Word: thudded
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...wink and scamper of dice . . . the flicker of honed steel . . the thud of fists . . . the pumping of great black legs. Is this all that Negro gentlemen know of sport ? Last week, those dolts who ha.ve derived their views on the colored race from the stale gags of minstrel shows were amazed to discover that at Westfield, N. J., there is a Negro golf club-the Shady Rest Country Club. Broad piazzas it has, sofas, rocking-chairs, lounges, loggias, beds, in which a tired golfer-or one who may in the future play golf-can catch 40 winks...
...hands of a barefoot carpenter with a devilish clever mania for astonishing people. The carpenter paints dragonfish on the youth's house and tries to marry him off to a wench with fat legs. Youth escapes carpenter at the expense of his reason, which later returns with a thud...
...sinus cavities of every cabaret tenor who could boast a nose, caroled by housewives at their tubs and business men at their shaving. Before the echoes of the blatant dirge had been quite relegated to that mortuary of all songs - the monkey-organ - certain tenors were beginning to thud their chests in the press. To compare many with Caruso is, of course, absurd. But there are, in Manhattan, two Italian gentlemen striving for the place of "leading tenor of the Metropolitan." For several seasons, these two have vied with each other; and still some operagoers will emphatically murmur: "Giovanni Martinelli...
STACY-Alexander Black - Bobbs-Merrill ($2.00). The walls were not very thick where Stacy lived. Upstairs lived a female person whom he could hear walking, thud, thud, like a shod horse, endlessly to and fro, putting away her laundry out of a package -a year's wash, perhaps. Downstairs in the basement there were two other people-a man named Barrack and a girl he had taken in. This girl had been on the town, but she was pretty. Stacy fell in love with her, fell also for the shod horse abovestairs. He knew his oats, he knew...
...bull charged. That matador took a single deliberate step aside. The bull hammered past. Into his path again stepped the matador. He danced, he mocked, he swung his scarlet cloak. But this bull was a thief, as they say; he "knew Latin." Drumming hoofs, a broken shout, a thud. "Maria. He is dead!" gasped the onlookers. So ended the last bullfight of Ignacio Zuloaga*, famed Spanish painter...