Word: plate
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Bostonians have loved every minute of it. One night a Herald engravers' plate was broken just before deadline, and the paper landed on 144,000 breakfast tables with no Dahl, but a printed box asking readers if he was missed. Four thousand readers promptly sent testy notes to the editor, saying yes. The omission has never been repeated, although Dahl seldom makes his 8:30 p.m. deadline with more than minutes to spare. When Dahl goes on vacation, the Herald exhumes his best sketches and reprints them. Rather than miss a day, it had him draw left-handed...
...picture deals with the reconversion problems of three Gyrencs (Guy Madison, Robert Mitchum, Bill Williams) who are mustered out of the service after overseas duty with the Corps. All three return to civilian life with considerable handicaps--Williams minus two legs, Mitchum with a silver plate in his skull, and Madison with a mild ease of the situational reaction that used to be called 'combat fatigue' earlier in the war. Williams can't bear donning his painful artificial legs or admitting that his boxing career is over; Mitchum refuses to tell his family about his disability or to seek adequate...
Rambunctious Robert Ralph Young and the stodgy Association of American Railroads had long been incompatible. Last week Bob Young finally packed up his three roads (Chesapeake & Ohio, Nickel Plate, Pere Marquette) and left A.A.R.'s house. As he left, he fired a Parthian shot: The A.A.R. "has encouraged . . . noncompetitive practices," thus also encouraged Federal antitrust action. It has fought to perpetuate discriminatory freight rates helpful to the Eastern, bank-run roads which dominate its affairs. "To squeeze the last dollar of revenue from obsolete equipment . . . technological development has been discouraged." To Young, wartime difficulties were not a sufficient excuse...
Boasting a mysterious Tiffany plate in the running board, Appleby's car has a ga-goo-gah type horn that inspires the awe of fellow motorists. "There's no glowering as you go by," he affirms, "only smiles...
Mike's Club never looked so clean before, or so barren either, Vag mused as he fitted, in front of a vintage car driven awkwardly by a man in a striped tie. "The Frappe Bar of New England," Vag read aloud from the booming plate glass pronouncement that garnished the sagging street corner. "What a tag for old Mike to conjure with. He wouldn't know his Club these days. But what would he know in Cambridge...