Word: pack
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Trouble erupted first in Paterson, a city of 146,000 people (one-sixth of them Negroes), when a pack of carousing teen-agers in the slum Fourth Ward began pelting passing police cars with bottles and rocks. Soon hundreds of Negroes were racing through the streets, smashing windows and hurling debris at police. Almost simultaneously, 20 miles south of Paterson, hit-and-run bombers in Elizabeth, a city of 110,000 people (with 20,000 Negroes), pitched Molotov cocktails into three taverns. Before long, hundreds of Negroes were flinging bottles and bricks from rooftops and street corners...
Lacking the normal supply of G.I.s. Saigon's garish night life virtually flickered out. At one B-girl boîte, a lone visitor nursed his beer while a Vietnamese mademoiselle opened his pack ol cigarettes, another refilled his glass, and a third sighed, "These are bad times...
Fresh Spelling. For all its significance, the new decision was not likely to pack Georgia jury boxes with Negroes. Almost no one down South wants them there, not even some Negro defendants, who seem to suspect that they will surely get unduly harsh justice from Negro jurors leaning over backward to suppress a natural sympathy for their race. Nor does the decision go so far as to order jury service for Negroes. "The test," says Presiding Appeals Court Judge Horace E. Nichols, "is not whether any Negroes are actually on a jury. It is whether they are on the jury...
...many years ago, other jockeys didn't want a horse Ussery had just ridden. Ussery maintains that 90% of the horses he rides don't really run to win. They dog it along the rail, or bear out wide to get away from the pounding pack. "You just have to make 'em win anyway," he says. And in the early days, for Ussery that often meant flogging and kicking a horse to the finish line by brute force. Rage and frustration still get the better of him once in a while. At Aqueduct one race last week...
...Champs Elysees. As a cherry bomb burst in the air outside one boite, a French news-poule asked, "Is that a game for middleaged men?", to which Frankie glared redly, "Say that again and I'll smash your face in." She didn't, but the pack routed the rabble anyway with drawn knives, a gin bottle and a couple of clubs, leaving some Frenchmen thinking wistfully: Quel dommage the Bastille was ever torn down...