For all its ice statues, ski jumping meets, and Queens of Snows, the Dartmouth Winter Carnival after sunset on Saturday evening takes on a remarkable resemblance to any other big Ivy League weekend at any other season of the year. With skis and skates forgotten, crstwhile outdoor types flock to the warm fraternity houses and their well-stocked bars. And the Dartmouth man, looking uncertainly at all the Harvard and Yale men around him, makes his annual concession to conventionality: he puts on a coat and tie.

By two o'clock last Sunday morning, however, the coasts had been shed and the ties loosened. In the vestibule of the house there was a fair-sized crowd--some just entering, some just leaving, and some aimlessly bird-dogging--but only those standing nearest to the door noticed the two men and a redhead enter.

"We're freezing. Who's got a drink?" said one of the men. Virtually everyone in the room had a glass in his hand, but the trio stood there for a moment without even getting a reply. Finally, a Dartmouth student standing near the door reluctantly handed a flask to one of the men. He took a drink from it, passed it to his companions, and then introduced himself as a movie producer in town to make a Cinemascope short on the Carnival. The redhead, he said, was named Charlotte. Gardner, and the other man--the one just now taking a drink form the flask--was Budd Schulberg.

The flask-owner was momentarily startled, but managed to stutter: "Are you the Budd Schulberg?" He managed to stutter it four or five times, in fact, before he was satisfied that the man who had just drunk form his flask was Budd Schulberg, had indeed written The Disenchanted and On the Waterfront, was currently planning tow rite a story on the Carnival for Sports Illustrated, and had dropped in to visit his old fraternity.

"Why, I thought The Disenchanted was terrific," exclaimed a Smith-looking girl--one of the sizable crowd that had gathered around Schulberg.

Schulberg seemed slightly disappointed. "Yes, but he's no longer with us," he said. Then, to the room in general: "Any of you see On the Waterfront?"

"Yes, and I think it should win the Academy Award," piped up one sycophant.

Schulberg smiled. "Which scene did you like best?" he asked the room. "How about the one on the rooftop?"

"That was great," said someone. "I liked the ending best," said someone else. Schulberg smiled again, and reached for the flask.

The smile disappeared, however, when be found the flask empty. "Hell, Budd, we've got some back at the Inn," said the movie producer at this point. "Let's get out of here."

"No, wait a minute," said Schulberg, "These kids have seen 'Waterfront." The producer and Miss Gardner must have been unimpressed, however, for they had, already grabbed their coats and were escorting the author out the door. A Dartmouth student standing nearby had taken out a pen to get the visitor's autography. But before he could say anything, Schulberg and his companions, without a backward glance, had disappeared among the ice statues of Fraternity Row.