Word: drank
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...Irishman drank farewell toasts with his brothers of the Saorstat Corps. Said he: "Ten-thirty is my bedtime and I refuse to crawl in earlier just because there's a little job of flying over the Atlantic to be done tomorrow." It was midnight when he finally retired, in the room next to that of his eight-year-old daughter Pat, who, he said, "doesn't give a hump about all this flying." The Germans, strange figures in Ireland, plodded back to their quarters, the Baron to play a final game of solitaire, the phlegmatic Captain to make...
...winning team takes a drink out of it. It is a battered cup. It has been dropped in trains and automobiles; players have scratched their names on it with penknives. Last week in Montreal the Stanley Cup was once more filled and passed around and the team that drank out of it was the New York Rangers...
...name is Bill Martin. He is a mine caretaker, sometimes a sheepherder, virtually a beggar. When he was young, he says, he prospected for silver and copper with a fellow called Bill Clark, formally named William A. Clark. Together they found metal, a lot of metal. Bill Martin drank up and gambled away his share. But not Bill Clark, who kept his head, went into politics, went to the U. S. Senate, built an extravagant palace full of works of art on Fifth Avenue, way off in New York. Three years ago, Senator Clark died, willing his art treasures...
Last week, Mr. Ripley's "Believe It or Not" contained an item which caused amazement to many a student of human anatomy. The item: "Marechal de Bas-sompierre poured 13 [pint] bottles of wine into a vase and drank it in one breath-as a toast to the 13 cantons of Switzerland." Mr. Ripley had proof for this statement in French histories, which told how Marechal de Bassompierre, famed convivial, was sent by King Louis of France in 1625 to recruit Swiss guards and gain a pledge of allegiance from the Swiss cantons. Two Manhattan physicians, last week, said...
...page of a book a block wide. All week in Madison Square Garden drops fell onto coats and faces turned from side to side, from side to side, all morning, all afternoon, all night, for six days. And round the pale pine dish the riders pedaled, jammed, sprinted, drank beef juice out of paper cups, pasted their burned legs with plaster, until a gun was fired off three times and Franco Georgetti and Gerard Debaets posed for flashlights holding the big bouquets that go to the winners. They had won by a single lap after 2,162 miles of pedaling...