Radio doings (Dec 1930-Jun1932)

THIS perfectly grand young man first trekked into New York with $25.00 in his pocket. Now his pent-house office and his place at Rye present an appalling contrast to those first days, which involved park benches and subways, and a sort of hopeless hopefulness. He's Irish, which may be partly responsible for his ultimate arrival at the Central Park Casino, New \ ork from a fireman's carnival, but he has sagacious blue eyes and a constantly buoyant philosophy, which is something else again. The persistent and chubby young Mort, hailing from Wallingford, Conn., has held with colorful carelessness various jobs ranging from grocery boy to pilot of a donkey engine. From that day back in Wallingford when he first gave a provocative though not too musical squawk, until the time he sang encores for His Royal Highness, life was an adventure, sometimes disheartening, but always lightened by his own particular optimism. So, meet Mort. You'll like him. He's such an utterly good guy. You'll have an inevitable reaction, however, to his quick smile, and the comprehending, witty reflection in his eyes. You'll say to yourself with increasing panic, "What is this young man going to do next?" And the young man who, as a matter of fact, might do almost anything next, will probably collapse into a chair and tell you that he is very tired. Whatever he says is accidental, or perhaps, incidental. He whistles distracting snatches of music. He apparently doesn't give a rap about impressing anybody. In due time you will notice that his eyes have heavy black lashes, that he needs a hair cut, and that his clothes are immaculately perfect. "I've loved to sing as long as I can remember." Downey told us. "In fact, The Small-Town Boy Who Eeat Broadway At Its Own Came With Twenty-five Dollars in His Pocket, Morton Downey Landed in New York to Embark on a Varied Career as Grocery Boy, Waiter and W hat-Not — Until He Finally Found His Place in Movies and Radio. by Hilda Cole there was a day when mother used to give me nickels to hush me up. My first performance was at a fireman's minstrel show in Wallingford at the great old age of four. I sang 'My Pretty Redwing' to the assembled audience, and was I a wow? Oh, my! Dressed as a page I was put in a decorative position at the foot of the King's throne which was very gorgeous. Mother told me to be as quiet as a mouse and during the monotony of the wise-cracking minstrels, I fell asleep. The King might just as well have had no page at all! I had to be shaken awake to sing my solo, but, I am glad to say that at least I remembered the lyrics!" Mort's school days, enhanced by his "Oh, Yeah" expression, and his pernicious dislike for math, were not strictly successful. However, he'd just go on forever, like Tennyson's brook, if called upon to recite in history. He has always been very interested in politics. We may as well, we think, tell you about Mort's gang. His contemporary pals, around the age of ten, finally coagulated into what is generally known as a "gang." This formidable assembly of "ruffians," faithful unto death, or a black eye, or whatever ganghood involved among small boys, staged a free-for-all fight every Saturday afternoon with another clan of the same genus. Mort's gang generally carried off the honors, having an excess of brawn and an excess amount of Irish. All was triumphant until one Sunday afternoon around the scheduled time, the Other Gang suddenly hove into sight, re-enforced with beebee guns and whooping like a Sioux tribe. Needless to say, the sling-shotted ranks of Mort's gang were definitely vanquished. They could not afford to buy beebee guns! Adolescent Mort had decided what he wanted. It came under the heading of "big dough." In his first years of high school he was a stocky, active young man who liked to entertain, enjoyed sports, but was never infected with the I'd-die-for-dear-old-Yarvard spirit of hysteria affecting most of his friends. And, as far as girls went: "I didn't bring apples to anybody's sister," Mort says laughingly. "And the best looking blondes in Wallingford left me unmoved. If she was just ;i good sport, well, 0. K., but if I had to dance attendance like one of those Knights of King Arthur, or something — nothing doing. Sir Galahead had just about as much chance as Santa Claus." In the eyes of his concerned family he was heading straight for the fate of a ne'er-do-well — having nothing particularly in mind — but Mort secretly felt there was something he could do well. And which was on the road to "big dough." Suddenly there was a climax to his restlessness. He left school. It was one of those incidents politely labeled "Mutual Agreement." Mort didn't get along well with the school's faculty. It wasn't that his marks were bad; it was that they apparently didn't matter. In previous summer vacations he had gone to Brooklyn to visit relatives. He had decided then and there, after his brief glimpses of New York, that it was a swell city. It might be friends with you. Only it took an outrageously long time to strike up an acquaintance. "I will make enough money," Mort told himself, "to go to New York." So he left school for business with determination riding on the tip of his chin. Mort's business career has in its ros[Turn to Page 40] Page T«n RADIO DOINGS