Harold Nicolson tells the story of Arketall, Lord Curzon's famous valet, who was unreasonably fond of the bottle. Lord Curzon was at Locarno, or some such place, representing Great Britain at big peace negotiation. As the day for signing the Pact approached, Arketall got more and more irregular in his habits, and on the morning of "Der Tag," he was quite in his cups. Sitting in bed, with his morning cup of tea, the great British diplomat gave Arketall the sack, told him to decamp within a half-an-hour. An hour later, hurriedly dressing for the meeting of nations, Lord Curzon found himself without a single pair of pants with which to face the gathered ambassadors. The valet had taken every one.

A similar fate caught Coach Charlie Whiteside unawares the other day at the Newell Boat House. We were not witness to the scene, but someone seems to have walked off with Mr. Whiteside's great leather coat, while the latter was getting dressed. The coach, accustomed to cold Charles River breezes, knew that only speed would stop the thief. That is why fortunate motorists had the pleasure of seeing Harvard's crew coach running on the road in front of the boat house in his B. V. D.'s.

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Having swept the small fry from the greensward in the Yard with their magnificent presence on Saturday, the Army Cadets scattered in all directions. Some went to eat; others became conspicuous in their grey-blue bathrobe effects at a drafty corner of Memorial Hall where they listened to a picked handful of Union Square athletes. But many climbed up into Widener for a bit of sightseeing. The turnstile area was soon clogged with cadets. Partly from curiosity and partly from necessity about a dozen stepped gingerly into the Farnsworth Room. To their complete astonishment, a scholarly young man sitting at the desk, whose face was deeply buried in a large book, clicked his little counting machine for each cadet; he never looked up.