Dick Harlow as a colorful gent who could always use a few more good football players. Just about the time that he was preparing his eleven for his almost annual Yale debacle, conjecture would reach the public prints on how Harvard could lure these few more good football players to Cambridge.

Dick would convene the gentlemen of the press in his Dillon cubicle, settle back in his wooden armchair, fold his hands across his paunch, cross those match sticks be uses for legs, and give them the lowdown, drawling half from the aide of his mouth and half through his nose.

"Now Boys" he would say, "I don't need to pay a kid to play football at Harvard. Just let me take him along the Charles when the sun is setting on the houses and Tom Bolles is bringing his crew home. After that any kid would give his right arm to spend four years here."

He always had Tom Bolles'' crew in that picture.

The Houses, the Charles and the crew it's the picture that draws the kids here and it's the picture the grads take away with them. And for some of these grads Houses become unimportant. Those are the guys who wouldn't walk a block to see a world series game, but will sail a couple of thousand miles to be along the finish line on the Thames at New London when the Harvard and Yale crews race that tortuous four miler in June.

Last year they saw Harvard sweep the river in the midst of whistles, hoots, Yachts, straw hats, long-legged and suntanned girls, seersuckered guys, and general bedlam. It was a joyous occasion but not unexpected. Tom Bolles has never lost a varsity race to Yale.