GOES TO SEA
England's 8-year-old Prince Charles climbed into the cockpit of his father's
Dragon class Bluebottle last week and took part in his first yacht race—giving
rise to qualms in his own stomach, rousing up criticism of his carefree parent
in some British newspapers (which implied, without actually saying so, that the
weather at Cowes was much too blustery for a child) and earning the respect of
millions of his sea-conscious countrymen. The little prince, who was living
aboard the royal yacht Britannia with his father, had to beg hard for the
chance to take part in the race. But after bounding about in the choppy water
for an hour before the event it was evident that he had cause to reconsider—his
face looked pale. A barge from the Britannia nosed alongside, and an officer
called, "Does he want to leave?" His father looked inquiringly at
Charles from his post at the tiller. "No," said Charles, albeit
faintly. "No," shouted his parent and added, "Cheer up, Charles.
You'll be all right." He was. He brightened, as spray flew over him during
the two-hour race (in which Bluebottle finished fourth), and afterward he
achieved real triumph: his father let him sail Bluebottle himself on the return
to the Britannia.
Many a diehard
Secessionist salted away Confederate money after the Civil War, crying,
"The South will rise once more!" and there are still those who
hopefully hold Imperial Russian bonds. But there is no evidence at all that
anyone spent the Depression years in buying up old raccoon coats. Last week it
began to appear as if anyone who had done so—providing he did not end up in a
padded cell—might very well have had a corner on a most curious commodity
market. Until only a few days ago nobody really thought the market existed.
Buyers for New York's fashionable Lord & Taylor however, noted that the
advent of the sports car had brought some old raccoon coats out of the closet,
and were led to wonder what had happened to all the thousands of old raccoons
which the Charleston-and-hip-flask set of the carefree 1920s had abandoned
after the Wall Street crash. What would happen if they were discovered and
remarketed as furry antiques? They found coats by the score in basements and
attics—one with a pair of bootleg-era brass knucks in a pocket. The first 500
offered for sale—at $25—were gone by noon to the new generation of college
students. This week, with Macy's in the battle too, old raccoons were back,
Elegant Lord & Taylor started the raccoon renaissance with this ad on
August 4, offering "a limited collection" of such heirlooms,
"battle-scarred and in a guaranteed state of magnificent disrepair," at
$25 per ("no mail or phone orders").
Popular Macy's jumped in week later with collection of its own (at $22.09, also
no mail or phone orders), warning of "lovely holes, a divine tear here or
there," but bragging of "a marvelous snobby seediness no other fur can
WAITING FOR THE
With the kickoff
whistle only a month or so away, college football players across the country
are putting in their final hours of summer work. Their jobs, while possibly not
as cool and refreshing as Red Grange's fabled ice route, somehow reflect the
nation's tempo a quarter century after Grange. Many players found employment
this summer in sprawling steel mills, in outfits engaged in classified
government projects and in construction crews whacking up new shopping centers.
Other players, no less ambitious, cast a quiet and sober eye to their future
careers and caught their fitness workouts in off-business hours. Here are seven
of this fall's cast of football characters—four laborers, a mailman, a scholar
and a salesman—outfitted in the uniforms of summer toil. Come late September,
you'll see them in shirts with numbers.
tackle Pat Burke sells insurance, maintains fitness in school gym.
powerful Dick Lasse, horses a cumbersome piece of casting equipment across the
floor of a Syracuse corporation which is engaged in classified missile
quarterback Bill Offenbecher, a cog in last year's Michigan State upset, is
plumber's digger on the Illini campus.