Word: jerked
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...Cleveland "rubber man." Experts had picked Sharkey. So had gamblers. Risko was tough, they said, but Sharkey was tough and fancy. When the bell rang, Risko made Sharkey miss a left, landed a left to the jaw. All through the fight he hooked to the chin and made Sharkey jerk his legs up when he hit him" in the stomach. When the decision went to Risko, Sharkey struck a pose, stared disdainfully at the top balcony. "Yaah," yelled the holder of a $3 balcony seat, "you look like a nickel's worth of holy mackerel." "Honest John" Risko, shifty...
...there in the proceedings but it is innocuous, like mold on cream cheese. Pale Eva LeGallienne, mistress of the Civic Repertory, has entrusted the piece to Director Egon Brecher, a quizzical associate of long standing. He handles play and players in the Tony Sarg manner. The entire cast jerk and jostle through the gleeful evening like life-sized marionettes, with a giddy promptness that makes it seem as though all were improvised. Miss LeGallienne is paradoxically absent from the cast; Mr. Brecher, providentially, present. Storm Center is an inconsequential little farce about a married couple who buy a house...
...That is as far as he got! I was wild with rage and bitterness; I must insult him if it was my last act. I quickly reached up, grabbed hold of his long beard and gave it a violent jerk. To my unutterable horror his head came off in my hands and-I woke...
...week, near El Segundo, Cal., the very latest wrinkle in descent was demonstrated-a wrinkle that promised to eliminate a tremendous percentage of the danger-and fear-of aviation. Pilot R. Carl Oelze of the Naval Reserve had the temerity to ascend in his plane to 2,500 ft., jerk the strings of a monster parachute folded in the fuselage behind the cockpit, shut off his motor and let the plane plunge toward the ground like a plummet. Anxious watchers saw a white mushroom suddenly billow above the dropping craft. With a jerk, the plane's fall was retarded...
...made accents in the air. Tunney stood bulging his muscles, striving vainly to appear bestial. At the seventh strophe, Gibbons rose. A polo player at the ringside whispered to his lady: "He looks like Lazarus." Young Tunney again advanced his right fist. Gibbons twisted his torso with a curious jerk, sat down, bewildered, like a man overtaken by exhaustion. The referee counted ten. After the fight, Tunney glanced through a pile of congratulatory telegrams, went off to Long Island for a week-end of golfing and light revelry; Gibbons packed his suitcases, boarded a broiling train for Chicago where...