Word: swivelers
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...would go. The air smelled like cool glue. Here, where once had been a well whence Mr. Ridley provided his tenements with cheap water of questionable purity, the strange, 88-year-old man had partitioned off a cheerless office. There were two iron safes, a high counting desk and swivel stool where his clerk sat, and Mr. Ridley's rolltop desk. Neither of the occupants ever took off his rubbers or overcoat. In their Dickensian foxhole they shared a lunch of bread and cheese...
...Park's own office looks over the East River. There he sits in a leather upholstered swivel chair, one leg across the other, hands locked behind his thin silvery hair, thinking or talking. He has a dry, brittle, rapid voice, smiles easily. His staff venerate him, play tennis with him (he was 69 last month) on the court adjoining the laboratory building. In summer he fishes in the St. Lawrence...
...Ottawa, busses carry signs reading "Williamsburg & Dr. Locke." Hotels in & near Williamsburg are always packed, but charge only $1 per day for a room because Dr. Locke threatened to build his own hotel if they raised their rates. In a small side yard outside his office he places a swivel chair. Patients stand in line waiting their turn to sit in front of him. He twists their feet, cracks the joints, collects $1, calls "Next!" Cripples hobbling about Williamsburg testify that they were bed-ridden until Healer Locke treated their feet. A Syrian fruit dealer with fallen arches told...
...building. Around its brownish-yellow walls hung many a chart, their graphs ending in dismal downward dips. (Zigzags were all in black & white because color-blind Governor Meyer has trouble with reds and greens.) After handshakes all around, the Board and its visiting officials settled down in black leather swivel chairs around a long mahogany table for an all-day session...
...statesmen. It is the King's Road (the name is a British attempt to pronounce Route du Rois), the path that ancient sovereigns took when they rode from Westminster to hunt in the royal forests. Here Queen Victoria used to drive in her barouche, smiling grimly under her swivel-topped black parasol. Here King George takes his genteel canters. Here the morning sun shines on the finest horses, the best cut breeches in Britain. Sportsmen of Sir Walter Gilbey's generation would sooner go to Buckingham Palace in their shirtsleeves than appear in the Row improperly clad...