Eddie, Al, and the Boys

Each Monday night eighteen funny men and a CRIMSON correspondent gather in Phillips Brooks House to settle the fate of the undergraduate body, and incidentally of the $6000 or so he has contributed to them.

Reading frequently of the wondrous events that transpire, we hiked to the Yard one Monday, settled down in an easy chair and prepared to witness the Student Council in action.

The president walked over, and announced, "We'll have an interesting meeting. We're going to run a beauty contest."

"Who's going to be in it," we asked.

"Harvard men," he replied.

Such frivolity ended shortly as a rather portly member displayed a copy of the American so all could see a lightly clad robbery victim.

The president rapped his gavel and called the meeting to order. He explained that there had been a pretty good Dean's Luncheon, for those who had lunched with the Deans, and that there would be no minutes, for the previous meeting had been too long for the secretary to summarize in a week.

The treasurer began to report, and he reported that there was absolutely no way of forcing people to pay up on pledged contributions, because no list had been made and the pledge cards had been mailed back to the prospective donors. This caused some dismay, but he quickly offered a proposal, "If you know someone who pledged and hasn't paid, you hit him for it."

The pugilistic approach pleased everyone but one short, excitable fellow, who rose and proclaimed, "This is ridiculous." We agreed. He added, "They gave their word of honor that they would pay, and I think that they should be subjected to the embarrassment of being confronted by a Council member." We still agreed with his first statement.

The group agreed to give up on such men of ill will as would not pay Council pledges and passed to another topic, that of a ride bureau. This bureau answers phone calls and helps people get rides and riders for trips. It sounded like a good thing. The problem was to get someone to answer the phone.

One member who had investigated the problem said, "My own friends, even among the so-called gullible freshman class, won't work for nothing."

The short, excitable member thought they might work for "Student Council honor certificates," but everyone else wanted to pay $1 per hour to hire someone.

Everyone, that is, except a member in a green windbreaker and a white tee-shirt. He wanted to do the job himself for sixty two and a half cents per hour.

Someone said this involved the spoils system. Someone else inquired, "Where do we stop and Crimson Key begin? Where do we stop and PH begin? What is our function on campus?" Someone else attacked the PBH ticket agency.

Excitable feared that the whole plan might be lost, and defended it vigorously, calling for it as part of "the Cheap Deal here on campus for student welfare." Sort of a corollary to the New Deal, the Fair Deal, the Square Deal, and the Full Dinner Pail.

Sixty-two and a half cents still wanted the job, so the president was asked "his views on the hiring of a Council member to do a Council job." He pondered a minute, then said, "It's never been done before, but it's a good idea."

This opinion almost carried the day, but for the intervention of a man from Lowell House, who squelched it by crying "poor form." They decided to hire someone else and pay a dollar.

Sixty two and a half had another bright idea. He though the Council should have more members. "Tremendous new vistas are opening up, and ofttimes these vistas have to be ignored," because the Council is undermanned, he declaimed.

Another member thought it might look as though the members were trying to protect their own posts by creating new jobs, but sixty two and a half said, "Sometimes y'have to be a martyr and suffer the slings and arrows of public opinion."

A spectator walked in wearing a dinner jacket and a mustache.

Discussion proceeded, as motions to close debate lost repeatedly. One tall member protested, "Four more long-winded members and we wouldn't get out till midnight."

Sixty two and a half said new members were needed to man "the free textbook liberry for the poor kids."

A corduroy jacket walked over to us and asked, "Do you know parliamentary procedure?" We admitted that we did, and he asked us how to block the move for more members. "Move to adjourn," we whispered, and he did so. The president's jaw fell open about four inches. The vice president smiled ghoulishly, and voted for adjournment, but he was the only one besides corduroy jacket who did so.

At last the issue came to a vote. Did the Council need more members in order to function efficiently? Only four members out of twelve voting thought that it did, and as we left we agreed with the majority.