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Show So Wilson Held Up the War For Fast Shorthand Lesson By BILLY ROSE During the closing days of World War I, I took the President of the United States out of play for 15 minutes. I did it with my little shorthand pencil. At the time, I was working for the War Industries Board in Washington Wash-ington as a stenographer, and running out to get chocolate sodas for Mr. Baruch, its chairman. A few days before the Armistice, a Board executive handed me a letter let-ter and told me to deliver it to the proper party. The proper party was Woodrow Wilson. The White House that day was a jumble of senators, Cabinet members, mem-bers, ambassadors and important brass. News of the Armistice was expected any hour, and the tension was like the last few seconds of the Dempsey-Firpo fight. I handed the letter to one of Mr. Wilson's secretaries, and was asked to wait in case of a reply. A few minutes later the secretary re-w,rv re-w,rv tiimprf looking six-inch trout. "Mr. Baruch tells me you can write 200 words a minute. I wonder if you'd give me a little demonstration." He handed, me a pad and a pencil, pen-cil, and picked up a New York newspaper on his desk. Then, in his clipped, precise speech, he read one of the editorials at about 150 words a minute. 'When he had finished, the President said, "Now let's hear you read it back." Well, as every stenographer knows, it's the reading back that' counts. I shot the editorial back at him a good deal faster than he had dictated it. And then I started at the bottom of the page and read the editorial backwards. Wilson chuckled. He asked me questions' about Gregg shorthand he was a Pitman writer. By this time, I was patronizing him a little lit-tle the caddie who shoots a 61 t V- :. puzzled. "The President would like to see you," he said. I got trembly inside. in-side. I was pushing 18 at the time-fresh time-fresh out of the East Side, and also nloiri fvocVi Riir. mv l"ul" . Billy Rose dealings with Presidents Pres-idents had been 'limited to the one I had seen on dollar bills. Mr. Wilson smiled when he saw me. "I understand you're quite a shorthand writer," was his greeting. greet-ing. MY TREMBLES vanished. I knew the President was a shorthand writi- of sorts the tachygraphy magazines were always bragging about it. "I hear you're pretty good yourself, Mr. President," I blurted out. Mr. Wilson blushed prettily. "I don't get much chance to practice these days," he said, like a fisherman apologizing for a I had no sooner gotten to my desk than the phone rang. "Mr. Baruch wants to see you," said his secretary. "Pretty good for Delancey street" I said to myself as I walked down the hall. "Woodrow Wilson and Bernie Baruch in one hour." The girl in Mr. Baruch's office looked up as I bounced in. "The boss wants you to get him a chocolate soda," she said. isn t sen-conscious wnen ne discusses dis-cusses mashie shots with a Rockefeller. Rocke-feller. I PICKED UP the New York paper pa-per and handed the pad and pencil to Mr. Wilson. "I wonder if you'd mind writing for me," Mr. President," Presi-dent," I said. Wilson rubbed his glasses on his sleeve. "Don't go too fast," he warned. read the editorial at about one hundred words a minute, and then asked him to read it back. When I told him he had made no mistakes, the President sighed like a kid who has just finished playing The Elves' Waltz" for Paderewski. I picked up his notes. "If you don't mind, sir," I said, "I'd like to keep them." Woodrow Wilson reached for my shorthand notes. "We'll exchange," he said. I walked out of the White House and floated back to my office via the rooftops. |