Word: doped
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story. But it was not until the Journal ran a dope story on the new 1955 auto models four weeks ago (TIME, June 7) that G.M. blew a gasket. In Detroit new models are always a closely guarded secret, revealed to newsmen only on an off-the-record basis until the companies are ready to put them on sale. But the Journal refused to hear "off-the-record" information. It got its story from the tool-and-die shops of Detroit and from competing auto companies, pieced together a rough-and not always accurate-picture of what the new cars...
...royalty and high fashion, the day, as always, belonged to the cockney, the costermonger and the gypsy, swarming over the infield. Red-faced north-country farmers and pale London clerks elbowed up to canvas stalls to buy jellied eels and winkles. Touts sidled up to them, peddling inside dope. Said one oldster dressed like a jockey: "Blimey, I wish my kids were 'ere. 'Cos if they were, I could put my 'and on their 'eads and swear that this information of mine is the real goods. Now look, ladies and gents, I want you to come...
Last week the Wall Street Journal tried to scoop the industry by coming out with a dope story, illustrated with sketches of the 1955 models of Chevrolet, Ford and Dodge. Those who have seen the new models thought that the Journal had picked up some old blueprints of the Chevrolet; there have been at least two new designs since that model. Ford executives were frankly surprised at the sketch of the front end of the Ford: it looked like a Studebaker, bore little resemblance to their 1955 model. The most accurate sketch was of the Dodge, with a flat hood...
...Never from these buildings have the police picked up anyone for dope or anything like that." And Scottish-born Mrs. Woodard wasn't impressed by Mrs. Stevenson's social position: "I had a title when I came over here. I was Lady Rogers. But that's all in the past now. I'm very proud of my name, Mrs. Woodard, and very proud of my buildings...
...easy as it is to toss off Saturday cuts as another evidence of Harvard individualism, the problem goes deeper than this. Cutting classes is like drinking or dope; it starts innocuously enough, and usually on the weekend. For example, a naive undergraduate finds he would like to go home to his sister's wedding, and as fate would have it, the event falls on a Saturday. Feeling very guilty, he nevertheless goes home and has a wonderful time, and strangely enough wakes up Monday morning with no guilt complex at all. The next weekend he decides to sleep through...