"My Gawd, this job is no snap, believe it or not," grunted Theodore Hilton, domestic at a well-known country club in a recent interview with a CRIMSON reporter. Mr. Hilton was still puffing from his exertions in preventing three merry youths at the dance from pouring punch down the bass horn. They're good, spirited lads I used to get that way myself once," he murmured sadly. "These winter dances are hard work for as waiters: we sure earn our pay. For instance, inside of ten minutes tonight I had to run down cellar and turn off a carbon dioxide gas spigot they had opened; stop a young man who was running about with a candle on a silver serving tray asking loudly for an honest woman said he was Dy Jennies or some one like that. The two of them wanted to carry out a potted palm: they said they had an empty corner in their room it would just fill up nicely. Just as soon as I got them quieted, there was a lot of noise at the door, and a feller kept trying to force his way in. Said he was a Yaadcop and that we must turn down the radio. Somehow the boys at these dances seem to think they can talk them selves out of anything; but who ever heard of a Yaadcep. I think he must have had a drink or two.

"I no sooner threw him out before the orchestra leader came over and complained about something. Seems that eight young men were helping him lead the band, and all of them were using billiard cues instead of batons."

Mr. Hilton locked out over the floor crowded with the flower of Boston's womanhood. "Well," he reflected, "as I often say to my wife, I can't blame the boys for cutting up a bit at these debutante parties, there isn't much temptation for them to dance."