Word: like
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Occasionally John L.'s phone would jangle with news of another victory. Big John would dictate to a press aide a curt communique which concluded with a half-hopeful, half-commanding "More tonnage will sign." The press covered U.M.W. like a military HQ. Almost every night last week, U.M.W. was able to report to the newsmen that another company or two had agreed to boost pay (from $14.05 to $15 a day) and increase royalties for the miners' welfare fund (from 20? to 35? a ton). Lewis, unable to beat the ganged-up might of coal-industry leaders...
...days of its second run in Manhattan's federal court, the perjury trial of Alger Hiss had progressed with a singular absence of melodrama. Whittaker Chambers spent seven days as a witness, much of the time under crossexamination, stepped down with both his testimony and his Buddha-like calm intact. His shocking tale was corroborated as before by his wife and a long list of Government witnesses. Voices were seldom raised; time and repetition had lent a curious matter-of-factness to an incredible affair...
...aqueducts crept out like thirsty tubular feelers to the watersheds of Long Island and the Catskills. It built 18 big dams, stored water in 30 lakes and reservoirs, laid 5,200 miles of mains and pipes to feed the city's hidden lacework of metal capillaries. But World War II, which halted work on a new aqueduct, boosted the city's ever-rising population alarmingly. Last summer's grass-crisping drought did the rest...
High & Dry. Last week New York, and many of the 80 surrounding towns which suck like clustering leeches on its water lines, were getting perilously close to that unimaginable point at which water would no longer run from millions of kitchen faucets. Its dams stood high and dry above great barren expanses of frozen mud; only 33.4% of the city's 253 billion gallons of stored water was left and the supply was being relentlessly lowered at a rate of some 800 million gallons every...
...could be true, as cantankerous Andrew Jackson Gillis kept insisting, that he was not the same old boy. "Bossy" Gillis still looked as seedy as Burpee's spring catalogue, and he fitted into the gentle, museum-piece decor of old Newburyport, Mass, like a prime bull at a vegetarians' convention. But the coming of middle age, a wife and a new black bowler had smoothed some of Bossy's sharp edges...