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The old Evarts estate in Windsor, with its sprawling collection
of homes and wooded acres nestled under Mount Ascutney, left a
brilliant impression on Archibald Cox, Jr., from the earliest days.
"The earliest days" for Archie began as soon as his mother could wrap
him in a blanket and drive him from their home in Plainfield, New Jersey,
to the mountains of Vermont. A worn, brown leather guest book that his
grandmother Perkins kept for Runnemede Lodge beginning in 1907
recorded that Frances Perkins Cox and Archibald Cox, Jr. (Archie and his
mother), arrived in Windsor from Plainfield on June 12, 1912, less than a
month after young Archie was born on May 17. His name was inscribed
in the guest book carefully, as if by a first-time mother hoping that
someone would one day open the brown book searching for this special
name, the ambitious dreams of a mother envisioning boundless success
for her first-born child. (The leather book would of course be opened for
just that purpose, eighty years later, but it was through no help of the
Archie's mother was the granddaughter of William Maxwell Evarts,
once-famous statesman from New York who had defended President
Andrew Johnson in his infamous impeachment trial. By 1912, not all
Americans appreciated the full importance of the name Evarts; in
Windsor, however, the Evarts family name was as good as the golden
history of Vermont itself.
Frances Cox (her friends called her "Fanny") was a striking
woman--five foot, eight--with a straight nose and chiseled chill that
would be inherited by her oldest son and the six other children who
followed. She enjoyed playing bridge, reading, drinking tea, and
reciting poetry with older ladies who came to spend the afternoon.
Even after motherhood arrived, she still found time for card
games, picnics, hikes up Mount Ascutney, and family swims
announced at the drop of a hat--she simply carried the new baby
The guest book recorded that Archibald Cox, Sr. (the father),
arrived at Windsor on July 12, 1912, from New York. He visited his
wife and baby for a long weekend and then vanished, traveling
back in the Pullman car of the White Mountain Express, a common
compromise for a busy lawyer from the city. He was the son of
Rowland Cox, a Philadelphia Quaker who had served in the
cavalry in Pennsylvania and was transferred to Illinois during the
Civil War, but somehow wound up in Manhattan as a prominent
nineteenth-century lawyer. He authored Cox's Manual of Trade
Marks and gained prominence by defending the copyright of the
Oxford Bible against a New York publishing company. When
he died suddenly in 1900, his son took over his father's law practice
fresh out of Harvard Law School, quickly becoming an expert in
copyrights, trademarks, and patents.
It was a settled part of family lore that neither Archibald, Sr.,
nor his father would consider having a partner in law practice, a
symptom of the unabashed "streak of independence in the
family." Nevertheless, Archibald, Sr., managed "to hold the
practice" with enough flair and verve to become one of the more
well-established members of the community in Plainfield, New
Jersey. That affluence only burst into greater prominence when he
established Johnson & Johnson's right to use the "red cross"
symbol as its trademark.
The Coxes and Perkinses (not coincidentally, when it came to
Archie's parents pairing up) were both prominent families in
Plainfield, a town of thirty or forty thousand on the New Jersey
Central and B & O railroads, halfway between New York and
Princeton. According to family lore, Archibald, Sr., had
spotted Frances Perkins walking down the steps of his parents'
home in Plainfield when she was only seven years old. He
announced, "There's the girl I'm going to marry." Although he had
to wait a decade (he was eighteen years older), the two ended up
sweethearts and made up for lost time with seven children.
The senior Archibald grew into a tall, attractive man with silvery
hair and a pipe in his teeth, who favored bow ties in the casual
months of the summer. He was president of the Board of
Education in Plainfield. The consummate host, he invited a swarm of
Plainfield neighbors to visit his home for a gala gathering each Christmas,
complete with blazing candles that dripped wax on a giant spruce
tree, and his own fireman standing by "just in case." He was a
gregarious, outgoing, charming man, who was frequently asked to
run for mayor. But his busy law practice prevented extended
forays into local government or politics. In 1911 Archibald Cox, Sr.,
wrote in his class report to old Harvard College friends: "There is
nothing really to write. I have done nothing but practice law, and it
is hardly worth while to write the things which I have not
done." Except for his natural charm and his ability to gulp
down two eggs in a single breath before rushing off to catch the
7:55 train to New York, even his seven children would learn
regretfully little about him by the end of their time together.
One mystery that family members never unraveled was
why young Archie was bestowed with the nickname "Billy" as
soon as he was born. His father was certainly proud to have a
boy; Frances Cox recorded that her husband walked up and down
the hallway singing, "There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town
Tonight!" when his first son was born. But he made no secret that
he disliked the idea of providing the world with an "Archibald, Jr.";
he began calling his first son "Bill" the moment his wife introduced
the baby. The rest of the Coxes never figured out whether
"Bill" was derived from the revered family name of William M.
Evarts, or whether it was a random selection that meant
"anything is better than another Archibald." No matter how the
nickname came about, as soon as Archie, Jr., became old enough
to express an opinion, he made clear that he would just as soon use
his own name. But the request was never quite honored by his
family, who continued to call him "Bill"--out of force of
habit--for the rest of their lives.
By the time 1914 arrived and Archie was two, the boy was able
to scribble a "B" next to his name in his grandmother's guest book
in Windsor, presumably for "Billy." And by the time he reached the
age of nine, in 1921, Archie's signature would appear in the same
guest book with a clear, strong hand as "Archibald Cox, Jr."
The trips from New Jersey to Vermont were recorded each
summer like the steady ticking of a clock. Runnemede Lodge was
a red brick house with white pillars, built in 1825, that Grandmother
Perkins had inherited as one of the twelve children of William M.
Evarts. It was the second of six houses (two were later torn down)
tucked behind a long, white picket fence surrounded by wide lawns
and sweeping ferns that the statesman had purchased along Main
Street to allow his
children the privilege of living this idyllic lifestyle in perpetuity.
They were six magnificent storybook houses, fanned out like a lost
millionaire's row in this private, withdrawn, unpretentious New
England town. Here the Cox family grew its own network of
As Archibald Cox, Jr., grew up tall and lanky, with blond hair
and a sculpted chin of determination, summers remained
synonymous with Windsor: swimming in "the Pond" out back,
canoeing up to the sluice gates, riding Morgan horses down old
carriage roads laden with pine needles, visiting his Evarts cousins
at their forty-room farmhouse-mansion (with thirteen baths) on
Juniper Hill, hitting baseballs, and exploring Paradise. The hike
over to Paradise was less than twenty minutes at a brisk pace.
Across the dike, a hiker followed a path overgrown with wild
honeysuckle bushes. Turtles and unseen pond creatures plopped
into the water with each footstep. Cool winds and trails wound
through the Evarts property, past lily pads and trickling water, into
woods that gobbled up summertime like an enchanted forest. From
the high woods of Paradise, one could see the very top of Mount
Ascutney. It almost touched the sky, towering over the rest of the
granite hills (if one squinted) like the head of a proud father, arms
outstretched, watching over this special domain. It was an ideal
hiding place in the 1920s, where boys and girls could think high thoughts,
try out phrases, experiment with daring ideas. Here, the Cox
children could appreciate the family's glimmering past in one
eyeful. And create their own visions of the future.
In this isolated New England setting, Archie grew up steeped in
the family history of William M. Evarts: the lineal relationship to
American statesman Roger Sherman; the famous speeches bound
in leather on the bookcase; the town hall and church and public
library that his great-grandfather had helped found in the 1800s.
These not only shaped Archie's interest in history from the earliest
days, but gave him "a strong sense of continuity."
Windsor was an idyllic setting for a boy to spend summers. It
was made even more special by the weather-worn covered bridge
that led from Windsor to Cornish, New Hampshire, just across the
Connecticut River. Here in Cornish an enchanted community burst
to life each summer, drawing within its folds some of the greatest
literary-artistic figures of the late 1800s and early 1900s: the sculptor
Augustus Saint-Gaudens, who had once been commissioned by William M.
Evarts to make a bust of Chief Justice Waite for the Supreme
Court in Washington; the artist and illustrator Maxfield Parrish,
who used Mount Ascutney as a background in choice paintings;
the American novelist Winston Churchill, who set several books in
the quiet New Hampshire town; and the famous New York judge
Learned Hand, who was already becoming a legend by the 1920s.
Archie's uncle, Maxwell Evarts Perkins, noted editor at Scribner's
in New York who was discoverer, silent collaborator, and father
figure to some of the greatest literary talent of the 1920s and 1930s--F.
Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Thomas
Wolfe--also settled into one of the six houses on the old
Evarts estate each summer with his family, adding another spark
to the tiny New England community. It was a world of creative
thinkers and public success stories that left a permanent imprint in
the minds of the Cox children.
When he wasn't hiking mountain trails and soaking up the
outdoors in Windsor, Archie plunged into reading of all
kinds--literature, history, poetry, light stories. Sunday nights (the
maids' night off) were special occasions. The Cox children would
gather together in the living room after supper, where they would
select a favorite poem to recite under the flicker of a glass
kerosene lamp. They sat beneath a portrait of Grandfather Perkins
hung over the fireplace; he had been a promising art critic who
helped found the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, but he was
tragically killed in 1886 when his horses got spooked in a
thunderstorm and crashed into a stone wall near Paradise.
Under Grandfather Perkins's stern gaze, Archie had started off
as a "frail and nervous" child, according to his sister Betty.
But with age he grew in confidence; his voice soon became
"extremely loud" and certain. Archie's favorite poem came from
the Home Book of Verse. He could deliver it with great style again
and again by heart, even into old age:
What have you been for the last three year
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jim Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?
It was a poem about the wreck of the Prairie Belle steamship
on the Mississippi River, written by John Hay, Abraham Lincoln's
private secretary and later secretary of state under Presidents William
McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt. The hero of the poem had two
principles that guided him as a riverboat captain on the Mississippi.
First, he would never let another steamboat pass him, because he
wanted to be the best at what he did. Second, if the Prairie Belle
ever took fire, he swore a thousand times that he would deliver
each passenger safely to the shore, no matter what the costs. For
a young Archie Cox, these two oaths of the rough-hewn riverboat
engineer revealed a dogged virtue:
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smoke-stacks fell--
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
One cousin described Archie as a "loner." But this was not
exactly the word. The lineup of the Cox children spanned sixteen
years, making them actually two separate "generations": Archie
(born in 1912); Betty (born 1913); Mary, called "Molly" (1916);
followed by Rob (1919); Max (1922); Louis (1925); and Rowland
(1928). The next oldest boy in the family, Rob, was seven
years younger. With such an age gap, Archie frequently found
himself climbing, hiking, and reading away the time by himself. His
sisters, Betty and Molly, were his friends, but they did things that
girls did in the 1920s--cutting out dolls, playing pencil-and-paper
games. Archie's parents had bought him a collie back in
Plainfield, but he was "the opposite of a boy devoted to his
dog." Trips across the river to Cornish, where he could play
tennis with boys his own age, were more his style. Sunday baseball
games in Paradise with pickup teams of summer transplants were
a favorite pastime. Girls were welcome; the shortage of shortstops
made it pointless to discriminate.
Archie was "comfortable with people. And they were
comfortable with him." He rarely got ruffled, even when
intentionally provoked. His sisters were haunted by the fact that
their father's name was Archibald, and flashed their tempers when
friends recited the name with a stray inflection or a smirk. The
only one in the family
who "didn't seem to mind" was Archibald, Jr. He liked his
name; he didn't worry about meaningless jokes.
From his father, Archie would inherit an old-fashioned work
ethic; a tiny spark of wit (and an even deeper admiration of it in
others); a gracious, polite demeanor; and a general love for
newspaper headlines, action, and public events. From his mother,
he would inherit less tangible qualities: an abundant willingness to
accept; an interest in the creative side of life rather than the
commercial world; an optimist's view of humanity, assuming the
best of all who entered his doorway; a love for the outdoors; and a
quiet Yankee reserve that in later years would be mistaken by
those who did not know him for arrogance (when it came much
closer to shyness).
From both parents, Archie would inherit an unusual merging of
New England and New Jersey dialects. "We all have a queer accent,"
sister Molly would smile. It was precise and methodical. Lips
were pursed. The tones were high-sounding, mellifluous, as if the
speaker was reading from a book of old English verse while holding
back any trace of sentiment or emotion. In the Cox family,
emotions and exuberance and effusiveness were not paraded
through the house. These were best left for private settings, places
like the woods or the mountains.
For "Billy" Cox, a feel for history and an instinct toward pursuing
worthwhile opportunities in life did not end when his family packed
up their belongings each August and drove home from Vermont to
The house on 1010 Rahway Road in Plainfield where Archie
spent much of his childhood was a long, low, white building with green
shutters, a Dutch colonial custom-designed by the architectural firm
of White and White. His father had it built in the early 1920s on a
nine-acre plot with a hillside that had been used to grow potatoes
during World War I. The house represented increasing profits from
the senior Cox's law firm and corresponded with the arrival of a
fifth child, Max, the only Cox child born in a hospital, because the
house was unfinished.
Years later, Archie would preserve a vivid memory of this home,
its seven bedrooms, oil furnace, claw-foot bathtubs, fireplaces,
maids quarters, tennis court (his father liked to beat him and
proclaim "Brother, your tail hangs behind!"), and chauffeur's apartment over
the garage, all symbols of Roaring-Twenties wealth. Archie also
remembered the presidential election of 1928, when his father
brought home their first console radio (Archie himself had a tiny
crystal set) to listen to the speeches of Al Smith, the Democratic
presidential candidate running against Herbert Hoover. "He bought
a big, heavy console," Cox remembered. "And I have a very vivid
picture ... of my father and mother, myself and my sister
Betty ... sitting in the living room, listening to the broadcasts of
Al Smith's and maybe Hoover's speeches. And on the dining room chairs,
shrouded in the dark would be sitting the maids.... I don't think they
resented this. I think that the relations between my family and the
`retainers' were very good. At least that's my picture. But the
symbols of status were probably much more important than any
ideas of status themselves."
Maids and nurses and chauffeurs were paid "New York wages"
of $425 per month for the five of them, a tidy sum. But young
Archie discovered that he was one of the only boys in their affluent
section of Plainfield whose father was supporting a progressive
Democrat (a Catholic, no less) for president, a fact that summed up
his early political consciousness much more than the swelling
ledger in the family bank book.
Life in Plainfield during the nonsummer months was a solid,
regular existence. All children under nine ate "supper" (hot cereal
with prunes or applesauce) at 5:30 and then went to bed. The older
children were expected to sit down to dinner as soon as Archibald,
Sr., walked in the door from the train station. Boys wore coats and
ties; girls wore dresses (or, if they had already worn a dress earlier
in the day, a "new dress"). The parents had one cocktail of
vermouth and fruit juice, never more, never less. Then the maids
served dinner. A typical meal consisted of soup; roast beef, chops,
or lamb; two vegetables; and a pudding. After dinner the
older children were allowed to read before going to bed, as long as
they pulled up the covers and extinguished the lights by 8:00 sharp.
Archie found that he liked the sound of words, the flow and
resonance of phrases carefully forged and sharpened by the
writer. He liked to speak words almost as much as he liked to read
them. But this posed certain hazards.
His first public speaking contest was at the Wardlaw School in
Plainfield, a small private grade school that Archie rode to on a
bicycle. The poem he had selected was "Farragut," about wooden
Union warships going into Mobile Bay during the Civil War. Archie
would never forget clenching his fists at the Wardlaw School,
planting his feet, and reciting:
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut
Thunderbolt stroke ...
Then he stopped. "And I couldn't remember another word. I broke
down completely as a tearful little boy."
By his teens, however, Archie had become more polished, more
confident of his talents. His father was "terribly excited that I
wouldn't be admitted to St. Paul's [prep school], because he
had read an English composition of mine and found it filled with
mistakes of spelling." Archibald, Sr., told his wife, "Well, the
boy's a moron." But Archie wasn't worried. He "regarded it, and
always regarded it, as an unnecessary flap." Still, it was enough
of a flap, old letters reveal, that his father wrote directly to an
administrator at St. Paul's School in April 1926. Reporting that
young Archie was taking the entrance exams, his father
conspicuously threw in some choice information: "I am told that,
other things being equal, relationship to Alumni may count
something in favor of a boy on the waiting list. If so, my boy can
claim, in addition to his father and four uncles, a grandfather and
five or six grand-uncles, and a Trustee in the generation before
that." A representative of St. Paul's quickly wrote back
reassuringly: "You are right in understanding that relationship to
Alumni counts in a boy's favor when he is trying for admission to
the School. Your boy should score heavily in this regard when the
Archie was safely admitted to St. Paul's in 1926. By this time, he
had shaken much of the self-doubt that had plagued him as a boy.
He could easily recite the saga of Admiral Farragut by heart.
Archie entered St. Paul's at age fourteen, receiving a thick dose of
New England culture that he enjoyed immensely. St. Paul's was a
private Episcopal boys' school outside of Concord, New
Hampshire, sixty miles from Windsor, in the middle of a wooded,
secluded, bucolic nowhere. There were English Tudor buildings,
tennis courts, ponds with footbridges, geese, swans, and absolute
Archie's great-grandfather Perkins had helped found St. Paul's, and
his grandfather had been one of the first students in the 1870s, so the
Cox, Evarts, and Perkins names all carried a special ring amid the
chiming bells of the Episcopal prep school grounds. So nicely did
Archie adapt that his younger brother Rob was planning to follow
in his footsteps, a fact that pleased Archie and gave his own
enrollment a delightful aura of pathfinding and experimentation.
Archie enjoyed rubbing elbows with a swarm of teenage boys of
his own vintage, many of whom were sons of alumni. Along with
the other third formers in the fall of 1926, Archie lived in an alcove
in the "Old School" building. In this spartan setting, each boy had
nothing but a bed and a bureau, some clothes on the floor until a
master came along, and a ready comb. "It was perfectly
pleasant," recalled Archie's classmate and lifelong friend, Dr.
Thomas W. Clark. "Sleeping and getting up in the morning is what
As soon as the morning bells went off at an ungodly hour, the
boys raced down, took showers, ate breakfast, went to chapel, and
got ready for classes. In the New England winters, it was still
dark as they dashed across the dimly lit brick paths for lessons in
Greek and trigonometry. Part of the unspoken challenge was to
learn to face adversity head-on. "We took cold showers in the
basement," Clark remembered. "You were sissy to [do otherwise] ... even
in the middle of winter," he explained. "There was plenty of
hot water--we just didn't use it."
Boys wore a coat and tie to classes and donned a stiff collar
every night for dinner. They attended chapel once a day,
twice on Sundays. Immediately after students communed with God,
infractions were read out loud at the "Big Study." Violations such
as "up after lights," "swimming at night," and "out after check-in"
were announced sternly by the rector, Dr. Samuel S. Drury, who
was considered God's direct spokesman, and demerits were
For a boy who was used to going to bed at eight o'clock back in
Plainfield, the hours at St. Paul's seemed long and difficult. Archie
wrote home: "Tell Betty it's no fun sitting up so late, until
9:00." Archie's classmate, William G. Foulke, remembered
that hardships nevertheless created a bond: "It was a rigorous
life--getting up when the sun was just coming up; it was cold; we
were living in very little quarters. Circumstances like these bring
The boys attending St. Paul's were hardly children of the
struggling lower classes. The school was a WASPy affair, for the
most part. Two Vanderbilts enrolled during Archie's entering year.
Parents assumed that they were sending their children to the "best school in
the English-speaking world." By and large, they were
offspring of the rich and powerful in the great Northeast, who
recognized that if their children were going to letter in college
sports, make Phi Beta Kappa at Ivy League schools, run banks,
head corporations, lead great law firms, become great diplomats,
and make names for themselves in government and national
politics, they had better learn rigorous habits in the earliest years.
Despite all these high-minded parental goals, a group of 428
boys had a way of softening the structure. Some boys tinkered
with radios. Some wrote for the school magazine. Club football,
hockey, baseball, and crew were institutions. "Teas" were a
regular event at the homes of masters. Canoeing on the lakes and
streams on campus was a popular pastime. By December, the ice
was thick enough to skate on Mill Pond, "Big Turkey," and "the
Everglades." There were other diversions. "We would go
swimming in the quarry," recalled Tom Clark, "which was totally
illegal. We would have to entice a janitor who had a car to take us
there. It was no better than swimming in the lakes that the school
owned. But it was illegal, so we did it."
St. Paul's sponsored one dance a year. Boys would invite girls
from home, usually Long Island or New Jersey, to dance fox-trots
and waltzes. Archie's only recollection of a date was
Elizabeth "Zibby" Fiske from Plainfield, who was more comfortable
sitting on the porch on Rahway Road with his sisters, but
reluctantly made the trip to New Hampshire to see how prep
school boys danced.
Archie was viewed as "a bit more intellectually inclined" than
many of his classmates. His sandy, almost blond hair was always
cut short. At six feet tall, he was skinny, even "gangly." He was
known neither for his athletic prowess nor his "sartorial"
stylishness. He was nevertheless listed as a backup left
tackle on his intramural Isthmian football team. And he was a
passable enough baseball player that he pitched an occasional
Still, athletics were not what had attracted Archie to St. Paul's.
Nor did they keep him there. During fourth form (tenth grade),
while Archie's roommate Edgar Rulon-Miller was busy perfecting
the art of smoking cigarettes up the chimney to avoid the
well-trained noses of the masters, Archie began developing his
own interests. A young master named John Mayher frequently
invited a group of boys to carry books to his room in New Upper
"after lights," so they could read aloud. Here Archie and his
roommates began expanding their curiosity
and tastes in literature. They read H. H. Munro's work written
under the pseudonym Saki, mostly light prose and irreverent
political satire. They consumed the offbeat 1920s newspaper column
archy and mehitabel featuring an alley cat, Mehitabel, and a
cockroach named Archy (much to Archie Cox's delight), who
climbed onto a typewriter at night and punched out dialogue in
lowercase letters because he was too small to engineer the shift
button. Typical of Archy-the-cockroach's astute observations on
life was the following rumination, in lower case:
if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it wont cheer
you up if
you expect to go there
Archie soon thrived at St. Paul's. He joined the "Greek Gang," a
group of students who studied classical Greek and played
intramural sports together. He teetered "on the edge of trouble,"
ducking into the dining hall for formal meals just before the heavy
Gothic doors swung closed. He was regularly chastised for
sporting a short, almost stubbly hairstyle that Dr. Drury viewed as
much too short.
Archie was never one of the top boys in the third or fourth
forms, a fact published conspicuously in "half term rankings" in the
school magazine. But he won the Keep Prize in English History for
an essay that he signed under the nom de plume "William M.
Evarts." By the end of fourth form, in 1928, he had joined the
Propylean Literary Society, where he was judged best speaker in
two separate debates. In one winning argument, Cox supported the
affirmative on the issue "Resolved: That the war debt of the Allies
to the United States ought to be cancelled by the United States."
In the second, he argued the negative on the proposition "Resolved:
That the United States should enter the League of Nations."
In the spring of 1928, Frances Cox wrote to Dr. Drury: "It is
lovely to have Archie at home again and to see him so well, and so
happy. We feel you are doing so much for him at St. Paul's, and
that he is learning a great deal besides lessons in books."
By sixth form (senior year), Archie was beginning to achieve a new
level of confidence--just as it was time to leave. He was listed as one of
the select members of the sixth form who "read the lessons at
Sunday Evening" chapel. With his large, strong hands he
excelled at racket sports and was appointed to the Squash and
Tennis Committees. He argued against Groton School in a major
interschool debate, taking the negative on the question of whether
the U.S.S.R. should be recognized by the United States, and
"swinging the tide" in favor of a St. Paul's victory. By this
time, he was given the nickname "Solicitor" by his classmates, an
undeniable tribute. "The Six Rankings" listed him,
academically, as one of the "leaders of the entire school."
More important than this scholastic achievement, a reputation
was starting to follow Archie Cox. "He was an independent," said
his friend Charlie Kirkland. "Like all boys' schools, there were lots
of cliques. He was on the edge of them. It was a hard role to play.
Most kids had a herd instinct. But he didn't need it."
This emerging perception of Archie as someone who "forged his
own course" led the rector to appoint Archie and Joseph "Indian
Joe" Barker to the Student Council, a distinct honor at St.
Paul's. Some skeptical friends saw an unflattering angle to
Cox's appointment. It was widely known in the dormitories and
locker rooms that there was "a good deal of illegal goings-on" in
Twenty House. "Constantly," said Charlie Kirkland, who balked at
describing the activity in any further detail. "Certainly he [Archie]
and everyone else knew." The illegal activity that everyone knew
about, including the administration, was smoking and gambling, a
"moving crap game." Much of it involved friends of Archie. As
Kirkland and other residents of Twenty House saw Dr. Drury's
careful selection of Cox, "Drury put him on the council because he
thought he could get information."