Durante, Jimmy, 71-75, 76, 299

Ederle, Gertrude, 21-22, 163
Edison, Thomas Alva, 4, 283
Elder, Ruth, 189; flight, 246-
248, 290, 301

Ellsberg, Commander Edward,

292

Etting, Ruth, 75
Evans, Edward S., 237

Fall, Albert B., 274

Farrell, Johnny, 253

Fay, Larry, 57

film stars (1927), 7-10

films (1927), 6-10, 81, 277,

285, 299

Firpo, Luis Angel, 255
Florida boom, i
Fokker, Anthony, 115
football (1927), 272-273
Ford, Henry, 278-284
Frankfurter, Professor Felix, 229
Froessel, Charles W., 102 et

$eq.
Fuller, Governor Alvan Tufts,

226 et seq.

Garbo, Greta, 7

Gehrig, Lou, 254, 267, 269-270
General Motors, 278-279
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, 14,

24

Gershwin, George, 5, 285
Gilbert, John, 7, 9
Gillis, Andrew J. "Bossy," 274
Gobel, Art, 234
Goldwyn, Samuel, 172
Graham, Frank, 267
Graham, Stephen, 60, 63
Granlund, Nils T., 56-57, 64,

166-167

Grant, Robert, 227
Graphic (newspaper), 18, 22,

39, 41, 43-44, 111-112, 232
Gray, Henry Judd, 86-110

Index 307

Grayson, Mrs. Frances, 190,

249; flight, 294-295
Grey, Jack, 232
Guinan, Texas, 51-76, 171-172,

299
Guinan, Tommy, 62

Hagen, Walter, 251, 253
Haldeman, George, 189; flight,

246-248

Hall-Mills Case, 19, 20, 21, 23
Halley, "Aunt Mary," 209
Hamilton, Captain Leslie, 190,

234

Happiness Boys, 6, 16
Harding, Warren G., 9, 78, 214,

217-218

Haver, Phyllis, 81
Hawley, Joyce, 20
Hazelton, Edgar, 102 et seq.
Hearst press, 187, 237
Hearst, William Randolph, 20,

189,236-237

Heenan, Mrs. James, 32 et seq.
Hegenberger, Lt. Albert F., 189,

192

Held, John, drawings of, 14
Hellinger, Mark, 57, 64, 65, 69
Herrick, Ambassador Myron C.,

121, 126, 131-132, 134-135
Hickman, W. Edward, 292-293
Hill, Arthur D., 226 et seq.
Hill, James De Witt, 189, 236-

237

Hitchcock, Tommy, 251, 253
Holm, Eleanor, 251
Holmes, Justice Oliver Wendell,

230

Hoover, Herbert, 78, 274, 298
Hubbard, DeHart, 253

308

Index

Huenfeld, Baron Guenther, 235
Huggins, Miller, 268

"I Do Not Choose to Run,"

214-215, 216, 218
Izaak Walton League, 206, 207,

208

James, Edward Holton, 229
Jazz Singer y The, 81-82, 277-

278

Jessel, George, 81-82
Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Martin,

275

jokes (1927), 198-199
Jolson, Al, 64, 81-82, 275
Jones, Casey, 166-167
Jones, Robert T. "Bobby," 251,

252
Joyce, Peggy Hopkins, 100, 103

Kahn, Roger Wolfe, 15, 75

Kane, Helen, 75

Kearns, Jack, 255

Keeler, Ruby, 64

Kelly, Alvin "Shipwreck," 82-

84, 171, 174, 300
Knickerbocker, H. R., 190, 235
Kofoed, Jack, 59, 76
Ku Klux Klan, 4

La Guardia, Fiorello, 11

Lardner, John, 148, 170

La Rocque, Rod, 172

Lawrence, Gertrude, 5

Les Ambassadeurs, 57, 299

Levant, Oscar, 245

Levine, Charles A. (see dso
Chamberlin-Levine flight ) ,
116-118, 121-122, 174-188,

194, 196, 197, 235-236, 274,
300
Levine, Mrs. Grace Nova, 117,

180, 188

Lewis, Sinclair, 81, 296
Lillie, Beatrice, 6
Lindbergh, Charles A., Jr., 79,
111-144, 145-170, 174. 197.
213, 233, 274; flight to Mex-
ico, 286-291, 297, 300
Lindbergh flight, preparations
for, 114-124; take-off, 124-
126; landing in Paris, 128-
132, reception in Paris, 134-
140; in England, 140-144; in
Washington, 145-160; in
New York, 160-169; in St.
Louis, 169-170
Lindbergh poems, 127-147
Lindbergh songs, 133, 147-148
Lindbergh, Mrs. Evangeline,
121, 127, 133, 151, 153, 155
etseq.; 289, 291
Little Falls, Minnesota, 145
Lowell, A, Lawrence, 227
Lowenstein-Wertheim, Princess,
190, 234

McAtee, Linus "Pony," 253
McLaughlin, Police Commis-
sioner George V., 87, 104
McNamara, Reggie, 253
McNamee, Graham, 10, 152-

153, 154, 262, 263, 265
McPherson, Aimee Semple, 62,

100, 105

Macfadden, Bernarr, 18, 111
Mack, Willard, 100, 109
Mackay, Clarence H., 165
Madeiros, Celestino, 226 et seq.

Index

309

magazines (1927), 13
Maitland - Hegenberger flight,

192

Maitland, Lt. Lester J., 189, 192
Mallory, Mrs. Molla, 251
Maloney, Jim, 128, 256
Marie, Queen of Rumania, 22-

23

Marsters, Alton, 272
Mauretania, 180-181, 182, 183
Mellon, Andrew, 4, 5, 78, 205
Mencken, H. L., 12, 81, 211
Millard, William J., 102 et seq.
Millay, Edna St. Vincent, 226,

229

Miller, Samuel L., 102 et seq.
Mills, Florence, 285
Mississippi River flood, 97
Mix, Tom, 59
Model A Ford, 278-284
Model T Ford, 278, 284
Morgan, Helen, 75
Mussolini, Benito, 227

New Year's Day, 1927, 10-17
New Year's Eve, 1926-7, 1-10;

1927-8, 298-301
New York Yankees, 266-271
Newcombe, Richard S., 102 et

seq.

news stories, 17
newspapers (1927), 17
Novarro, Ramon, 7, 9
Noville, Lieut. George, 191,

192, 195, 196
Nungesser, Captain Charles,

112-114, 117, 121, 168

Palmer, A. Mitchell, 220

Parker, Dorothy, 226, 229

Payne, Philip, 20, 23, 189, 236-
237

Phelps, William Lyon, 80-81,
295

Pictorial Review, 245

plays on Broadway (1927), 5-6,
81, 245, 276, 285, 296, 299

Post, Emily (Boofc of Eti-
quette), 172-173, 285

President's Daughter, The, 217-
218

Prohibition, i, 3; enforcement
of, 12, 78, 298

radio (1927), 6, 10, 16, 152,

299-300

Raft, George, 65-66, 70, 72, 172
Rasche, Thea, 187, 197
Redfern, Paul, 189, 234
Rice, Grantland, 250, 255, 258,

261

Richards, Vincent, 251
Richman, Harry, 75
Rickard, Tex, 5, 255 et seq.
Rio Rita, 52, 167
Ripley, Robert L., 250
Rockne, Knute, 272-273
Rogers, Will, 77, 216, 288, 291
Rolland, Romaine, 227
Rothafel, Samuel L. "Roxy," 80
Roxy Theatre, 79-80, 128, 168
Ruddy, Ray, 251
Runyon, Damon, 32, 36, 41, 46,

47> 7, 97. 100 > lo8
Ruth, George Herman "Babe,"
254, 267-271

Orteig Prize, 79, 112, 166, 169 8-4 (submarine), 292

310

Index

Sacco, Niccola, 97, 219-232, 301
Sacco-Vanzetti Case, world re-
action to, 219, 232-233, 241,

301

Sarazen, Gene, 5, 253
Schlee, Edward F., 189; around

the world flight, 237-239
Scudder, Judge Townsend, 102

et seq.

Seeger, Justice A. H. S., 41, 84
sex (1927), 24-2 5
Sharkey, Jack, 5, 128, 256-259
Shaw, Fred B., 207-208
Shaw, George Bernard, 227
Show Boat, 296, 299
Sibley, Frank P., 224
Sinclair, Harry, 59, 274
Sioux, South Dakota, 208-209,

214

slang (1927), 14,82
slogans, 82
Smith, Alfred E., 11, 78, 164,

274

Smith, Ernest L., 189, 212
Smith, Red, 267
Snyder-Gray trial, 101-1 10
Snyder, Ruth Brown, 86-110
Sobol, Louis, 57
songs (1927), 15-17.82
Spas, Mary, 28-29
sports (1927), 250-273
Stanwyck, Barbara, 61, 245
Stein, Mrs. Mary, 4
stock market, 5, 205
Stone, Justice Harlan Fiske, 230
Stong, Phil, 222
Straton, Dr. John Roach, 53,

100, 104
Swanson, Gloria, 9, 80

tabloids, 17, 39, 43

Taft, Chief Justice William H.,

230

Taylor, Estelle, 256, 257
Teapot Dome, 216, 274
television, 298
Thayer, Judge Webster, 223 et

seq.
Thompson, William G., 225 et

seq.
Thompson, William H. "Big

Bill/' 84-85, 173-174
Three Hundred Club, 60-71
Tilden, William T. "Bill," 251,

252

Tracy, Lee, 3, 25
Trader Horn, 245-246
Tully, Jim, 245
Tunney, James Joseph "Gene,"

5, 227, 255, 256-266

Uncle Don, 6

Valentino, Rudolph, 22

Vanities, 6, 120

Van Loon, Hendrik Willem,

169
Vanzetti, Bartolomeo, 97, 219-

232,301

Walker, Mayor James J., 12, 23,
26, 53, 54, 62, 132, 134, 155,
163-164, 168; tour of Europe,
239-243, 245, 246

Walker, Mrs. Janet, 240 et seq.

Wallace, Dana, 102 et seq.

Wanamaker, Rodman, 190

Warner Brothers, 7, 81, 277-

278

Weissmuller, Johnny, 251

Wells, Linton, 237
West, Mae, 6, 285, 298
Whalen, Grover, 21, 123, 161,

163, 165, 168

Wheeler, Harry, 131, 134
Whiteman, Paul, 1 5
Williams, Hannah, 66
Williams, Joe, 258
Wills, Helen, 251
Winchell, Walter, 18, 25, 43,

47

Index 311

Women's Christian Temperance

Union, 4, 210, 216
Woollcott, Alexander, 3, 60, 98
World Series (1927), 271

Xenia, Princess, 190, 235
Young, George, 253

Ziegfeld, Florenz, 6, 52, 168
Ziegfeld Follies, 6
Zittenfeld Twins, 253

(Continued from front flap)

step on it, it might be Lon Chaney." Against
such a backdrop are discussed the classic
news events which succeeded each other
during this Hoopla Year.

The first of these was the famous trial
of Peaches vs. Daddy Browning which
labeled the New York Graphic the Porno-
Graphic for its uninhibited use of Com-
posographs.

"If Jimmy Walker runs the city by day,
Texas Guinan runs it by night," wrote a
commentator, and in a chapter entitled
"A Night with the Padlock Queen" the
author pictures raucous Mary Louise Cecelia
Guinan in her famous 300 Club.

Following the juicy Snyder-Gray trial,
the Roaring Twenties climaxed in the
phenomenon that was Lindbergh. Here the
author covers the story of Lindbergh's de-
parture and return, and the many other
courageous and foolhardy pilots who dared
in those early days to follow his path
across the sea or to chart their own bold
journeys. There were Byrd and Chamber-
lin, the erratic Levine, and the daring
peregrinations of Brock and Schlee.

The violence of the Sacco-Vanzetti case
then builds toward the close of this turbu-
lent and unforgettable era, ending with a
round-up in the field of sports, calling to
mind the appearance of Bobby Jones, "Big
Bill" Tilden, Knute Rockne; two great
figures emerge in baseball Babe Ruth
and Lou Gehrig and in boxing, Jack
Dempsey and Gene Tunney.

As if all this weren't enough, a motion
picture called The Jazz Singer premiered
and set everyone talking.

And so, although 1927 technically ended
on New Year's Eve, all the color and
flavor of that stupendous year has been
unforgettably re-created in The Year the
World Went Mad.

118912