The Daily Record

RAMBLING

Gilbert and Sullivan met on Route 7, the direct route to Danbury, Conn., a few hours ago. It happened when this reporter drove to that city to play a benefit. En route, he stopped off at Stonehenge, owned and operated by ex-GI Victor Gilbert. Gilbert treated Sullivan to a bourbon Manhattan and thus refreshed, I went on to the city distinguished for its hills, its lakes and its manufacture of elegant hats.

In Stonehenge, a distinguished-looking gentleman walked over to the table. "I'm going to mention a name to you," he said, "to see if it rings a bell."

"What's the name, sir?" I asked him, politely.

"Joe Lowe," he said. And as he said it, the bells started ringing.

You'll have to go back with me about nine or ten years, when we were staging the first great war show in Madison Square Garden, for Gen. Thomas Terry's command in this area. All proceeds were to go to Major-Gen. Phillipson's Army Emergency Relief.

To raise a bundle, I established a price of $5,000 for the boxes scaling them down to $1,000 a box for the poorer locations. $100 a seat for the first five rows and so on down the line. "You're nuts," amialy advised my committee, "Nobody will pay that kind of dough."

Your reporter, even with great faith in the public, was half-inclined to agree with his committee. But the tickets looked awfully impressive. In fact, $5,000 spelled out in Sanskrit looks high class.

The day the tickets went on sale, a stranger phoned me at the apartment. "I'm Mr. Davis," he said, diffidently, "and though I know you're awfully busy, I'd like to talk to you about getting some tickets for the Army show."

With 18,000 freshly-printed tickets in my possession, I'd have been willing to talk to Hopalong Cassidy's horse or Dagmar's uncle, had television created them, that early. "Go right ahead and talk, Mr. Davis," your reporter urged. "No", said Mr. Davis, "I'd rather see you personally."

Right then and there, I knew that Mr. Davis wasn't going to be of much help. People who want to see you, personally, always have a song they want published, or they have an invention, or they just are lonesome and want somebody to talk to.

"Call me on my private phone," I suggested. "Not even over a private phone," said Mr. Davis.

So in came Mr. Davis. He was bashful, not the big business type that's loaded with dough. He talked almost furtively of the weather and then said, hesitantly: Now about the tickets. We were going to buy one, but after thinking it over, Mr. Lowe has decided to take two."

"That's fine," I told him, with false heartiness. With 18,000 tickets on hand, even two outright sales were something. "Any particular location?" He shook his head "No, anything you have on hand will do. Mr. Lowe probably won't even go himself. He's pretty busy."

"Then you can take your wife or your gal," I said. "What price tickets do you want. Something in the mezzanine, perhaps?"

"No. Mr. Lowe wanted the boxes," he said. If he had hit me with a blunt instrument, he couldn't have caused a greater shock. I edged away from him cautiously. This man was mad. The boxes were $5,000 apiece.

"Yes, of course," I soothed him. "Nothing like a couple of box seats at a big show." He nodded: "That's what Mr. Lowe said when he sent me up."

"And who is Mr. Lowe?" I asked him, gently. "He's the popsicle man," he said. Never having heard of a popsicle man, your reporter backed behind the desk. "And this popsicle man wants two box seats?"

I asked, weakly.

"Not two seats," mildly corrected the visitor. "Two boxes, the $5,000 kind." Wildly, I surveyed him. "Two $5,000 boxes, huh? In other words, he wants to give us $10,000?" Mr. Davis smiled happily:

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. You send the tickets to the office and Mr. Lowe will send you the check."

That night at dinner, your reporter told of the berserk incident. "Don't you know what popsicles are, Daddy", asked the 11-year-old daughter. "Kids buy more popsicles than anything else. If this man is the popsicle man, he could buy all of your boxes."

Very, very early the next morning, I was on the phone. "Yes", said the calm voice of Mr. Lowe. "Just send the tickets down today and your messenger can pick up the check." That $10,000 was the first money we took in for the Army Emergency Relief show. Eventually we raised $202,958.01 and turned the check over to Gen. Phillipson almost in toto.

Stagehands, musicians and performers gave their services gratis. A few hours back, I met Mr. Lowe for the first time. So the meeting of Gilbert and Sullivan on Route 7, certainly had some personal historic element to distinguish it.