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Trotters and Pacers

By Edward J. Sack

Around ten o'clock in the evening when traffic is waning in the Square and the police are standing in groups next to the liquor store, there begins a movement from all sides towards a little wooden door halfway up the block on Boylston Street. Above this door is a small red sign which reads-STAG CLUB. Into this club every night go a wide variety of people bent on one desire,-a nightcap. Or in the case of some, a number of night caps. As you enter the Club you go up a steep set of stairs which branch off into two different rooms. Between these two rooms there is a small hallway where the ever present Jack Dorigan inspects the customers. Jack, who has never taken a drink, according to all reports, is the original member of the OGPU when it comes to seeking out people who have imbibed too freely. It takes a good man to get by Jack when the evidences indicate that liquor has a hold. Or to put it bluntly, when you have a snootful, don't try to get into the Stag Club.

In the room on the right of the stairs there are booths in which you'll see the couples who are combining a tete-a-tete with a little pepper-upper. These people are usually pretty well occupied, and the waitresses have very little to do other than bring drinks at regular intervals. Across the way is the bar, where the real Cambridge tankmen gather to discuss the day's events and argue the relative merits of the various teams around Boston. This part of the Club is a little dull for those who are looking for color. If you want a bit of atmosphere, just climb on up the next set of stairs.

Here are the boys who have given up studying for the evening and the girls who have given up waiting for the telephone to ring. When they said history is made at night this is what they were talking about. Mary, the petite and pretty Irish girl who dispenses the drinks up there, can hold her own with any of the so-called wits who hang around the club. They don't come smart enough to phase her. For those who like to dance there is nickelodeon with one of those newfangled telephone attachments. The dancing space is not very large, but it serves its purpose. Every once in a while a good boogie-woogie player drops in out of the cold and throws out a hot bit from the dumpy little piano over in the corner. The juke box has to take a back seat at these times because there are a lot of swing fans who hibernate in the Club. For those who are subject to racket making attacks, though, there is a very efficient sedative in the form of one named Red. When better men are built they most certainly will resemble Red the Bouncer. His official nom de plume is bartender, but when he shakes a cocktail, it's only to develop his biceps. At one o'clock the waitresses make the rounds collecting the empty glasses and bottles and Red makes the rounds collecting coat collars which he assists down the stairs. and thus the Stag Club closes up for the night, to sleep all through the day until the drinking members of Harvard and Cambridge come up again for their nightcap.

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