HE WAS paunchy and broad-beamed and looked like one of Artist Young’s skippers of industry.
The top of his dome was mercerized but there was a sturdy little hedge of auburn stubble running west of a line drawn parallel with the top of his right listener.
This served as a dam to catch the honest perspiration from running down on his Henry Clay collar.
It also gave him something semi-tangible to comb in the mornings.
His full-orbed jowls were decorated with auburn fenders, parted in the middle and severely orthodox in their general behavior.
Naturally, with this trimming, he was long on civic righteousness, religious rallies and other pillar activities.
He was one of those opulent American industrial successes that point with their thumbs, believe that woman’s place is the home, and go in and out of an elevator square across, regardless of wedged-in humanity.
Perhaps the most dominant of his virtues was his high-pressure patriotism. When it came to patriotic oratory he had Patrick Henry looking like a gaping neutral.
It was only logical, therefore, that he should have become a most fearless and forensic advocate of Preparedness as soon as the word was coined. And he did become that same, as hereinbefore itemized.
In 1916, when California decided to elect President Wilson, this popular pusher for Preparedness was wild with indignation, and tore out his luxurious side whiskers by the fistful, and jumped up and down on his little malleable derby.