Word: exhaustion
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Author Purdy is a romantic, but all over the U.S. there is still a scattering of men whose hearts leap up when they be hold a pre-World War I car, its brass shined to a dazzle, its head lamps staring proudly ahead, its exhaust pipes exposed for all admiring eyes to see. There are even some, as delicately geared as Author Purdy, who can close their eyes and "imagine a string-straight, poplar-lined Route Nationale in France on a summer's day. That growing dot in the middle dis tance is a sky-blue Bugatti coupe, rasping...
...Fighters. Another saucerlike object is the "foo-fighter": a bright spot of light which seemed to chase night-flying airplanes during World War II. Menzel believes that foo-fighters are really light (from the moon, from a plane's exhaust or from some other source) that is turned into the pilot's eye by strong eddies of air near a damaged wing. The moon disks that he saw himself were probably a sort of foo-nghter...
...Ferraris and Jaguars dominated the big-car field, but the fans especially watched No. 15, a blue & white Cunningham C4R, powered by a Chrysler engine. American-produced by Millionaire Sportsman Briggs S. Cunningham, the car was the U.S.'s big hope in a field dominated by Europeans. Dragging exhaust pipes forced the Cunningham out of the lead and out of the running in the twelfth lap. From there on, it was nip and tuck between Bill Spear's Italian Ferrari and Fred G. Wacker Jr.'s English Allard (with Cadillac engine...
...fact was that only the steelworkers still seemed really willing to entrust to Harry Truman all the power he thought necessary to forestall a strike in steel. One reason, clearly, was his failure to exhaust the laws of the land before stepping into the shadowy area between government of laws and government of men. More than that, the public attitude seemed to be a vote of no-confidence in the Administration's ability _to deal with an emergency largely of its own making...
...snow off his trousers. "O.K., I guess," he murmured and again took a position behind a rear fender, this time attached to a battered pre-war Ford. Throwing his weight behind the car as the driver gunned the motor, Vag was immediately enveloped in a cloud of oily black exhaust. But he clung valiantly to his post and the car edged slowly into the middle of the street. Long after the others had zoomed off to Wellesley, Vag was still standing in the empty parking space, coughing carbon monoxide and shaking another load of snow off his pants...