Radio Mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

RADIO MIRROR ing keyboard of the Heatter typewriter. At first the news-hawks asked him to stop in calm tones. Then they got rough. One morning a barrage of pillows, old shoes, and broken bottles whistled through the transom of Gabe's hotel door. For the remainder of the trial, Gabe typed his copy in the little hotel lobby, a blanket around his cold feet, a box of fresh cigars at his elbow, and woolen gloves on his chapped hands. Fame hasn't changed Gabe a bit. He and his tiny wife, a former school teacher, and their two children live modestly at Freeport. Long Island. They own a popular priced car and a basement full of good books. Basil, his son, is a poet. The daughter, twenty-year-old Maida, is advertising manager of a Long Island department store. The children seldom listen to their father's broadcast. This summer the boy roamed around Europe, most of the time on a bicycle, thanks to a strictly business deal he made with his father. "I promised to pay half his expenses providing he would return with some inside information on the European situation." explained Gabe. "Believe it or not, he brought me some interesting comments from the working class, though he complained it made his poetry too cynical." Gabe still reads all his fan mail, particularly the ones his worshipping brother sends him daily. He changes his clothing six times a day, maintains a small New York apartment and a log cabin near Sherman Lake in Connecticut. He does this because he never knows where the .Mutual network will stick a mike under his face next. He'll try anything now, after those harrowing experiences last year, when he broadcast under the Hudson River, as sand hogs blasted away, or in the Bronx Terminal Market at three o'clock in below-zero weather. He smokes fifteen expensive cigars a day, and never finishes one of them. A tramp— if he were a smart tramp — could follow in Gabe's wake and smoke like a millionaire. He has a penchant for taxicabs that drive carefully. He eats chicken salad almost exclusively, and his big blue eyes dart poisonous glances at any table companion who sprays his food with catsup. His shirts are always too big for him and his trousers too loose. Because he is an unusually neat man. otherwise, I asked Gabe why he wore this vaudevillecomic outfit. He always looks to me as if he's going to pull a white rabbit out of his baggy trousers. "I like plenty of free wheeling when I'm working," he explained. No matter who his distinguished guest may be at the studio — the Governor, Mrs. Roosevelt, or a new record-breaker in the world of sport. Gabe loosens his tie. pulls down his suspenders, and then starts the interview. An idealist at heart, Gabe's ambition is to broadcast from a different city every day so he could be where the news is being made. Monday, New York; Tuesday, Chicago; Wednesdav, Kansas City: Thursday, Los Angeles, and so on, war, peace, strikes, drought, floods, death. "That would be real radio reporting," he savs enviously. There's oniy one hitch to this idea — Gabriel Heatter, fearless forecaster of world events, is afraid to fly! His. first book, "Faith," has just been published, with an advance order any oldtime author would be proud of. An important steel official, who knew and liked Gabe when he was on the steel trade journal, heard about the book and ordered 10,000 copies before publication, to be given to his employees as Christmas presents. Ha! Ha! My proud beauty! Now I have you in my power Mr. W.— Clap hands, Margie — what's the matter with you? Mrs. W.— Oh, look! The curtains — one of those sheets is mine. Mr. W.— Gosh! Is the gray one yours? It looks sick beside that nice white one. FEW WEEKS LATER Mrs. W.— Oh, Russ! Did you really hear all the mothers who helped put up the curtain say those things about me? Russ W. — Yep! They said your clothes have tattle-tale gray 'cause your soap doesn't wash clean. And they wished you'd use Fels-Naptha 'cause it's got heaps of naptha in the golden soap and that chases out every speck of dirt. Mr. W.— Great Scott! Have you still got that moustache? Mrs. W. — Take it off — you're no villain! You saved my reputation with that tip about Fels-Naptha Soap. It's made my washes look so gorgeous, I'm going to take you to town to a real show! COPR. FELS BANISH "TATTLE-TALE GRAY" WITH FELS-NAPTHA SOAP! 65