Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette

"Frank White is a symbol of the good sportsmanship that prevails wherever good fellows get together and light up a cigarette or pipe. . . ." The speaker coughed and put down his cigar.

We were holding down a quiet corner table at the Boston Tobacco Club's annual sports night. Cigarette, cigar, and candy distributors from Eastern Massachusetts had gathered to present their annual "unsung hero" award to the Crimson's Frank White. White, you will no doubt recall, is the young man who hipped a left-handed pass to Bob Cochran to win the most recent Yale game.

The gentleman across the table, a candy distributor, offered us a chlorophyll mint. He received dirty looks from everyone. "Naw," said one. "The kid wants a cigarette." Everybody agreed. We had a cigarette.

White eat the main table; next to Lloyd Jordan, and listened attentively. "I'd like to introduce a few speakers," said the master of ceremonies. He did. They talked about sportsmanship and athletics and the American way of life. They talked about them for one hundred and thirty-seven minutes. We smoked forty-five cigarettes.

Someone read a telegram from President Pusey. The master of ceremonies finally stood up to introduce the guest of honor. "There isn't much that I 'can add to what has already been said," he understated. He gave White an engraved watch. White spoke quietly and modestly. He said that he considered himself "the luckiest person in the world."


We started to cough. "What's the matter, kid?" asked the man next to us. "You're not worried about all this cancer talk, are you? Tobacco can't hurt you. Drinking...and eating...that's the dangerous stuff. Ask the boys at the next table."

We asked the boys at the next table. The boys at the next table said it was true. They worked for P. Lorillard.

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