Word: trailing
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Suffering from insomnia in the 24-hour polar daylight, Rees interviewed members of the expedition around the clock. He quizzed Explorer Siple over coffee in the mess, in Siple's quarters, to the accompaniment of recorded harp solos, and out on the trail. Once, caught on a ledge above McMurdo Sound in a howling gale, Siple recalled that a member of the first Scott expedition (1901-04) had been blown to his death from that very spot. "Look," the explorer shouted, "there's his cross." By the time Rees was ready to leave McMurdo Sound for home...
...thought that maybe he had gotten married to one of those rich girls from those exclusive Eastern schools, and she had given him the $3,500 for the car, or that maybe he had been framed by dope peddlers. I told the dean to bring in the police." The trail was easy. In less than a week John was traced to a hotel room in Oklahoma City. What did the bright, good-looking boy have to say for himself? Said John: "I robbed a bank...
...turn of the century with three stories-two about dogs and one about a man. They closely resembled each other. Buck was a Saint Bernard and the dog in all the world least likely ever to be drawn by James Thurber, who found life too tame on the trail in The Call of the Wild and joined a wolf pack. White Fang told of a wolf that left Alaska to become civilized in California. The Sea Wolf told of a more or less human character called Larsen, the savage master of a Pacific sealer who could not decide whether...
...Trail of Superman. London's stories grew directly out of his life. He was born (1876) in rowdy, brawling San Francisco, the illegitimate son of an itinerant Irish astrologer. His mother, abandoned by the stargazer, shot herself (the injury proved slight), and then married John London, a decent man who couldn't stick to any trade and therefore was glamorized by young Jack as "a soldier, trapper, backwoodsman and wanderer." Anyone with such a background might be excused for thinking human nature too complicated to figure out, and London's works-18 novels, 20 collections of short...
Sweeping into Paris from London, symmetrically stacked (35-23-35) Marian McKnight, 19, Miss America of 1957, was hounded by newshounds. After the publicity-shy creature of publicity coyly evaded them at the posh Hotel Meurice, reporters picked up her trail again, cornered her at the entrance to the Folies-Bergère. Their brief interview proved unilateral-all questions and no answers. "Miss Amérique?" politely inquired a France Soirman. She responded, reported he, "with the sad countenance of a doe at bay." Soon, stated France Soir sadly, the door of the Folies-Bergère "swallowed Miss...