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with no expectation of immediate return, but with a weather eye to future years and, perhaps, to present income taxes.

He reads nothing, not even the sporting pages of the newspapers. One literary critic, anxious to discover what library the champion might possess, found that the only book in which he was interested was the one wherein he had noted certain intriguing telephone numbers.

His sense of humor is sufficient to permit realization of some of his shortcomings. He takes neither his stage nor his motion picture efforts seriously; an unusual attitude among his kind.

"I's the bunk," he says. "All I do is mug around."

Young ladies of eminence, real and assumed, have been indulgent of the social crudities of a champion who fights for half-million dollar purses. They have chaffed him winsómely into ordering such things better, and their lessons have borne fruit.

"They're both charming," testifies a young lady who danced with the Prince of Wales and lately with Mr. Dempsey.

But it could not be expected that these kind young souls, being feminine, should extend their absolution to include the usual members of a prize fighter's entourage: the fifty-dollar a week trainer; the rough-and-ready sparring partner; the manager who is what he is and to hell with being anything else.

The champion goes his own social way now. Not often does he seek diversion in the company of his one-time inseparable companion, Mr. Jack Kearns.

In the course of his travels he has met most of Hollywood's expensively winsome beauties. He is a welcome guest at their gatherings, along with more earnest workers in the youngest of the arts. He is at home in New York's supper clubs. He is, to put it romidically, a favorite with the ladies. He has even been presented to a duchess (not Russian) who smiled sweetly.

He converses about men's clothes as Broadway converses about them, out of the knowledge gained in expensive establishments two blocks too far West for exclusiveness. He knows the feeling of assurance created by intimate contact with shirts costing four hundred dollars the dozen.

His recent announcement that he would retire soon bore to the general public a favor of press agentry. To those who were aware of the change being wrought in him, it rang disappointingly with truth. The lusts of conquest gratify him little now. He aspires to what any Sunday School Superintendent would assure him are "better things."

Jack Dempsey has embraced a new wife and the tenets of respectability. He has acquired property, made judicious investments. He looks with relish on the fat existence of a well-to-do citizen. If ever he is invited to become a Rotarian, he will accept, eagerly.

Pugilism has developed a great genius for fighting. The nation, with its supreme gift for the ordinary, is making of him a Babbitt.

"All good prize fighters come from the gutter," is the dictum of an able developer of such incidents to our civilization, "and most of them go back there," But not Jack Dempsey. He has learned too well to be in danger of the return journey.

Should there be another war in his lifetime, he will not be the national goat. His valet would not permit him to wear patent leather boots in the forenoon.—James Kevin McGuinness

 

History of an Eighth Avenue Shop

• Sold, December 31 by Abraham Ginsburg to the A. Ginsburg Apparel Shoppes Inc.
• January, Special Introductory Sales Event
• February, Annual February Clearance Sale
• March, Semi-Annual Spring Mark-Down Sale
• April, Annual Easter Sale Offering
• May, Spring Clearance Sale
• June, Alteration Sale
• July, Unprecedented Expansion Sale
• August, Mid-Summer Clearance Sale
• September, Introductory Sale For Fall
• October, Fall Final Disposal Sale
• November, Tremendous Pre-Xmas Sale Event
• December, Fire Sale
• December 31, Sold by A. Ginsburg Apparel Shoppes Inc. to pay creditors.—C. C.

 

From the Last Row On a First Night

Wonder why the curtain doesn't go up."

"I knew there was something! We forgot to get any programs."

"Oh, Look! There's John Drew. Or maybe it's Sam Bernard."

"I wonder if we'll be able to hear all right."

"Rose said she saw it in Stamford, but she didn't remember what it was about."

"I wish we'd finished our coffee, now."

"Who did you say it was that gave you the tickets?"

"Well, anyway, if there's a fire, we're near the door."—C. G. S.