Word: pinging
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When the U. S. indoor tennis championships started last week in Manhattan, several players looked good enough to win. First to fall was Jean Borotra of France. Declared the four-time winner: "I am getting too old. It looks like ping-pong next for me." George Lott, who limped with a sore toe, and Andre Merlin, French indoor titlist, went out in the quarterfinals. Frank Shields, No. 1 ranking U. S. player, and Sidney Wood, No. 6, were dropped in the semifinals...
Love came over the rice fields of Annam up the River of Perfumes, to the forbidden city of Hué, over the walls of the Red City and into the white dragon-eaved Palace. There, last week, among his jazz records, his ping-pong tables, his radio and his detective stories, it found and smote that gloomy youth, Bao Dai, hereditary Emperor of Annam, Son of Heaven, Absolute Master and Father and Mother of his People-and French puppet. Too bored to look sullen. Bao Dai spent his life from 9 to 19 in Europe, where he had let himself...
...south. She was a commoner, daughter of a well-born Chinese ex-Governor and her name was Marie Nguyen Hu Hao. She, too, had been edu-cated in Europe, in a convent near Paris. She liked detective stories and jazz and was ready to try her hand at ping-pong...
Coach Lorn is not Chinese. He is a Jew who was once a crack halfback of University of California.* He artfully persuaded his players who did show up that their parents would probably be less irate if they won. However the Japanese, including two former college linemen named Ping Oda and Ichiyafu, outplayed them for three periods. Then the Chinese team pulled itself together. Leong blocked Sim Nambu's punt on Japan's 8-yd. line, and Charley Hing slashed to a touchdown. Another blocked kick and Hing went over again. With the score 13-to-12 against...
...convict him everybody framed everybody else." Practically every character in his books, says Hammett, he has known in person. As readers of The Thin Man can see by looking at its jacket, Dashiell Hammett is himself tall, thin, handsome, mildly theatrical. Lover of parlor games, including drinking, expert ping-pong player, indefatigable host, he likes to keep long and late hours. No busman on a holiday, he reads few detective stories, much philosophy. An insomniac, it often takes a whole volume of Oswald Spengler's Decline of the West to put him to sleep. Unenergetic, he spent last summer...