"Fold Arms"

At 6:45 one evening last week, several hundred guests were dining beneath the serene gold and plum-colored Sert murals of Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria, secure in the knowledge that their slightest whims would be instantly accommodated by the precise and fluent machinery of the nation's best-known hotel. Fifteen minutes later something went wrong. The hors d'oeuvres ceased to arrive. Famed Oscar's dishes failed to appear. Wine bottles stopped popping. The Waldorf, that pillar of bourgeois good-living, had temporarily ceased to function. With a feeling akin to that felt in Moscow, March 1917, the Waldorf's dinner guests quietly left.

Next day urbane Lucius Boomer, president of the Waldorf, bought space in Manhattan papers to explain what had happened. Five hundred cooks, waiters and bus boys had, by order of the Amalga mated Food Workers union, "folded arms." According to Mr. Boomer, at 5 p. m. a delegation of A. F. W. representatives, Left Wingers not connected with the A. F. of L., had waited on him to protest the pending dismissal of one of their number for incompetence. Mr. Boomer, who got his start in the hotel business rolling barrels around the basement of a Manhattan Beach hostelry 35 years ago, said he agreed to review the case. Then two hours later his restaurant staff struck with out warning. Said he: "At no time has there been any question of dissatisfaction as to rates of pay, hours of work or other conditions of employment."

This the union denied. A.F.W. said it was striking for a 40-hr. week, $20 a week pay (NRA minimum: $7.50), free food, uniforms, laundry, recognition of the union. The offender, declared the union, was one of its organizers who had been discriminated against. While Mr. Boomer bought more newspaper space to invite his old employes back at the Waldorf's terms, 2,000 marchers had a field day in front of the hotel and Park Avenue rang with the "Internationale" and "Solidarity Forever."

The A.F.W. meantime tried to cripple every hotel in town with its "fold arms" order. Chefs and waiters at the New Weston, Lombardy, Brevoort, Essex House and Montclair walked out. At the Astor and Park Central, guests had to go out into the kitchens and serve themselves.

At the Pennsylvania three striking dele gates were set upon and beaten by loyal employes. Forty cooks at the august Plaza tossed aside their puffed caps and aprons.

Then the tide turned.

The A.F.W.'s 15,000 (claimed) members could not cripple the Manhattan hotel business by itself, and the big A.F. of L. unions declined to join the strike. Socialist Norman Thomas said he would march with the Waldorf picketers, but he did not. Writer Fannie Hurst said she would be there too, but she was not. Only celebrities found in the scraggly, vociferous vortex which circled the Waldorf as the week closed were Inquisitor Samuel Seabury and Impostor Harry ("Prince Michael Alexandrovitch Dmitry Obolensky Romanoff") Gerguson. Mr. Seabury was going inside for dinner. Mr. Gerguson was bound he alone knew whither.

Plenty of jobless waiters were found who wanted the $7.50 a week and tips, who would serve the drinks and slice the ducks and mix the salads for all who had the price. Mr. Boomer, as unperturbed as the night he calmly watched the top burn off his still incompleted Sherry-Netherlands, knew that always, in all hotels, no matter what happens, service goes on.

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