"Jazz" Walker

Mayors are memorable in proportion to the extent that they represent the popular conception of their cities. Should the Lord Mayor of London visit the U. S., none would be content if he failed to take with him some prancing coach horses, a mace, a port complexion and some coldstream guards. The mayor of Stamboul would have to produce a hookah out of his silk bloomers. By what tokens should the mayor of New York be known abroad? Tiaras, tabloids, and ticker tape? Chewing gum, checked suits, charged water?

At sea, it was just like home for Mayor Walker. He chatted with everyone, gabbled on the ship's run, watched people drink champagne, radioed a wet friend (onetime Governor George S. Silzer of New Jersey) to "have another." The day of the deck sports he gave out prizes, exacting a kiss from the first, a bunchy little girl of ten. It was not his fault that the next nine prize-winners were pretty young women. Chortling, he kissed them all.

The mayors of Cherbourg and Southampton stalked aboard the Berengaria at Cherbourg, clearing their throats for polite felicitations. They found the Mayor of New York in his pajamas, drinking orange juice. He got up, patted them and all were photographed smiling.

In London, Mayor Walker slipped in and out of his hotel without fuss, cocked his white straw "skimmer" at an acute angle and exhibited a burst of U. S. energy. He went through a mock arrest, telling Sir John Knill, the acting Lord Mayor, "It's the sword makes me own up, my Lord." He dashed to luncheons, teas, handshakings; tried out the Lord Mayor's chair, a chipper urchin among greybeards; rattled questions about London slums and busses; missed his dinner; clapped at the theatre; consoled Mrs. Walker for losing her largest trunk. He startled his Manhattan subordinates by calling up on the radiophone to say, "Hello, how is everybody over there?" Mrs. Walker took her turn at the instrument and said. "Is everybody at home all right?"

On Friday they set out, the Mayor in a third-class coach, for Ireland, birthplace of Mr. Walker's father. Their boat-train stopped at the Welsh town of Llanfairpwyllcylghlantsillohogh, which not even the glib Walker tongue could surround. Welcomed in Dublin as a homeboy, the Mayor of New York admitted that his eyes were full of tears; but he retained enough presence of mind to tell reporters that if they asked him about Irish politics he would "throw them out of the window." He sped to the paternal home, Castlecomer; waved at babies and grannies, made a speech on a kitchen chair. He dined with Tenor John McCormack Saturday night and took naps Sunday afternoon. Then he held up a mail steamer to hurry back to England. From England he planned to go to Berlin, Paris. . . .

In Berlin, the Welt Am Abend, radical sheet, snarled: "Next week the Mayor of New York, Jazz Walker, ally of" Fuller [Governor of Massachusetts] intends to visit Berlin. The gentleman should turn back. He wants to be received here Wednesday. We do not receive murderers. Or do we?"

Whether the "Jazz" was a Teuton misinterpretation of "Jas," as Mr. Walker's first name, and that of any James, is often written; or whether it was meant as a nickname, Mayor Walker could not tell. But he was reported to have found it apt for an oldtime songwriter and dancing Mayor; to have considered, gaily, using it on his checks.