Word: twilighter
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Harold ("Red") Grange leaped up in the twilight, intercepted a forward pass, and started to weave through a blur of tacklers toward the Ohio State Goal line, while 85,000 spectators rose howling to their feet. All day the 85,000 had been pouring into Columbus by bus, by automobile, by train from New York and San Francisco, by airplane, by buggy. They had not come to see a football game. They had come to see Grange, the most advertised player. They knew, as they watched his galloping feet cross line after white line, that they were looking...
...most mudguards stop and curved insolently toward each other far out against the bumper, where the four frosted eyes of the car glare at the daylight. Inside the steel shell was a boudoir of swansdown upholstery finished in velvet of Cleopatra green, a color sleepier than the Nile at twilight, and above the door handles of antique bronze four rosewood panels were inlaid with little ivory panels showing a sedan-chair of the 16th Century, a Pickwickian stagecoach, a Japanese rickshaw and an Egyptian whatnot, to remind the fortunate who ride within that there are less comfortable ways to travel...
...neighbors whispered to each other afterward with frightened glances. But there was no fright in the woman. She worshiped him and came to his patio the next night with a crippled friend. The women were joined by an old man and a boy, and every evening after that, when twilight enchanted the Calle Margaritos Cervantes, a grotesque company came up the blue street one by one and knocked on the door of José Vespaciano...
...Strasbourg, France, a schoolmaster, one Bernard Joerg, lived with his dog. Last week the two went for a walk. Lost in abstraction, M. Joerg started to cross a railroad track; a train leaped out of the twilight, sprang at his shoulder like a huge beast, spun him around through the air, smashed his legs against a fence. Townsfolk came running-stopped, terrified, a dozen yards from the moaning, broken body. At Joerg's feet crouched the dog. Something had hurt his master, let no one else try it. The dark snarling beast, the little circle of white faces...
...cabin, it began to spin. Those of the seven who were not desperately engaged in keeping their seats astride a girder, valved gas as freely, as quickly as they could. The lost mountain spinned ? earthward. Nearing ground, Chief Machinist Halliburton fired shot into the gas envelope. Through the twilight, a farmer was signalled, caught a guide-rope, wrapped it about a tree. The nose had arrived safely, only one man being injured...