Judge — September 1938 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

United States citizen from going into the Panama-hat weaving business I’m not familiar with it. So, once again, I found myself at a dead end. The more I questioned my man, the deeper I delved into the intricacies of his cor- porate structure, the more tangled I be- came. The whole procedure suddenly turned into an unintelligible jumble of Burrs, sand, gravel, insurance, essence of ginger, holding companies and Pana- ma hats. Mr. Burr was nothing short of a mythical serpent—a Hydra, if you will—with nine corporate heads, any of which, when cit off and segregated for purposes of questioning, was immedi- ately succeeded by two others, more complicated than the original. Suddenly I jumped out of my chair, pointed an accusing finger at Mr. Burr, and thundered across the desk, “Who, what, where, and why is The Burr Trad- ing Company?” This was my final blast. My ace in the hole. It was now or never. If this didn’t trap him, the United States would have to close its case and look for its million dollars elsewhere, Mr. Burr leaned back in his swivel chair, pondered a moment and said, “Why, that happens to be a little sub- sidiary of mine. But, tell me, Mr. Lip- pincott—why all the excitement?” “T'll tell you why all the excitement,” I fairly screamed at him, producing an income tax return and thrusting it under his nose. “This little brain-chiid of yours has a president, hasn't it?” “Of course,” he replied, “every com- pany has a president.” “Yes, my fine feathered loophole ar- tist, but every president doesn’t charge off oats on his income tax!” I screamed, pointing to section 4D, where a de- duction of $320.48 for oats was clearly set up in black and white. “Perhaps they would if they had a smart tax adviser,” Mr. Burr said, indifferently. “Oh, they would, ch! I suppose the only rea- son the president of the American Telephone & Telegraph Company doesn’t write off oats on his income tax is be- cause he has a dumb lawyer. Does the tax bureau find oats on Al- fred Sloan's income tax returns, or on Owen D. Young's?” “It so happens that none of the in- dividuals you mentioned eats oats,” Mr. Burr said. “No president eats oats,” I replied. “Now, that’s where you're wrong, Mr. Lippincott,” said Mr. Burr. “I suppose you're going to tell me that the president of The Burr Trading Company eats oats.” “Almost nothing else but,” Mr. Burr replied, flicking an ash nonchalantly off his cigar end. “'B-but then he must be-be a h-horse!"’ I stammered. Mr. Burr said, “He is.” You see, Chief—it’s hopeless. The “Who the hell put crackers in my bed?” THE Burr Trading Company is nothing less than a stock-breeding farm, and all the officers of the company right down the line are horses. Imagine it. Horses. T'll be back in Washington for fur- ther orders on Thursday. Meantime, I'd advise you to lay the situation clear- ly before the Secretary, and see if he can’t get Congress to pass a law mak- ing it a criminal offense for a taxpayer to split himself up into exempt por- tions, go into the sand and gravel busi- ness, sell Jamaica ginger, feed a com- pany-official oats, or take advantage of the community property law on the basis that one of his horses was mar- ried in California. Otherwise, you might just as well forget this man, Burr, and his moral debt to Uncle Sam. He may have a conscience, but I'll bet it’s incorporated in some foreign country where it won't bother him. Oh, yes—speaking of moral debts— Mr. Burr wants to know what you in- tend to do about that $137.62 claim he has for overpayment last year. Yours truly, E. Lippincott, Tax Investigator. «+. T also read some or all of: the first volume of Emerson's Journals (just published) and all of Emerson's Essays and Addresses . . . Ibsen's Peter Pan... Burton Rascoe in Before I Forget, p. 140. Did you ever read Barrie’s Hedda Gabler? JUDGE FOR SEPTEMBER comicbooks.com