On the Wednesday evening before New Year's a tubby, clear-eyed old man shuffled out of Manhattan's Hotel Irving to mail a bundle of 28 identical New Year's cards of his own making. Soon he shuffled back in, went up to his room. Few minutes later, his switchboard light blinked red; but there was no answer on his phone. The desk clerk and a resident doctor found him face down, unconscious, across his bed. Half an hour later, Art Young, one of the great U.S. cartoonists, was dead.
Arthur Brisbane had once said of Art Young,...
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