Word: flasks
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...good Texans looking the part, Senators Morris Sheppard and Tom Connally. Through the crowd came tripping a little Southern maid, all flowers, Miss Elizabeth Holcombe (daughter of a former Mayor of Houston) followed by a maid of honor. She struck the steady prow of the monster gingerly with a flask of bottled water. She struck again. No damage was done. Up stepped manly Homer Lenoir Ferguson, President of Newport News Shipbuilding & Drydock Co. (see col. 1), took the bottle in his hand, shattered it to fragments. The monster slid away before his blow, slipped into the shining waters...
Next came arraignment of flask-toting, whiskey-smuggling Congressmen, of bribe-rotted enforcement officers; praise for the Spirit of Liberty. The Hoover logic was then trapped and chided. The President had ascribed "high moral instincts" to the People in one breath, and in the next had complained that respect for law was fading from their sensibilities. The President had complained of increased crime but had not perceived that the drastic Jones (Five & Ten) Act, by sending up liquor prices and making convictions fewer, would cause the liquor trade to finance the underworld more handsomely than ever...
...Hoover went into the White House last week as the Dry Hope of all U. S. Prohibitors. He will, they assured one another, be the right man at last to catch and hold that greased and perhaps blind pig called Prohibition. They recalled Harding and the well-filled whiskey flask (for medicinal purposes) in his White House office desk, and Coolidge, dry as a Vermont tinder box but deficient in the hot crusading flame of the true prohibitor. Now-bless the day-had come a President in whom for years has been seen a steady, scientific glow of enthusiasm...
Those sacks that you see the natives carrying along the white, beautiful roads on Sunday morning contain, sometimes, cocks. . . . And, what about it? There is no doubt that you will find the same flask of bitter liquor, the knife, volleys of cheers and curses, and many other things in many another American sport. Cockfighting is one of their sports and they will stick to it, same as Americans stick to theirs...
...spur-legged game-birds tethered in squalid door-yards all over the island. On Sundays the national anthem is stilled. Those sacks you see the natives carrying along the white roads on Sunday morning contain the coxcomb choir. They are going to the cockpits, where a knife, a flask of bitter liquor, volleys of cheers and curses, the chink of coin, the spurt of dust and blood -not always fowl blood-spell life's zest for the brown-skinned jibaro (peasant). Porto Rican poets hymn the sport as the essence of manhood and beauty...