The Playgoer spent a very pleasant evening last Thursday at the Walkathon-Marathon in Dedham. There are some people who probably wouldn't appreciate a Walkathon-Marathon; and there may be one or two who do not even know what a Walkathon-Marathon is. We hasten to state, with perhaps a little pride in work well done, that we both know what a W-M is and appreciate it thoroughly. After some hours in the closely packed arena we feel almost as though we knew all there was to know about so fascinating a subject.

First there is an art, even genius is required, to pick the proper moment to attend a W-M. It goes on twenty four hours of the day, and what with all the things that poor mortals actually have to do, such as eating, and sleeping, and bathing, and the like, one is likely to find himself viewing the contestants in most uninteresting occupations.

Personally we recommend a sprint night. For on sprint nights there are floor shows, and there's something about a W-M floor show which makes a man realize he still has good red blood in his veins. Also on these occasions the contestants are dressed up and present not so disheartening an appearance.

There is a comedian named Bozo. Mere words cannot describe the pure gold that flows from his tongue sweeter than honey and more pithy than the cedars of Lebanon. Bozo is a character who must be seen to be believed. His mouth may be likened to the Carlsbad caverns and his voice to the fog horn of a Nantucket whaler. And there are innumerable Bozo's in the crowd who take almost childlike delight in bellowing wisecracks at the actors. We must confess that we ourselves were so so carried away by the spirit of the occasion that we emitted a few almost inaudible hisses when the villain put in his dastardly appearance. There are a good many skits which, we must admit, seemed strikingly spontaneous.

There is a chorus of no more than Old Howardly denuded lasses, regularly featured performers at a downtown night club, who go through intricate girations for the entertainment of the spectators. They, more nearly conforming with the accepted standards of entertainment, are the least pleasing unit of the spectacle.

When the floor show is over "Chinatown Night" next week--the gentleman whose sole purpose in life is to eliminate those hardworking contestants is ushered to the microphone to the hisses and catcalls of the audience. Unless the booing is up to snuff he refuses to take over his duties. Then the "sprint" begins. There are only sixteen couples remaining from the sixty who began, and the gentleman brags that he is getting them out on an average of two a week. May the powers above bless him and have mercy on his soul in his noble endeavor!