This umbrella story has spinach on it, but in small towns like Robbinsdale it is still good. Has to do with the church-goer who arose hurriedly and left the church as the pastor was in the midst of reading the Ten Commandments. He explained to the pastor afterward that it had just been recalled to his memory where he had left his umbrella. However, we didn’t travel all the way out to California to find our umbrella—or to lose one—and it is nobody’s business except our old Minneapolis friend, Dick Ferris, if we did. Dick is living at the Alex in Los Angeles and is one of Southern California’s most popular and esteemed citizens. Dick has begun bobbing his hair since his early days in Minneapolis, but says that if hair was brains an old-fashioned parlor sofa would be vice president. Dick is one of the best entertainers in the Southland. One can step inside the “Ferris Harem” almost any time of day or night and meet anybody from “diggers of the ditches” to the “dignitaries of the ducats.” Roscoe Sarles, famous race driver; Bill Pickens, Barney Oldfield’s old manager; Julian Eltinge, the actor; Harry Grayson, sports editor of the Express; “Scotty” Chisholm, golf editor and star; King Young, publicity director for Kathrine MacDonald’s pictures; Ham Beall, another publicity director extraordinary; Bob Henderson, wealthy oil operator and owner of the most beautiful home I have ever spilled ashes in—these are only a few of the legion of good fellows with whom I had the pleasure of swapping stories at the Ferris chateau. * * * * * And speaking of stories, I attended a Motion Picture Press Agents’ banquet and heard a good one on the reformers. According to the story, Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts was addressing an audience of the hoi poili and he started off bombastically like this: “You cigar suckers; you cigarette suckers; you pipe suckers—” At this juncture a tenor voice in the rear of the hall sung out: “Hey, Doc, you ain’t going to forget us, are you?” Evidently a willy boy with an all-day sucker in his hand. Getting back to Dick Ferris, the former Minneapolis theatrical magnate, is head of a big taxi concern and on the side is a “promoting fool.” Rummaging around in one of Dick’s dresser drawers, I ran across a box containing a pair of white silk pajamas. Inside was a card which, in feminine scrawl, informed Dick that they were to be worn when “Alone—and Feeling Blue.” Dick hasn’t been able to wear them—says he hasn’t felt blue since Mt. Lassen was a small hill. * * * * *