In one respect the National Association of Manufacturers, the Boy Scouts of America Inc., the Cambridge Platonists, and the moguls of the Harvard CRIMSON all concur.

They all believe that competition is good for the soul. Competition selects that neurotic hybrid known as "a Crimeed" from the saner strains of College men, and the grim reaper of competitive toil determines his future career as a college journalist.

Contrary to popular opinion, a CRIMSON editor is not selected, solely on his ability to first with Hayes-Bickford hash slingers and whip up westerns early in the morning.

For whether they rewrite English A themes for editorials three times a week, mix lemon juice in the photo developer, sell protection to hapless shopkeepers, or like the write summaries of squash tourneys, CRIMSON candidates all must go through a competition.

Once on the paper, should he aspire to the higher emoluments of Librarian, House Committee Chairman, or Keeper of the Privy Seal, he goes through another competition. These competitions generally last about ten weeks before the so-called "executive candidate" goes on probation.

At this point the executive usually adopts a "humorous" by-line alias like J. Rumpford Rubric to amuse his roommates. Associate Dean Robert B. Watson '37 is always highly amused also.

Arrival of the veteran upon the College scene brought radical alteration to the character of CRIMSON competitions. New blood brought new rules, so that the veteran of Anzio or Guadalcanal no longer had to "sir" his superiors.

Also extended to the battle-scarred brethren was the privilege of dropping cigarette ash in the, typewriter mechanism and in general copying the editorial effort to look like a combination of Brit Reed and Hildy Johnson, Clark Kent as a prototype was no more.

Such alterations reversed the trend of the prewar years, which had been adding to the protocol of competing steadily. According to Crimed Jerome D. Greene '96, whose reminiscences embrace the roaring nineteenth century, a candidate could make the paper in three weeks.

Daily "comment sheets" by the editors note the progress of eager candidates. "Conant," runs one of these memorializing the efforts of a now famous College president, "escapes only because he didn't have the chance to blunder."

Competitions in "the good old days" featured initiation. Arthur N. Holcombe, '06, professor of Government, proudly recalls a certain Government 1 peroration delivered while he was being ejected from the rostrum by three CRIMSON nominees dressed as Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin.

Another famous incident concerned the initiation of one Dan H. Fenn '44, who was required to sit in the front row of Professor Merriam's History 1, read the CRIMSON from front to back; and then crumple it up and stalk out as the lecturer droned on. His subsequent return to official grace provides an accurate indication of the values of CRIMSON training.

Jealous of how tough their own comp was, editors often try to sabotage the candidates by making it easier for them. The candidates often fight back in increased effort and hard work, making for occasional jovial tension. But tension draws the wire finer, according to an old CRIMSON proverb on the Great Beer Mug, and makes for finer editors.