Word: couchs
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Twelve miles southeast of Hot Springs, Ark. on the Ouachita River is a power dam. Behind the dam is a good-sized lake. In the lake is an island and on the island is Couchwood, summer home of Harvey Crowley Couch. Mr. Couch built not only the rambling redwood log cabin that accommodates 25 guests in every luxury but also the dam that made the lake. The lake he named after his daughter Catherine; the dam, which he built for his Arkansas Light & Power Co., he named after onetime State Republican Boss Remmel...
Last week Mr. Couch gave a house party at Couchwood. George B. Shaw and W. Alton Jones of Cities Service dropped from the skies in a great glistening white monoplane. Governor Futrell of Arkansas and a few ranking members of the State's judiciary were already on hand. From St. Louis went a delegation headed by Tom K. Smith of Boatmen's National Bank who lately resigned as an assistant to Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau. Higher education was represented by President Bruce Payne of Peabody College in Nashville, Tenn. and President Pat Neff of Baylor University, Waco...
Many another potent Couch friend attended the stag house party but the Press was conspicuously absent. A guard on the bridge from the shore to the island kept the unwanted away. Burning with curiosity, newshawks tried long-distance calls without success. Nor would the great guests be interviewed as they arrived or departed. Their host kept insisting...
...three days the great guests lolled about on the Couchwood steps or lazed in deep armchairs, discussing they alone knew what. Some went riding in Couch motorboats on the Couch lake. One day the host took Messrs. Young and Dawes fishing but their catch was negligible. A few went along to hear Mr. Young make a speech at a nearby college. Mr. Dawes praised the Anglo-Saxon race at a nearby high school. That, as far as the public was concerned, was all that happened at Couchwood and that satisfied the curiosity of few outsiders...
Yesterday morning unexpectedly it happened. Steadying his head to prevent its rolling heavily off onto the floor the Vagabond groaned from his couch, achieved the window, and peered querulously up into the April sky. The winey sunlight warmed his gouty limbs and made his head contract pleasantly. Suddenly the Vagabond turned and frowned at the disgusting clutter of his room. He saw the remnants of his Vintage 99 (99 cents), his pictures awry, his clothes in disarray. Winter and sottish hibernation. . . Turning again to the window and with a last fine whiff of April morning, the Vagabond strode with Merrimanly...