Judge — March 17, 1923 — page 20: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Washington, D.C. March 17, 1923 AM in a sort of a quan- I dary. I want to write something about Ed- ward Beale McLean, but I do not know how to write what I want to write. Try- ing to be subtle always gums me. At one time I had a first paragraph nicely charted out. Like this: “The difference between Ned McLean and the Veiled Prophet is that sometimes munded all right. affable and kindly, but it didn’t mean any- thing. The most I can say is that it is discreet. No one could possibly ob- ject to it. It is true that McLean does not wear I, but then, if he did ar one, it is almost cer- he would tear it. s getting wors is almost hysterical. Anyhow, one of the first persons you discover in whoswhosing around Wash- ington is Ned McLean. He is the One Best Who in his class. His class is a Il one, perhaps—exelu- almost to the point of constriction—as why shouldn’t it be? He eats off gold plate, he flaps the niftiest spat. in Washington, his walking sti are imported in bond, he gave the President a horse. His wife wears diamonds—I do not want to be lacking in’ reverence toward a lot of money—that are so big they do not look’ real, Honest, that’ Hope diamond in her tiara makes me think of the reflector on a tin lamp. That is the only other shiny thing I can think of that looks as big. Well, that’s a pretty fair start on this Ned MeLean diagnosis, after all. try again. He is the Administr antisqueak. That may be a little at first. I'm a devi up these hard ones. All machines sor times squeak. This one sometimes need a little of the creak eliminator before it starts to bound merrily over the roughest pla Hoover, Hugh Mellon, Borah —in the road. Then it smiles at miles. A neat metaphor, isn’t And so true. This is getting recondite and nutty, I know. But if I knew how to write what I want to write I would not be having all this trouble. Ned—e calls him Ned, especi those who would not know him from a straw hat in a storm—is the President's nearest friend socially. I do not mean the sort of a social friend who requests him to say a few words for the Armenians after the fish, or asks if he does not think Gatti-Cazazza nice. I mean a regular foot on the fender sort of a friend. One who does not demand conversation in chest tones. That It we IG Looks as though the Chief, as lots call him who never got any nearer the White House than the policeman at the big gate, keeps his friends in compart- Damon and Pythias— Warren and Ed by Herbert Corey Hughes _ is national friend. Hoover is his business friend. Daugherty is his political friend, but Daugherty has been sick lately and the politics need pink pills. his cut-up companion. WI dent ts to take his n state he sends for McLean. ments, He « vd t not I That is, for getting hi McLean is so rich that it public duty to say somethi : him. His town house covers a quarter a square, two blocks from the i House. His suburban home is about five miles away, with a garden big enough for a nine-hole golf course and something that looks like an epileptic clock tower at the front gate. inside is an exhibit of fine old crusted re- tainers. He has country camps and southern home: villas. The President planned to relax on his house-boat during the spring vacation, us a private golf secretary and a chef he doesn’t know by sight and who is paid just as much as two Senators and can cook better. The McLean gold > rich that the placer privileges ish water should be worth a pretty. He is a fine, bounding, hearty young man who enjoys the good things of life and likes his friends Ac enjoy them with him. No one knows just how young he is, for that matter, for the intimate detail of his natal date has been deleted from the official “Who’s Who,” but he isn’t so old. The first time I ever saw him he was eleven years old and was fighting chi ens behind his father’s barn in Columbus, O. Thatwas in the nineties, when his father 18 was running for Gov the State. Now he’s the ent’splayboy. There's ‘or you. There's in spiration for young Amer ica. How’s this for a title? “From the Chickencoop to the White House.” Yea incidentally i is the voice of the Great White Father, through his ownership. of the Washington Post. And don't. you ever think Ix isn’t. What one reads of the Administration hopes, thinks or wishes. in The Post is true. Mr. MeLean has a set of com petent employees te the ph al work of mout! piecing, but it is he who maintains the contact. Td like to get the job of keep- ing some foreign govern- ment informed on our governmental strategy. cash outlay would be a two cents a ¢ Tt is an unselfish ment that unites the men, so far as Certainly there evidence that MeLean has ever tried to cash in on it. It is true that he slipped William Randolph Hearst through the gate one night, after the now departed flock of White House sheep had been locked up. It is also true that four preceding Presidents had kept the gate chained. It may be that now and then hv nips out a job for some old fr often and the jobs are not. v Nor does it seem probable that at interest Ned McLean in a the Administration. Not upon » and after the in the da sunset gun ! It a harsh and almost un- reasonable thing to say of men in politics, but it seems likely that they like each other. Not so long ago there was a Senator Harding who was country- mouse in the City of Washington. He may have been a boulevardier in Marion, but the lashing, tearing, metropolitan pace of Washington may have had him dizzy. There’s many a night here when Gallotti’s ravioli parlor doesn’t close until ten o'clock. The MeLeans and Hardings grew chummy then, Should auld acquaintance be forgot? ees Oh, Coué-e! by ’Arry Belville ie arr!” The voice thrilled me. the apotheosis of music—it was enshrined; the tender, elusive sv distant chimes pulsing faintly through a still,cold air dense with softly falling snow. More weight! Oh, Coué- in ev'ry way I get heftier an’ T can’t get on one of these darn ighin’ machines ’thout there’s a coupla pounds more!” and I turned just in time to see © the lady and her gentle! eman friend