Boone resented my levity and never spoke to me again, and every night for several months thereafter, he attempted to “get even” by ringing my front doorbell, then hiding behind some bushes in the yard and shouting “Pretty fellow!” when I came to the door. It is my firm belief that if I had taken his suggestion seriously that day, he would, by the tremendous force of his personality, have pushed me into a judgeship or at least got me on a jury. As it was, through reading The Americanization of Edward Bok, I became interested in the collection of autographs and found it, for a time, the most engrossing sport in which I had ever participated.
In emulation of Mr. Bok, I started right after the “big fellows,” my first “objective” being Senator Smoot. A servant informed me that the Senator was taking a bath. Luckily (for me) he had neglected to lock the bathroom door, so when I walked in on him, took all the towels and told him firmly that he could not have one until he had signed my autograph album, there was nothing for him to do but comply. He was greatly amused at what he termed my bonhomie.
My next quarry was Madame Modjeska whose signature I obtained by tickling her feet with a sprig of holly until she was glad to do anything to get rid of me. By similar pranks and pleasantries I landed all the Presidents. I became known as a kind of a pest, but just the same I am the owner today of the greatest collection of famous autographs in the world and the only question is what to do with it.
It was for the purpose of adding to this collection that I visited Philadelphia in September of 1926; notables from all over the country were there at the time to witness the great heavyweight championship prizefight between Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney, but it developed that very few of them could write their names. The fight went ten rounds and the judges gave the decision to Mr. Tunney and a lot of us boys thought it would have been a horse on Mr. Dempsey if they hadn’t. It was reported after the fight that the winner was considering an offer from C. C. Pyle to join the ranks of the professionals.
This was my first trip to the City of Brotherly Love43 since Gen. Smedley Butler was sent there to clean it up. The result of his work was a revelation. Unless you had brought your own liquor, you could no longer get a drink in Philadelphia without asking for it.
Philadelphia at that time had a boxing commission something like New York’s (No offense meant). The commission, which was appointed by the Governor, named the judges that decided the outcome of fights. On this occasion Gov. Pinchot said he would like to see Mr. Tunney win and it may have been to save the commission and its judges from embarrassment that Mr. Dempsey acted as if the whole party was a big surprise to him. He seemed to have at last mastered the boxing style of Farmer Lodge who helped him prepare for his fight with Firpo some years before.
A man sitting right back of me kept insisting that Mr. Dempsey ought to be disqualified for violating Pennsylvania’s boxing code, which barred the rabbit punch. I was not familiar with the rules, but Jack certainly punched like a rabbit.
XXI
I First Marry in Central Park—Lapland Lady for Bride
We now come to my first marriage. The girl was a born Laplander and landed in my lap during the course of a quiet weekend party at the Curley estate on Long Island. I suppose I was fascinated by the music of her broken English as much as by the blonde perfection of her 212 pounds of bubbling youth.
“Listen, hon’,” were her first words: “Ise mahty thusty. Is you-all goin’ to fetch me some mo’ dat dere gin?”
As she Lapped the fresh made spirits, I made her tell me of herself. Her name was Hugga—Hugga Much—and she was the daughter of an Eskimo society woman who had fallen in love with her family’s Lap dog trainer.
“Mah mammy was sho ’nough ‘folks’ ” she said proudly.
When the party was over and I had gone back to New York, she obtained my address and began showering me with mash notes, written in the same stertorous drawl. She was the most persistent of all the women who have ever marked me as their goal and it soon became evident that fighting her off was a waste of time. I finally said yes, and the scene that followed defies description. Dignified men marched the streets ringing cowbells and fairly reeking with confetti; women tore each other’s clothes, and even little children asked, “Where is nurse?” and “What is all the hullabaloo?”
Now followed preparations for the wedding. I was for having some of my friends as ushers and got as far as selecting Robert Benchley and Robert Sherwood, two beggars of Life, but Hugga, always strong for system and efficiency, insisted on my engaging the ushers from Madison Square Garden. I wanted the ceremony held at Old Trinity; Hugga said it was below her station—she usually got off at Columbus Circle. So we decided to put it on in Central Park, which was convenient for both of us and big enough to accommodate most of our buddies.44
My best man was Paul Whelton of the Boston Wheltons. He was then employed at Sing Sing prison as an electric chair tester, his duties being to sit in the chair just before an execution and inform the electrician regarding the current, whether it was just right or too strong or not strong enough. “Volts” Whelton, his buddies45 called him.
Hugga’s bridesmaid was Texas Guinan and her maid of honor was Elizabeth Barrett (Peaches)
