No frills and furbelows will bedeck their billowing bosoms; no petticoats will swathe their fattish calves; no bushy beards will sway from their chubby chins. No more will they, wearing what-the-gentlemen-will-wear, rush into night clubs. No more will their handsome features peer through a peekhole in a door behind which 200 topers are toping; and no more will their portly bodies enter to find a single toper dizzily sipping ginger beer. No more need wedding guests lifting their bubbling-stemmed glasses to the bride, fear sudden descent of those twain, snatching the twinkling beverage from their lips to impound it for the court. These things are not of the future. For Izzy Einstein and Moe Smith have been "laid off."
Last week, pursuant to General Lincoln C. Andrews' reorganization plans for the Prohibition Unit, the Prohibition Director in Manhattan summoned his 180 prohibition agents to his office. But 35 went miserably and empty-handed away, Izzy Einstein and Moe Smith were among them.
General Andrews does not like prohibition agents who get too much publicity. Two months ago General Andrews gave orders that if the name of Izzy Einstein or Moe Smith appeared once in print, they would be fired. For two months their exploits have been hidden from the public eye. The public which looked upon them with as much delight as ever it looked on Robin Hood was denied their adventures—adventures as thrilling as those of Sir Launcelot, as those of Richard Coeur de Lion, as those of Don Quixote de la Mancha.
Some good natured " 'leggers" murmured to their fraternity brothers: "It's too bad about them. They were all right." Others snarled: "Cheest, you softy! They're trying to make you think they've quit, so they can nab you, sly like! The dirty, lousy bummers!"