Judge — February 15, 1930 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

An Open Letter to Grover Whalen By S. J. PERELMAN D™ Mr. Witaren: I received your letter last Tues- uppointing me house mother of Manhattan day all policewomen the area, It is a lousy job, and I wish to resign. You will doubtless call me a cheap quitter, but honest, my forehead has turned gray over night and my beard has more wrinkles in it than a heavy duty tire. I could not keep my girlish figure and watch out for that tlock of phonics at the same time. You can ask Mr. Koussevitsky at the gro- cery store on Evans Street if I have not brought up five children and give them every luxur loving mother could. They are all fine boys today, and my oldest is a cashier in a meat marke this will show you I am no “quitter,” but am all washed up with those gorillas you put me in charge of. Last Friday morning I lined up all the policewomen and give them your orders to go out and crush vi JUDGE you said. That night two of them did not answer to their names in the roll- call. “Where is von Ostermoor n?" I asked the d they had seen rousing in the libby of Lobby’s Turkish baths. I went down there and, sure enough, they were bibbing wine with a couple of wine-bibbers. I got two bell-boys named Front and Zendcr to help them carry me upstairs and I gave them a good lecture till four o'clock, when the wine was all gone. ‘The two young men with them took us home, fine boys but very tick- lish, Every time I even made believe ing to pinch them they started ; So I booked them for disturb- ing the peace and they each got twenty years. "Tow I with you drug store cowboys,” I told them. “There is more law in the end of a police- woman's lipstick than in the whole Supreme Court!” Saturday night I was reading a book asleep in front of the fire when I heard a noise upstairs. I barely had cious ragmuffins for dinner. volts,” money?” mumbled the mug. the spinet? THERE'S A SHEEP IN WOLFF'S CLOTHES CRIED MRS. WOLFF IN DISMAYED TONES Chop up some remnants, Irma, and let's have some of those deli- “What's th demanded Stencil 23534-A, Series growled the garageman. “Er charge for this battery?” A, No. 546. “Two and a half how much is that in American Or maybe you'd rather eat some lemon moron pie and have me play Stravinsky's “The Firebug” for you on time to hide the bottle when there was a crash outside. Two of the girls had tied sheets together and were skim- ming down the side of the building. They told me they had heard of v conditions at Atlantic City and were going down there to crush them. [ packed my ba our way down, und we were soon on Opposite us train were three young men, and 4 they had picked ‘up my handkerc I got into conversation with them. “Young girls are too raw and callow for me,” said one of them, “Give me an older, mature type like you, ma- dam.” It turned out that he was going to Atlantic City too and was in the glass business. He got out several samples from his bag and pretty soon we were talking like old friends. I gave him my pocketbook to hold and he gave me a picture of himself in a locket with dof his hair. don’t reme y much after that, except when [came to Twas shiver- ing on the end of the Million-Dollar ged to attract the at was fishing © me enough moncy coat and a diamond bracelet to protect me from the cold on ny return trip. Luckily, I had managed to save my badge, so when we got near a policeman I explained matters and he arrested the smack for osting a woman, He got twenty years and a severe lecture from the judge “T will show you drug-store cow- boys,” said the j ‘ou cannot pinch a him to pinch ladies’ legs in the sub- ased. That after- yes brimming with tears at red’s narrow escape, we were rried by a justice of the peace and left. for our honeymoon in Atlantic City. And here we sit in the gloaming of the Paramount Theatre, my hand en- cased in Fred's, and through the dark- ness I see the tender gloam of his eyes watching, ever watchin Obsequious ushers flit about us, spraying the air with perfumes as the haunting sweet- ness of “Lo Your Magic Spell Is Everywhere” weaves lassoes of ro- mance about our necks. Call it Life's Autumn if you will, but I bless the day when first my cyes met those of Fred Hammerschlag over a magnum of Tokay in dear, dead Vienna and our love flowered to the nostalgic melo- dies of Franz Lehar. And all I ask is the promise of the years that lies in Fred's watery peepers. comicbooks.com