RICH BRIBE LURES JOE FORECAST AGAIN INTO GLARE OF LIMELIGHT

It is a pleasure again to greet my old friends, who are legion, and to make my first bow to those others, whom I might call a foreign legion, who have never yet had the privilege of listening to the dripping of ink from the Forecast pen.

It is the more a pleasure because it was unexpected. I really didn't intend to write for the CRIMSON this year. After my unprecedented success--I say this with modesty--last season; I was approached by many syndicates with attractive propositions. And I was surely tempted to dip my pen in an inkpot of gold--to use a rather neat figure of speech--and join the tabloid ranks as an expert writer. But the tabloid writers type with only one finger, while two Forecast digits rattle the keys, yea even three or four in moments of excitement, so I realized I should feel out of place among them.

Still I was undecided about the CRIMSON--they wouldn't accept my contributions to the Confidential Guide to College Courses, giving me some silly excuse about having no money to defend libel suits. That was uncalled for, because I've always loved my teachers. Back in the sixth grade in Shemokin Pa., I put a large red apple on teacher's desk daily, and Freshman year I gave my German A instructor a box of ripe red raspberries one day and a basket of nice prickly pears the next.

There's only one Joe, except--

Anyway, I was angry with the editors of the great University daily, and I sent them a statement reading: "I do not choose to write for the CRIMSON in 1927." That of course, cleared everything up and yesterday morning I read in the CRIMSON--the man across the hall overslept that Joe Forecast was again to contribute weekly wisps of wisdom to its readers. Knowing there was only one Joe, unless you count Joe, Jr.--but that is another story--I went post haste to the imposing edifice on Plympton Street to investigate. A heated colloquy with the genial President followed. I finally agreed not to disappoint my public, in return for which the CRIMSON gave me a subscription at the special rate of five dollars, a press ticket to the University Theatre, and a promise to inform its readers each week whether or not I was to be at home on Sunday afternoon at 4 o'clock and whether or not I would be glad to see members of the University at that time. So here I am.

And frankly I am worried. Football isn't the game it used to be when I last hung up my mud-stained moleskins in the Shemokin gym. What with bilateral passes and other sleight-of-hand tricks allowed, and with the goal-posts moved back so the near-sigthed old grad in Section 43 can see them, the game is changed so a forecaster hardly dares to speak.

But timidity was never a Forecast characteristic, so:

Yale, 34; Bowdoin 0.

Princeton, 17; Amherst, 7.

Dartmouth, 14; Hobart, 0.

Brown, 41; Albright, 0.

Penn., 28; Swarthmore, 0.

B. C., 33; Duke, 0.

Holy Cross, 17; St. John's, 3.

Note: By virtue of a Big Two Agreement between Coach Horween and myself, I am again barred from giving the secret information about the Harvard scores.