Evening star., 1942-07-04

Henry McLemore. do not ask lor
special favors. They do not try 10
pull any strings. They simply slt
forlornly in the city in which they
are marooned and pray for break
that will get them seat in avehicle
in the direction Of home.
Without murmur of protest they
yield their space to the sergeants,
the corporals and the privates, to
the ferry command pilots and to the
ten thousand and one gentlemen
with brief cases who scurry about
the country on heaven knows what
war business.
1t is the humility which is so
touching. If they fought back-if
they barred their fangs in a defense
of Upper 8, Car 107-one wouldn't
feel so bad about them, but they
are as mild under punishment as a
peasant, as yielding as yoke OF
oxen.
The stranded businessman Is par
ticularly pathetic when his reser-
vation is ct out from under him at
the last moment. In such spot he
Is much like child lost at Coney
Island. I have seen scores of them
who looked as If they wanted to run
to the nearest policeman, put their
hands in his, and say: Take care OF
me, please"
But, bless them, they try to carr
on. They toddle to the telegraph
office and send wire home-"Space
Cancelled last moment. Do not know
when returning. Love. Bill"
Then they have to go back to
their hotels. There are few hotels
with clerks big enough, with clerks
with sufficient character, to welcome
back honestly a guest who has
checked out only a few minutes
earlier.
The clerks always draw themselves
up in pine-strip regality and
assume look which says as we'll as
words: I'm the name of goodness,
what are you doing here? You just
left. Your room has been given to
some one else and what are we going
to do with you?'
The clerks always summon an
assistant manager. I have often
wondered where hotel owners trap
their assistant managers. Perhaps in
some lonely Florida glade, or on an
ice foe, deep in the Arctic.
But to get back to our stranded
businessman. He finally gets an
other room. Then comes that ter
rible moment when he has to re-
open his suitcase; that suitcase
which he thought, a few minutes
before, would eventually be un-
packed by other hands than his
! He knows he is down to his last
/ shirt, his last pair of shorts, his last
handkerchief, his last everything.
Men on a trip space their clothes
so that they can get home with
everything dirty. So, when he re-
opens the suitcase you know what he
finds. Five wrinkled. dirty shirts,
stuffed into it in hurry Ties all
crumpled up. Shoes wrapped up in
handkerchiefs, and so on.
He takes them out and roots
around for a shirt that will DO for
tomorrow, pair of socks that will
go well with wrinkled suit.
He counts his money. He had
spaced that, too. Now, he'll have to
get more. He doesn't have a credit
| card on him. No one ever does.
| He'll have to speak to the clerk, who
will turn him over to the cashier,
who in turn will summon an assist
ant manager. His clothes all wrinkled
and soiled, he won't impress the
assistant manager. There'll be talk,
more talk, and finally everything but
fingerprinting.
Then he'll go back to his room.
He will think of how far along
toward home he would be now II his
reservation hadn't been Cancelled.
He'll feel very blue. Very alone.
! Yes, the businessman without a
priority travel card is a hero in his
way. If I had chunk of marble
and some chisels I believe I would
chip him out monument.
Distributed by McNausht Syndicate, Incl
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