Harold Ross has a highly combustible disposition, a scornful disdain of public relations, an unfailing nose for what he dislikes and a sure eye for what he wants: the easy, lounging air that the New Yorker affects. Last week, a former employee named Russell Maloney tried to reconcile the shock-haired man with his brilliantined product. Maloney worked for Ross for eleven years and resigned at last because he "felt rather middle-aged and pooped."
"Unfortunately," Maloney lamented in his Saturday Review of Literature profile of the New Yorker, "it is a story which nobody is able to tell. No man . . ....
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