In Manhattan, one William Arthur Ray, Negro, foamed at the mouth, smacked one Julia Green, Negress, on the jaw, was smacked in return, Mr. Ray curled back his thick lips, sank 'his lupine teeth into the hand that had smacked him. Doctors injected Negress Green with the Pasteur hydrophobia serum, placed Biter Ray under the observation system usually reserved for mad dogs.

Hot

In Manhattan, one Louis Charchowsky went to bed, put out the light. The night was warm. His apartment, which he rented from one Louis Lesch, also a painter, was stifling. Painter Charchowsky tossed on his couch. The heat, far from diminishing as night deepened, grew worse and worse. Paniter Charchowsky, now well-nigh charred, flung back his reeking sheets. To his delirious senses it seemed that the steam heat was singing and sputtering, that it gave off heat. He put his hand against it, rushed to the basement, found the furnace in full blast, brought suit next day against Landlord Lesch, charged disorderly conduct, conspiracy to drive him from his apartment.

Off Trolley

In Manhattan, Charles E. Keck, President of the New York Rotary Club, lifted his voice against author Sinclair Lewis, creator of Babbitt, mocker of business clubmen, lodge brothers, realtors, Maccabees, Elks, Moose, Veiled Phophets etc. Said Rotarian Keck over the radio: "I'm going to take a fall out of Sinclair Lewis. . . He's due for it. If he were a big enough man to tell the story straight, it would be all right. But he fixes up a little city of Zenith, or whatever you call it, and has a little Rotary Club, and tells everybody that a Rotary Club is a bunch of big, bumptious, small-town boosters .... Of course there is in every Rotary Club a spirit of good fellowship and a lively interest in any proposition that is for the common good. . . The basis is a need for something to bring big business men together in a way that no other organization can, to enable them to do good work for the good of the community. . . Mr. Lewis is just a little bit off his trolley."

"My Life"

In Manhattan, a judge cried: "It is not only obviously and unquestionably obscene, lewd and lascivious, but it is filthy, disgusting and revolting. I am averse to enhancing its sale."

He had read "a few short passages" of a book by aged Frank Harris, one time Editor of The Fortnightly Review, entitled My Life, seized in a printing establishment and about to be used as evidence against the printers who are charged with having indecent books in their possession.