There was something in President Roosevelt's tone of voice when he talked on Thursday night about the national problem of the Supreme Court at the Party dinner that frankly got under our skin. For not only was every rank and shade of economic royalist run through the hoops of the circus--master's magnificent invective, but the nine old guinca pigs were asked to perform a lot of experiments that even nine humans couldn't in reason be asked to go through, much less a body of lawyers.

What made us particularly hot under the collar was the chief's implication that the Court caused the Mississippi flood. That would be a pretty tall order for even fifteen not-so-old men, and it seems to us the kind of thing that no mortal has been able to accomplish since the signal failure of King Canute, hundreds of years ago.

And so with the idea in our head that all is over for economic royalism when such palaver is spoon-fed to the people by their lawful leader, we set out to week-end in New York, and take one last fling before burying ourself for life in Widener. And we made it a royalistic week-end.

But there's something about a royalistic weekend in New York that's self-perpetuating--you have the pleasing feeling when it's over that it won't be the last one you'll ever have. For royalists are a tough crew--they've got staying power, and the ability to roll up their sleeves; the pizazz, in short, that carried through Crecy and Agincourt and numerous Senate investigations and one Roosevelt and half of another, up to date. And what revived our flagging faith in our destiny was not the champagne or the swing time or the flash-light bulbs in the Stork Club, but an incident outside a particularly exclusive shop in Fifth Avenue.

We were strolling along wondering if fifteen justices would be enough to keep the Hudson from flooding when nine couldn't tame the Mississippi, when a shifty looking automobile slithered up to the curve beside us. It was the kind of a car that proves that she doesn't drive a Dusenberg because she had a chauffeur, a footman, and a lapdog to drive it for her. With proper ceremony she descended, but her triumphal sweep through the bronze portals of the store was cut short by two ex-Grand Dukes, clad in full regimentals, who guarded and barred the way. And they pointed as if saluting in review, to an open elevator shaft nearby, that projected from the basement to the sidewalk.

Our economic queen grandly surveyed the chasm for a moment, looked at the sign that hung over it; then barked an order down the yawning abyss. We watched, fascinated. In a minute a lily-white parcel, wrapped in tissue and tied with a red ribbon, sailed out into the air. She circled under it, like a fairy quarterback, nabbed it, and, darting into her car, vanished in the rtaffic.

The spell broken, we went to look at the sign over the elevator shaft. It was the newest method of retailing crown jewelry and such things that we know. It was a method so daring and courageous in spirit that no Roosevelt defeatism will ever be able to overcome it. For the sign, in careless crayon letters, read out to the clientele, "For merchandise, yell down hole."