Word: taxies
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...ruefully, "are the ones I write at deadline." Bombed out during the war, his Economist now lives in handsomely remodeled, fluorescent-lighted quarters off St. James's. The apartment building is 70 years old and has, says Crowther, a dubious past: "I find that the older generation of taxi drivers know the address [22 Ryder Street] very well." It now houses a brilliant crew, and a tradition of passionate anonymity: only a departing editor's valedictory may bear a byline. Although it has a reputation for omniscience, the Economist takes pains to tell its readers every so often...
...fast-moving. It has nice tunes and even nicer dancing. But what really gives it the New York Look are Arnold Horwitt's extremely lively lyrics and brightly satirical skits. One funny ditty has all those who ruin the city's sleep-street diggers, taxi drivers, milkmen, newsboys-bawling...
...Yorkers began to enjoy the storm. Debutante parties went on as scheduled; male guests skied to some, lugging boxes containing debs' frocks and fixings. A New Jersey taxi service began a search for horse-drawn pungs; it got none, but inspired hundreds to go around repeating the curious word aloud. Even the disgruntled commuter, once he got within limping distance of home, enjoyed acting like Admiral Byrd...
...from the north, the government outlawed the Communist Party and the leftist EAM, and even "sympathizers" were threatened with severe penalties. In Athens some 500 Communists were already under arrest as a result of an episode three weeks ago when a policeman saw three men get out of a taxi carrying a suspicious cloth bag. When he tried to question them, they shot him dead, then fled through the ruins at the base of the Acropolis. (The cloth bag, it turned out, contained arms.) One of the three, a Communist hatchetman named Stamatis Bitsikas, was caught, broke down under interrogation...
...Modest Overcoat. Here you will meet taxi drivers and tailors and government workers and Carabinieri off guard duty at the pompous official buildings a few blocks away. On a particular evening last week, a short, broad-shouldered man in a modest heavy black overcoat, a weather-worn grey hat, came in about 9 o'clock and gave a casual "buona sera" to the grinning waiters, who know him well. He likes to come here often, to talk casually with the Italian workers and hear what they have to say. He came over and shook hands and sat down...