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MSA Bulletin, v. 2, issue 1, January 1940
Page 6
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Page Six M S A BULLETIN January 1940 Then Mr. Mangles arrived on the scene. A fabulous figure I never saw, but who was described to me as a hairy giant sdeven feet tall, with a chest like a barrel, having embryo horns and the suspicion of a tale below on trouser cuff. It was he who delivered the ultimatum from the new owner that we must, bag, baggage, and counterfeiting machines, vacate the premises by midnight of the 17th. We therefore, cornered the superintendent at 2574 and were assigned to a cellar bin in which we might keep our things till the place was ready. Baby stood up marvelously well under our onslaught of beds and cots, typewriteres and mimeographs, tables and the camp stool, cock-cases and myriad other things. Every available spot inside and out of her filled, our crew of three set grimly to. Cyril and I wedged ourselves into the seat. Dirk, wearing his steel trench helmet, precariously half-sat on the right rear mudguard and tried to keep himself and our belongings from falling off on the mile trip. Everything went smoothly for a while. Even an amiable policeman who caught sight of our illegally overloaded vehicle, with concealed weapons behind the seat and a person on (or trying desperately to stay on) the running board--turned to regard an evidentally interesting sky, humming and smiling to himself. When we arrived at 2574 with the last load around 11 PM, we found the cellar door locked. I knocked on the superintendent's door to find Mrs. Supt. drying her hair and preparing for bed. I explained the situation. She claimed to be sorry, in he thick, Swedish way, pointing out that there were rules and regulations even in apartment houses and tha they were going to bed. A male voice from somewhere behind the door corroborated her story. We'd have to take the stuff back, they said, that's all there was to do. I explained carefully and one-syllabledly that same would be quite impossible, inasmuch as we had been more or less evicted, and they wouldn't want us to park an unsigntly carful of furniture outside their place all night, now would they? Finally they relented and we got our last load into our bin, thru an entrance in another house and under an arch three feet high which joined the two. FUTURIAN HOUSE, FAREWELL! We drove the emptied crate back to to FH, now a hollow shell, and packed some personal belongings to tide us over until the new apartment was ready for occupancy. We then put the place in order for Mr. Mangles. In an upstairs tooms we locket the cast--horrible looking object--that had been removed from Johnny's arm, tacking on the door a notice reading "DO NOT OPEN TILL XMAS...WE WARN YOU!" It was Cyril who conceived the brilliant notion of pouring mimeo ink on the doorknob. Jack Gillespie fixed a board covered with powdered plaster of Paris above the door so that he who opened it would be whitely showered. We left quietly and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, unshed tears in our eyes at the thought of what that empty house might have been...and left it. -FINIS
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Page Six M S A BULLETIN January 1940 Then Mr. Mangles arrived on the scene. A fabulous figure I never saw, but who was described to me as a hairy giant sdeven feet tall, with a chest like a barrel, having embryo horns and the suspicion of a tale below on trouser cuff. It was he who delivered the ultimatum from the new owner that we must, bag, baggage, and counterfeiting machines, vacate the premises by midnight of the 17th. We therefore, cornered the superintendent at 2574 and were assigned to a cellar bin in which we might keep our things till the place was ready. Baby stood up marvelously well under our onslaught of beds and cots, typewriteres and mimeographs, tables and the camp stool, cock-cases and myriad other things. Every available spot inside and out of her filled, our crew of three set grimly to. Cyril and I wedged ourselves into the seat. Dirk, wearing his steel trench helmet, precariously half-sat on the right rear mudguard and tried to keep himself and our belongings from falling off on the mile trip. Everything went smoothly for a while. Even an amiable policeman who caught sight of our illegally overloaded vehicle, with concealed weapons behind the seat and a person on (or trying desperately to stay on) the running board--turned to regard an evidentally interesting sky, humming and smiling to himself. When we arrived at 2574 with the last load around 11 PM, we found the cellar door locked. I knocked on the superintendent's door to find Mrs. Supt. drying her hair and preparing for bed. I explained the situation. She claimed to be sorry, in he thick, Swedish way, pointing out that there were rules and regulations even in apartment houses and tha they were going to bed. A male voice from somewhere behind the door corroborated her story. We'd have to take the stuff back, they said, that's all there was to do. I explained carefully and one-syllabledly that same would be quite impossible, inasmuch as we had been more or less evicted, and they wouldn't want us to park an unsigntly carful of furniture outside their place all night, now would they? Finally they relented and we got our last load into our bin, thru an entrance in another house and under an arch three feet high which joined the two. FUTURIAN HOUSE, FAREWELL! We drove the emptied crate back to to FH, now a hollow shell, and packed some personal belongings to tide us over until the new apartment was ready for occupancy. We then put the place in order for Mr. Mangles. In an upstairs tooms we locket the cast--horrible looking object--that had been removed from Johnny's arm, tacking on the door a notice reading "DO NOT OPEN TILL XMAS...WE WARN YOU!" It was Cyril who conceived the brilliant notion of pouring mimeo ink on the doorknob. Jack Gillespie fixed a board covered with powdered plaster of Paris above the door so that he who opened it would be whitely showered. We left quietly and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, unshed tears in our eyes at the thought of what that empty house might have been...and left it. -FINIS
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