Life, 1922-03-30 · page 13 of 34
Life — March 30, 1922 — page 13: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous short story about a mysterious gentleman staying at a hotel in Little Nose, Texas. The narrator's friend identifies him as an elderly man who formerly worked as a coat-room boy and eventually became a hotel owner in Ohio—a self-made businessman. The accompanying cartoon depicts a woman at a bank teller's window requesting to open a charge account. The humor appears to satirize early 20th-century banking practices and gender dynamics: women's limited financial independence and the formality required to access credit during this era. The sketch captures the social awkwardness of the transaction, reflecting period attitudes toward women's economic autonomy.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
OFT. shaded lights and a continuous procession of luxurious motors outside measured the hotel's standing. Loud voices within told its popularity. New York's worshipers of wealth, of success, of ambition, flocked nightly to its dining room. Spinach was listed at a price per portion that would have done credit to any issue of industrial stock, Opposite the roasts were figures that would have commanded a union leader’s respect as a wag scale, It was, unquestionably, the place of places. My friend very kindly pointed out the celebrities. “That squat man over there,” he said. “The ove who has just sent a message to the orchestra leader. He's Isidor Mensky. Tom Burns, you know. Writes all the song hits about Dixie. Born in Odessa. Big success, that boy. Makes two hundred thousand a year, if he makes a sou. “You see that elderly man at that table in the corner: the one with the big jug of orange juice? That's Swig- gins. Owns a chain of barber shops. - LIFE .- The Stranger Chez Lui One on every corner. He came here from Little Nose, Texas. Didn't have a cent when he hit town. Now he’s got two apartments on the Drive and a house on the Avenue. Soft for him, I'll say. “That dignified gentleman who just stopped to talk to him is Turton. He owns this hotel. Used to clerk in the ‘Traveller's House, European and Amer- ican plan, Squinton, Ohio. Broke in here as a coat-room boy and bought his boss out ten months later. Now he rolls in it. He knows what New York- ers want, though. You have to hand it to him for that. “The lady in the orchid gown being shown to her table is Carmencita, the famous modiste. Some people say she came from Cork, but I’m not sure. Somewhere in Ireland, though. She was a housemaid for a time, but not for long. Opened a dressmaker’s shop on Sixth Avenue and two years later was over on Fifth. Great how they do it. “The man escorting her is Sefor Marvella, the tenor. Father was a street cleaner in Naples. Of course you know what he gets. Every paper in town publishes it five or six times & year, each giving its favorite version.” An unimpressive man passed and, un- ostentatiously, took a seat at the worst table in the room. He was almost hid- den behind an onyx pillar. “Who is he?” I asked. “Can’t say,” my friend “but I'll find out.” He asked our waiter. Our waiter passed the inquiry to the head waiter. That dignitary, ruffled, consulted the manager. The latter, annoyed, ques- tioned the room clerk. None knew. Finally the manager went to Olympus. He interviewed the owner and, by devi- ous routes, the information came back to us. “Beg pawdon, sirs,” said our waiter, “but no one seems to know the gentle- man’s name. In fact, sirs, if you will pawdon my observing it, he seems to be without friends or acquaintatices. He never comes he-ah with anyone, sirs. Always alone. It seems, though, that it is known that he is a native New Yorker.” answered, James K. McGuinness. Lady (at paying teller’s window): I want to open a charge account, please. comicbooks.com