Manhattan was richer, gayer, noisier than it had been since the days of Texas Guinan, the "Black Bottom" and the speakeasy peephole. The big spender was back, nightclubs were jammed and Broadway had never blazed so brightly. But the slim, jaunty little man who had been given star billing at the last big performance was no longer part of the show.
Fortnight ago at the Army-Notre Dame football game, when he climbed to his mediocre seat (20-yd. line, high up under the eaves), hardly a head was turned. His clothes were still natty...
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