Word: mobbing
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Onetime home port for Scarface Al Capone's mob, Cicero, Ill. has become a U. S. household synonym for murder and vice. There fell Assistant State's Attorney William McSwiggin under gangland bullets. Frank Capone, Al's brother, died violently there. Musicomedienne Rosetta Duncan had her nose smashed there. Last week Cicero turned over a new political leaf...
...candid Sir John would answer King George's queries about the rioting of Newfoundland's jobless (TIME, Feb. 22). If His Majesty, who goes deeply into such things, should ask whether a picture of His Majesty was actually broken over the head of Premier Sir Richard Squires by the mob, Sir John would tell His Majesty the truth. Suddenly last week as Governor Sir John prepared to sail. St. John's came again under the sceptre of King Mob...
There was no mob to begin with, just a decent, orderly procession of substantial Newfoundland folk. Marshaled by a Catholic priest and two Protestant clerics they tramped through the streets of St. John's to the Colonial Building (Parliament House), begged leave to present a petition at the bar of Parliament humbly alleging that Premier Sir Richard Squires had been guilty of malfeasance and had falsified the Executive Council's minutes ? two charges made in the Assembly by former Finance Minister Peter Cashin when he resigned a week before the February riots. In 1925 and again...
Paving stones whistled. Brickbats flew. As throwers improved their aim, window after window of the Colonial Building splintered into tinkling bits. Lady Squires, the Premier's wife and Newfoundland's only female Parliament member, was deeply gashed, was led bleeding from the hall. The mob burst in through the Strangers' Gallery, seized all entrances and set up shouts of "Squires! Squires! Hang him! Throw him in the harbor! Where's Squires...
...distant beach began in the St. Antoine to break the sullen quietude. Travelling slowly along the crooked streets it gathered volume always nearer, always louder. At last with a great roar it burst out around the high walls of the Bastille and the Revolution had begun. The Paris mob broke up running, shouting, shrieking, calling, hurling, swearing, beating, advancing, swarming; but always moving, always attacking, always increasing. They stormed the deep ditch, the double draw bridge, the eight great towers amid cannon, musket fire and smoke. And in the crowd stood Defarge of the wine shop grown hot with...