TRADE: In Mr. Whalen's Image

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There he lives in two remodeled stables which express his character. Their antique furniture is sober, solid, sleek. The décor is dashing—glass bricks instead of windows, great expanses of mirror, an occasional ultramodern doodad. Evidence of Whalen the businessman is tactfully absent. But Whalen the civic leader shows in prints of old New York, Whalen the horseman in a framed blue-ribbon, Whalen the family man in a group shot of his attractive wife and three children. And the gadgets display the Whalen flair for imaginative showmanship. Each step in one flight of stairs is a drawer. A flick of the hand converts part of his bar into a spare bed.

Last week for the first time in three years Grover Whalen had time to luxuriate among such playthings: he lay ill at home suffering from a heavy cold and a bad case of overwork. Since he became fair president in 1936 he has averaged a 12-to-16-hr. working day—selling hardheaded big businessmen the notion that it would pay them to put $157,000,000 into the Flushing Meadows.

With the "World of Tomorrow" poised for the kill, he was glad of the chance to rest. For ahead still lies the serious business of selling the world tomorrow. He has got the circus into his tent. Now he has to get the public into his circus.