The Washington herald., 1922-06-14
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NEW YORK. June 13.-The ave-
nue. now sports the nobbiest pipe
and tobacco shop of its illustrious
career. 1t is British to its very
doormat and occupies the entire
first floor of one of those amazing
new white stone sky-scrapers.
The 'clerks"-they are not really
clerks, you know-wear silken
white busters. a sort of glorified
delicatessen costume piped in black
braid. The interior is of heavy oak.
plain in its gorgeousness.
The window contains a few, pipes
for the better sort of people" and
a silver plate containing a tobacco
mixture. Inside are super tobacco
nists who fashion the mixture to
suit the Individual taste.
There are three mixers-profes-
sional looking il horn-rimmed
glasses-and they offer the patron
tiny clay pipes holding a pun Of
various mixtures. When one in
hales the pun that satisfies they
break all the pipes and fix you up
pound or so and register II under
a number.
At the entrance Is a gold -capris-
oned fiunkey and he asks that you
wipe your feet on the mat before
entering. The floor is highly pol
ished and Is susceptible to chewing
gum and other impediments one
picks up walking the avenue.
The jar of commercialism is
strangely absent. There are no
cash registers or tills. One is sup
posed to have everything charged.
The pipe-cleaning department is
squared Off with shiny brass rails.
nd ] never imagined a pipe clean
er could look so regal and naughty.
Taking a pipe to be cleaned and
polished. incidentally. is like going
to court. One feels the lack of
plush knee pants and buckles. II
gives one a glow somewhat akin to
escorting a baby Kohinoor to Car
tiers to be mounted In platinum.
According to Fifth avenue custom
no name desecrates the facade OF
the pipe shop. From all appear
ances 1t might be a bank, a haven
for rare art or the ONCE of an oil
promoter-it is all that grand.
A bit OF African life flames forty
minutes from Times Square at
dawn. 1t is a spot at the moment
where the white man does not be-
long. Huddled groups of blacks.
like shadowy figures. are silhouet-
ted in the distance.
There are rows upon rows Of fan
tastic hutches in the haze and floats
on the morning breeze a song from
Tin Pan Alley. "On the Gin. Gin.
Chimney Shore- The scene Is the
Jamaica race track.
When the sun breaks through the
shuffling blacks go to a big pump.
immerse their heads and shake like
a Spaniel. They are the stable boys
and while the races are on they eat
and sleep in row of shanties near
the grandstand. At night they sit
about phantom-like fires. roll dice
and chant the Nanny tunes.
They love the horses and the
horses love them. Outsiders are
greeted with sullen sniffs. Later
the scene shifts. The sleek horses
are trotted to the starting post.
From the grandstapds. like a
flock Of birds suddenly on the
wing. comes an odd crowd of men.
toadlike with popping eyes. Their
shirts. gay in color. are open at the
throat. They are the checkers"
They mount the fence top and squat
there morning after morning. rain
or shine. They time the horses and
give the results to betting COM
missioners and to the betting
agents that advertise so freely in
the Morning telegraph. They are
men with astounding memories.
They can tell you what any horse
has done In a race at any time in
its history. Yet they rarely win
bets. Their careers are convincing
arguments that the horse race can
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