Judge, 1928-02-04 · page 13 of 36
Judge — February 4, 1928 — page 13: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Explanation for Modern Readers This is a humorous satirical piece about **Judge, Jr.** (presumably the magazine's mascot or a fictional character), who has embarked on a goodwill aviation tour in a plane called "The Spirit of Pol Roget." The joke is that he's now lost in the clouds and sends a message-in-a-bottle report. The satire mocks: - **Aviation's early unreliability**: The plane has lost compass, altimeter, cocktail shaker, and calendar—treating serious navigation equipment as casually as bar supplies - **Imprecise navigation**: The pilot jokes about being "above Washington" but thinks they're near Philadelphia, suggesting the vast uncertainty of early flight - **Youth recklessness**: Despite being hopelessly lost with dwindling fuel, they maintain cheerful bravado - **Political figures**: "Mayor Walker" (likely Jimmy Walker, NYC mayor) is referenced as giving them a farewell dinner The cartoon illustrates the plane lost among clouds, with a circular inset showing the plane's cabin. The overall message satirizes the nascent aviation industry's dangers and the cavalier attitude some took toward them.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Epitor’s Note—We are very glad to announce that, after sev- eral weeks’ delay, Judge, Jr., has at last taken off in his plane “The Spirit of Pol Roget” on his nation-wide tour of good-will. But stay! What is this? -EXTRA! EXTRA! JUDGE, Jr., LOST MESSAGE IN BOTTLE TELLS OF FATE OF LOST PLANE! (The following report, written en route by Judge, Jr., himself, was discovered in an empty champagne bottle which crashed through the roof of Olsen's Night Club last night.) My Dear Public—Here we are high; high, high up in the clouds and lost no end! We've lost the calendar we had pinned on the dash, so haven't any idea how long we've been lost. We've lost our compass, our altimeter, our cocktail shaker and our senses! jawed death rides the fuse- d we know not whither we are drifting. Probably out of the nowhere into the here, but at tenny rate we are on our way. I mean, I think we actually are. The air is so hot up here that Mae, that droll fellow, thinks we must be above Washington, but by dead reckoning, and we have the best dead reckoner in the world, I'll wager a tupenny ha’- pence that we are Philadelphia. very Just at near present LK Mac is leaning over the edge of the cock-eyed pit to see if every cloud really has a silver lining. He doesn’t believe anything, that nic at twenty-five! (That isn’t an ad for the Heigho club!) But laugh on our lips, we flaunt dan- ger and go blithely on, as only youth can, for we have plenty of fuel aboard, all pre-war stuff, and you know there's no fuel like an old fuel! be it's the alti- tude that makes me so dizzy. Oa As you may have gathered from this note, you sly readers you, we had a wonderful send-off and Long Island must. still re- echo from the sounds of the cele bration. Mayor Walker, or Jimmy, as we fondly call him, us another swell farewell dinner and the evening passed very quickly. In fact, so did a (Continued on page 31) with a comicbooks.com