Word: spats
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...Butte's big department stores. This man had begun his task when it occurred to him that perhaps the store in question employed individual makeup and type. He asked the boss of the ad alley about it. The boss, a squat and blue-jowled individual, spat on the floor, observed "Jeest, why don't yuh rubber da rag?'' Dr. Durston, on business somewhere in the background, overheard the remark, thought it apt. Next day every machine, desk, locker and press in the Standard office carried the words "Rubber da Rag" on neat white cards...
...series of 43 terrorist murders, 15 of the prisoners were sentenced to life imprisonment, 109 others received sentences totaling 1500 years.* A ruckus broke out that sent the pigeons fluttering from the courthouse roof, set little Sicilian donkeys braying hilariously in the nearby marketplace. Prisoners spat, screamed, bit their thumbs at the jury, howled maledictions. Resourceful Matteo Balsamo, sentenced for life, tore off his shoes, hurled them with appropriate curses through the bars of his cage at the jury. The jury kept their shoes...
When an oyster egg hatches it produces a larva. The larva eventually "settles" and cements itself as a "spat" to a clean submerged stone or old shell, where it grows until big enough to eat. Just what makes the spats settle has always been an ostreiculture problem. Last week Herbert F. Prytherch of the U. S. Bureau of Fisheries gave an answer, in Science...
...press," coarse ridiculed usage," "that flayed comfortless America's custom, so "licentious very prevalent in [American] country towns of married persons living in hotels, having no fire side of their own." Of a party of Pennsylvania legislators who came to greet him, Dickens observed "Pretty nearly every man spat upon the carpet, as usual; and one blew his nose with his fingers-also on the carpet, which was a very neat...
...onetime friend, General Menocal (now of the Opposition), is doughty Sr. Arturo Rente, veteran of the Cuban shooting affrays of 1916. Last week as Sr. Rente sat sipping coffee in a Havana cafe he sneezed, sneezed again, sneezed a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh time, coughed, gasped, spat out a bullet, sighed with relief. The bullet was smooth-polished after spending 15 years lodged in the roof of Sr. Rente's mouth, whence surgeons had dared not remove it. Long ago they predicted it would make Sr. Rente an idiot or a paralytic. He is not yet either...