Word: furiously
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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Rubber men answered that question in detail, last week; but not until they had done some furious trading. As the Baldwin announcement flashed over the cables to Manhattan, bedlam broke loose in the red-brick building which houses the New York Rubber Exchange. At the close of a day of pandemoniac selling all records for volume of turnover had been shattered by transactions totaling 8,985 long tons and exceeding $5,000,000 in value. The average price, chalked up again and again with fractional variations by perspiring board boys, was 21? per pound...
...Furious was the rate of trading all last week on the New York Stock Exchange. Many a trader had been bearish, gambling on the probabilities that prices would fall. Of this, shrewd men laden with money were fully aware. They bought stocks and in such quantities that the bears could not supply. Shares of the Radio Corporation of America were particularly and peculiarly in demand. One Michael J. Meehan, Manhattan broker, bought and sold them for Arthur W. Cutten of Chicago and the Fisher brothers of Detroit, who managed a sort of corner in R.C.A. stock. Its price, consequently, rose...
...booed all through the race. Brocco, 43-year old champion trying to come back, pedaled till his rheumatic legs stiffened like hooks, forcing him out. A visiting band announced that as a tribute to Veteran Frederick Spencer they would play "When You and I Were Young Maggie." Furious, Spencer gained a lap. In the gallery Spectator James Miglio was mauled by a special detective, led off to court in his undershirt and trousers. The band played "Among My Souvenirs." As is usual in six-day races the records of all previous six-day races in lap-stealing, attendance...
Eliza has made her precarious way across the ice, strewing her wake with the pillows that gave her the necessary embonpoint. The buzz-saw has ceased to hack at the disheveled hair of the fainted heroine, and the villain, with a furious gesture, has gone to meet his Maker. Gone are the thrillers and the tragedies and mysteries that held audiences tense for every moment of their diurnal span. Gone indeed, but the tradition seems to linger...
...last week, at Kansas City, Mo., Reporter Moses Lamson caught his Robert Malachi Crowe. No doctors had helped, nor any policemen; only a furious Negro friend whose wife Robert Malachi Crowe was blackguardedly courting. Detectives hustled the prisoner to Chicago, where a judge quickly sentenced him to prison. The reporter received a $1,000 bonus and the Tribune the want ad publicity, as the moral approbation, upon which it had calculated...