More NEW YORKER Ads

Once again, we turn to the pages of the New Yorker for our content. These ads all ran in 1928, and apparently were written with the New Yorker's audience in mind. 

Gambling on the Green

Even money that there won't be another for ten minutes. Two to one that it will be full when it gets here. . . He falls up the steps, is lurched to his seat, and is still gambling on the green as they grind to a stop for traffic lights. Even if this were fun I wouldn't like it, he muses. . . because it's so unnecessary.

So now he walks to work. . . and gambols on the green in spare hours. Yes, Tudor City even has a small 18-hole golf course and two parks.

Tudor City offers more with less trouble. High on the East River Front, just four minutes' walk to the Grand Central and convenient to everything. Its own shops, garage, restaurants, children's playground and every conceivable service. Renting office in Tudor Tower at east end of 42nd Street. (Vanderbilt 8860.) 

Latitude ‒ Not Much

This way, ladies and gents, pick your own ice floe. Settle down to a nice cozy winter in Hartsdale, White Plains, Armonk, Albany, Buffalo, Canada and points north. Trains leaving on track 40 at 5:17.

But then again ‒ wouldn't you rather not? Is commuting worth it after October? Perhaps you care for igloos in the best Spanish Renaissance manner. Or find it fun to tend to a furnace.

Don't do it! Why not live where winter is a Season with a capital S ‒ musical, theatrical, artistic, social  ‒  each with its bright particular star. Your home at Tudor City will start you from the meridian. Just four minutes' walk from Grand Central. Close to theaters, clubs, shops, concerts ‒ not to mention the Public Library. And pleasant all year long. 

Mush On!

Huskies ‒ the crack of a whip like a pistol shot in the frosty air ‒ crunch of snow beneath fast flat runners ‒  Mr. Stilson is on his way to business!

Two hundred and tenth. . . ninth. . . eighth ‒ ah, the loyal dogs. . . straining at the thongs till their sturdy hearts are bursting. At this pace, he muses, I'll be there before the market closes tomorrow. Meantime, of course, Marston Oil will slough off six points. . . but Mr. Stilson doesn't know that ‒ won't know till too late. All because nobody would tell him.

What? About Tudor City, of course. There . . . well, he might have to put on his overshoes, but four minutes' jog down the hill on 42nd street, and there he is, ready for action, before his favorite ticker.

That's what Tudor City is for. . . a direct answer to prayer for anyone who wants to live pleasantly and yet can't waste time junketing around trying to get places.