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Chapter One

I OPENED THE DOOR and walked into a scene of controlled chaos. The United Press newsroom on the twelfth floor of the Daily News Building in New York was at the time the largest newsroom in the world: several hundred men at hundreds of battered typewriters arranged in great Us--a U for each department--and dozens of teletype machines ringing and clattering day and night, erupting with news from all over the world. The editor sat at the outside of the U, the assistant editor faced him across the desk in what was called "the slot," and the rewritemen and reporters manned typewriters along the long arms of the U. The floors were littered with paper, cigarette butts, and the desks with graying, cooling, stained containers of coffee, empty Coke bottles, paper, pipes, debris. A haze of smoke hung over the scene; cigarettes dangled from lips or perched perilously on the edge of tables. Paper spewed from the open mouths of huge wastebaskets. The floor was filthy, debris smashed flat underfoot.

The shirtsleeved men kept their eyes on their machines as I walked down the long line of typewriters past the foreign desk where a tall skinny fellow with glasses looked up and almost nodded before turning back to the copy at hand. He was Harrison Salisbury, who would soon take over the job as foreign editor. Walter Cronkite had recently departed the scene to serve as a UP war correspondent in Europe. It was early January 1944.

Near the end of the room, an alcove on the left housed UP's Radio News Department. Here was another U-shaped cluster of long and short tables, half a dozen men at their typewriters too busy to look up, and in the corner of the room, by the window, a couple of proper desks. Leaning way back in a chair at one of them, his feet comfortably resting on the desktop, arms behind his head, a picture of relaxation in a scene of restrained turmoil: Phil Newsom, chief of the radio desk, the man with whom I had an appointment. Newsom was in his late thirties, good-looking, with a reddish complexion (martinis) and blue eyes that were enhanced by his startling white hair.

I introduced myself. "Priscilla Buckley," I said. "Are you Mr. Newsom?"

He sat up and invited me to sit down and very kindly, very gently, interviewed me. Yes, I was a recent Smith College graduate. (He took my word for it. I had filled out no forms.) Yes, I had worked on the college newspaper. (Even I knew enough not to press that point.) I had heard about the job opening for a copy girl through a college friend who was herself a copy girl at Associated Press in Rockefeller Center. No, I had never held a job before. Mr. Newsom explained to me that working for a news organization was not like any other job, and that I should understand that it had many drawbacks. It had no regular hours. You could be asked to work any shift around the clock. And there were no proper weekends. They tried to give everyone two consecutive days off every week, but it would be a long time, and maybe never, before I could expect a Saturday and Sunday off. The pay, he commented, was not good, although he didn't mention a figure. Finally he told me that the job I was asking for had been filled a day earlier, but he would take my name and address in case that didn't work out. We shook hands and I retired back through that long, busy newsroom and out the door where the receptionist, the only woman I had seen in my brief foray, asked how the interview had gone, and I confessed that I had not gotten the job. She said she was sorry.

We Were the Lucky Ones

It was years before I realized how lucky I was to be looking for a job just then, in January of 1944. Two years earlier, a third of the way through my junior year at Smith College, Japan had struck Pearl Harbor, and suddenly we were at war. Within weeks the campus scene had changed. Hundreds, thousands of young men dropped out of college and enlisted, and within months those who hadn't were being signed up in all sorts of service programs as all branches of the military, with a world war on their hands, rushed to enlist college-level recruits for the officer corps needed to move from peacetime to wartime strength.

At Smith, my senior year, over a hundred of my classmates had enlisted in the brand-new WAVES, the women's corps of the U.S. Navy, and girls I used to share a Coke or a malted milk with at the Corner Drug now marched in their neat blue uniforms, lisle stockings, and sensible shoes from dorm to mess hall to class to drill field in formation, looking neither left nor right. There was a feeling of urgency on the campuses to get on with life's work. Betty Goldstein (later Friedan), who had edited the Smith College newspaper the year I joined it, and who was a year ahead of me, was already in New York working for International Press. The rest of us wanted in, too. What none of us realized was that because at the height of the hostilities nearly eleven million young American men were in uniform, jobs in the civil economy that would have been closed to women two years earlier, and would be closed to them three years later when the veterans came home, were there for the plucking. Employers were desperate for help and we were the only help in sight, young women, girls really, in the graduating college classes of '42, '43, '44, and '45. We were the lucky ones.

Book of Knowledge

That afternoon I applied for another job that one of my helpful Smith friends had told me about. It was at The Book of Knowledge . My brothers and sisters, as many others in our generation, had grown up with The Book of Knowledge , a wonderful encyclopedia for children that was great to look things up in, but greater still to browse about in. The editors of the encyclopedia were in the process of bringing The Book of Knowledge up-to-date for a new edition and the job that I had heard about would be to rewrite the fairy tales and other stories in more modern and somewhat more understandable language. An extremely nice Mrs. Foster, I believe that was her name, interviewed me. This time I did fill out a simple form (family, educational background, date of birth, religion, and so on). She asked me to write a thousand-word piece on some thing or event that would be of interest to a young audience and to bring it in as soon as possible, the next day if I could manage it, since they were anxious to fill the job.

I rushed home to the Phoebe Warren House, a woman's boardinghouse where I was living with my sister Patricia, who was finishing off her senior year at the Nightingale-Bamford School in New York. I took out the portable Royal typewriter father had given me freshman year at Smith, insuring that I would learn to touch-type by having its letter keys blacked out. The numbered keys had not been blacked out, and to this day I have to look down when I type a number or depress the shift key and reach for @ # % ^ & * () - +.,

A month or so earlier some of my siblings and I had made the arduous journey from Mexico City to Morelia and thence by jeep and mule and foot to the site of the volcano of Paricutín, which had erupted several months earlier and was now a mountain several hundred feet high. It had been a fascinating excursion--and touching, too, when you rode past a row of small wooden crosses the campesinos had raised to divert the flow of lava from their adobe villages. I thought this might be a new and different kind of a story, and started to type.

On Thursday I got a call from Mrs. Foster. She liked my piece and was offering me the job, starting the following Monday, at $35 a week. Friday morning, a telegram from Mr. Newsom. The copy girl had quit. Could I start Monday morning? The pay was $18.50 a week! In 1944, $18.50 bought more than it does today, but not that much more.

What to do? There had been something terribly exciting about the glimpse of the UP newsroom. So, with gay abandon, I tossed aside The Book of Knowledge 's security and a living salary, and opted for UP, starvation wages, and a wonderful life. Rich I did not become from the labor of my brow, but neither have I ever been bored.

New York, New York, It's a Wonderful Town

In those days New York was the Mecca for the young and ambitious: it was where the action was. The very street names acted as magnetic poles. Want a career in business, in law, in finance? Head for Wall Street. In advertising? Madison Avenue. Publishing? Here were Time, Life, Fortune, The New Yorker , and a slew of the major book houses. (Boston still had a few.) Show biz? Broadway and Forty-second Street. Music? The Met, Carnegie Hall, Juilliard, and for the lower-browed, Fats Waller up in Harlem, Nick's in the Village, and Jimmy Ryan on West Fifty-second Street. Art? The Metropolitan Museum, the Frick, and the Whitney, and the new and exciting Museum of Modern Art. Journalism? New York sported a dozen scrappy newspapers, among them the Sun , the News , the Mirror , the Journal-American, World-Telegram , and Trib , plus the staid New York Times . "New York, New York," we all sang, "it's a wonderful town."

New York was big, exciting, bustling, clean, and safe. There was little street crime, certainly in Manhattan where we youngsters congregated.

It was a tidy kind of a city. The Italians lived in Little Italy and the Chinese in Chinatown. Writers, artists, poets, students, and kids settled in and around Greenwich Village where apartments were cheap and landlords permissive. The Germans were in Yorkville, in and around East Eighty-sixth Street. The blacks, who were called Negroes then, were mostly in Harlem and the Bronx. The homeless, who were called bums, hung out in the Bowery near the flophouses, soup kitchens, and municipal bathhouses. Jews ran all of the delis that the Germans didn't, as well as the newspaper stands and stores. Italians were greengrocers, tailors, and cobblers. The Chinese did the laundry. The French ran cramped little restaurants--Le Bistro, Chez Jacques, La Grillade, Le Coin Normand--where you could get tasty three-course meals for a couple of dollars. We weren't interested in who ran Wall Street and the banks because we knew little about the first and dealt sparingly with the second. The Irish owned, staffed, and patronized the corner bar, and patrolled the streets.

There was little or no crime, aside from the front pages of the News or Mirror . It was known that jazz musicians--especially the drummers--got high on heroin and cocaine, but drugs played no part in most people's lives. There was poverty--there is always poverty--but it was not much in evidence.

New York was also a nickel-and-dime city, where youngsters making twenty, thirty, and forty bucks a week could have a whale of a good time. Subways were swift, clean, graffiti-free, and safe, and they cost a nickel, as did most buses and the clattering, clanking elevated trains that ran north and south up and down Third Avenue. (Rents along Third, given that all conversation had to be suspended every minute or two as a train roared by, were cheap. That's where lots of us lived.) The Fifth Avenue buses were so grand they cost a dime, but in spring, summer, and fall you could ride on the open top deck of a double-decker bus all the way up Fifth Avenue and Riverside Drive feasting your eyes on the river traffic along the Hudson and marveling in the twilight as the lights outlined the airy gracefulness of the George Washington Bridge. Fifty cents at the Automat, ten buffalo nickels, could buy you a chicken pot pie (five nickels), a lemon meringue pie (three nickels), a glass of milk, and a cup of coffee (a nickel each).

We lived on what would now be called the poverty level, but didn't know it. (We did know enough, however, not to permit our parents to visit our apartments lest they give us The Look.) New York was our town. It was the tops! and so (we thought in our secret hearts) were we by the very fact that it had taken us in. To make it in New York, even at the bottom of the ladder, was to be in the Big Time. Every Broadway show told us that.

Collitchgirls

I arrived promptly Monday morning, shortly before nine A.M., inappropriately attired in a tailored suit, frilly white blouse, with hat and gloves and a navy blue purse that matched my high-heel shoes. Mr. Newsom was not yet in; he wouldn't arrive for another couple of hours. As I stood around uncertainly one of the shirtsleeved men at a typewriter noticed me. (Dick Amper was the noticing type) "You the new copy girl?" he asked. I nodded. "Bobby," he called, raising his voice. "Oh, Bobby, come here for a minute." From the back of the room a tall girl in sloppy smeared white blouse, shirttail half out, loped over. "What's your name?" Mr. Amper asked me. "Priscilla Buckley," I said, "but most people call me Pitts." "This is Bobby Ober," he said. "She'll tell you what to do," and he turned back to his typewriter.

Bobby was about eighteen, with a huge mouth and a broad smile that revealed uneven teeth. She shook hands and happily undertook my education, which meant that when anyone called for anything she sent me to do it, and went back to what must have been a most engrossing story in the Daily News , which had just been delivered by another copy boy. A copy girl was the equivalent of an office boy: you ran errands for the editors, went out to pick up drinks (soft) and sandwiches for the newsmen, changed the big rolls of teletype paper when they were in danger of running out, suffering verbal abuse if a word was lost in the transition from old to new roll. We sharpened pencils, ran out to the newstands to pick up the latest edition of every paper then printed in the city, and even, occasionally, emptied ashtrays that had disappeared beneath volcanic ash. (We were never instructed to do this; it was just that we couldn't stand the sight and smell of it.) It wasn't much fun.

Most of the handful of remaining copy boys at United Press were overaged underachievers, content to stay put in a no-future situation because they didn't aspire any higher. The copy girls, who were new to the enterprise, were something else again. For one thing they had aspirations: they wanted to be newspapermen. By most of the older newshands, we were, at least in those early days, contemptuously dismissed as collitchgirls , the syllables strung together in obloquy. " Collitchgirl ," sighed LeRoy Pope, who was riding the slot that first day when I went over to take his lunch order: "Another collitchgirl !"

Weeks later when the World War II manpower pinch had become so bad that I had been moved to the sports desk (over the all-but-dead body of the sports editor), LeRoy, again in the slot on a hot Sunday afternoon, would have his deepest suspicions of the inadequacy of collitchgirls confirmed. After he had responded to a dozen angry bells--complaints from local bureaus that something was wrong in a baseball score--and corrected my error, he stood up in the slot, brought his ruler down with a resounding slap that brought every head sharply around, and put me straight on how things work in the news world. "Pitts Buckley," he roared, "you can call Franklin Delano Roosevelt a goddamn sonovabitch, but you can't make a mistake in a baseball score!" He was absolutely right.

The Sports Desk

It was made clear to me when I was promoted to the sports desk ($25 a week) that I was never to mention my current assignment to anyone. What would editors around the country think if they knew that UP was so hard up it had had to assign a woman to the sports beat? My copy--even the nightly feature stories--went unsigned, or signed by the sports editor, and if a radio station or a UP bureau called for clarification of any point, I was instructed to call a copy boy and have him take the telephone while I dug up the needed information. He would then transmit it.

I didn't like my boss, the sports editor. His name was Bud Watson and he was a rarity in the news world: he was pompous and fussy and full of himself. Shifts came and went on the radio desk, and when you arrived you sat at whatever desk was empty and used that typewriter, those pencils, any eraser or handy stapler within reach, and if you went to the john and returned to find someone else at your desk, you simply moved over to another of the rickety Royal, Remington, and Underwood uprights that looked as if they had been bought about the time of the Civil War.

But not Bud Watson. Bud insisted that a man (of his rank and importance) needed his own desk, a typewriter reserved for his exclusive use, and a drawer in which he could lock his possessions when he departed the office in the evening. This the rest of us found preposterous, making Bud the target of innumerable practical jokes. A common trait of newspapermen is that they engage in childish practical jokes from which they derive immense amusement. One overnight shift--outraged by a snotty note Bud had written informing them that he had locked the roller of his typewriter in his desk drawer since he couldn't count on their complying with his civil request that they NOT USE HIS TYPEWRITER--spent hours planning a suitable revenge. When not otherwise engaged that night, they operated on his cherished Royal with a tiny screwdriver, loosening the screws that attached each letter-- q w e r t y u i o p--to its support. Then they cunningly rearranged them, putting the y where the t should have been, the u where the y should have been, and so on. The day staff, which had been alerted to the caper, tingled with happy anticipation when Bud walked in that morning and, having first wiped off the top of his desk with his handkerchief, unlocked his drawer and replaced his roller, sat down, and pulled his chair up to the typewriter. After consulting his muse for a moment, he wrote: "With the opening day of the 1944 football season ..." and only then glanced up to read what appeared on the page, to wit: "Eoyj yjr p]rmomh fsu pg yjr 1944 gppyns:: drsmpm ..." Someone ripped the sheet out of the typewriter and passed it around. The newsroom exploded in laughter and even George Marder, on the desk, usually the soberest of characters, joined in the general hilarity. One lowlife was heard to remark that he had no idea Watson could be so eloquent.

Fun 'n' Games

A classic newspaper joke, to which I was not subjected, but to which a few of my friends were, was the chase for the "paper stretcher." An editor would call a copy boy and say that he needed his paper stretcher right away, but that it was on loan to Joe Smaltz at the Trib . "Run over and tell Joe I need it back." Out the door would go the copy boy or girl, to the Trib where Joe would say, "Gee, I am sorry, but Ed Metz at the Brooklyn Eagle needed one in a hurry last week and I sent it over." On to the Brooklyn Eagle , and the Sun , and the World-Telegram , and the next paper until a bright light flashed and the copy boy finally got the message. There was no such thing as a "paper stretcher." What the slower ones then did was to return sheepishly to the office and the not unkind laughter of the staff. What the smarter ones did was to take in a movie and report back just before the end of that particular shift, having left the pranksters in the lurch.

Two staffers on the city desk had a great thing going with the yokels who would crowd the ground floor of the Daily News building to watch the renowned, huge revolving globe in its well in the middle of the floor. These particular bozos would fortify themselves with a couple or so drinks at Sellman's bar and eatery across Forty-second Street, and when well tanked, go into their act. The first, his fedora on his head, and a large PRESS sign tucked in the hatband, and carrying a bunch of manila paper in his hand, would race through the ground story of the building, past the globe and the excited tourists, yelling: "Scoop! Scoop!" and head for the elevators. Minutes later, Bozo number two, also attired with a fedora and a PRESS sign, would race in yelling: "Kill that story! Kill that story!" and head for the elevator. Thirty minutes later, they might well repeat the scene to an entirely different audience.

Sunday is a slow news day unless there is a major catastrophe--fires, floods, shipwrecks, earthquakes, erupting volcanoes, that kind of thing--and the office in consequence was usually at half staff and the pace low-key. This particular Sunday, as we lazily perused the morning papers, someone got a laugh over a blooper in the Herald Tribune . On a feature page there were two stories, one about Congressman Hamilton Fish, a leader of the America First movement prior to Pearl Harbor, and a second about the arrival of a new consignment of tropical fish in the New York Aquarium. The captions had been reversed.

It was either Ed Korry or Arnold Dibble, I don't remember which, who decided to rib the Trib editors about the boner. He called, identified himself as Mr. Fish, and asked to speak to the managing editor because he felt an apology was owed him. The editor came on the line and said that he was somewhat confused by the call since he had talked to Mr. Fish at some length earlier in the day and had promised to correct the error. Then, he asked, rather sharply: "Is this Mr. Hamilton Fish?" "No," replied Dib. "This is Mr. Tropical Fish."

Learning the Trade

After six months under Bud Watson's command, Phil Newsom called me over and said there was now a place for me on the regular news desk. I would get another raise (all the way up to $27.50) and be placed initially on the afternoon shift--2 to 10 P.M.--working mostly for Arnold Dibble and his assistant editor, Ed Korry, both of whom became lifelong friends.

On the United Press radio desk, incoming news from all over the world was rewritten for the spoken word and dispatched by teletype to 1,400 radio stations across the nation. Radio in those pre-TV days was the source of all instant news. It didn't work to tear a story from the regular news wire and read it over the air. It had to be reworked into shorter sentences and punchy prose and packaged into convenient five- and fifteen-minute segments. These packaged shows would be supplemented by sports and weather stories, feature stories and fillers, usually odd or piquant items useful to fill dead time on a radio show.

Our principal client was the Standard Oil Company of New Jersey, for which we produced "The Esso Reporter." At any hour of the day or night a local disc jockey could pull the latest five-minute news segment from the UP radio wire and intone: "This is your Esso Reporter," and give out with the very latest news. On many stations "The Esso Reporter" was broadcast every hour on the hour and had to contain fresh elements, all of which kept us very busy indeed. We called these five-minute shows "WIBs," from "The World in Brief." The fifteen-minute shows were known as roundups. (When my six-foot-tall friend Lee Jones--"the king-size Rita Hayworth," as she was affectionately known--and I, five feet two, both arrived to work one day in our college Persian lamb coats, someone called out, "Here come the Roundup and the Wib," and the names stuck for a while.)

There is a distinct knack to radio news writing, and our bible was the UP Radio Style Book , written by Phil Newsom. Sentences, for one thing, were shortened for easier delivery. Successful radio copy had a distinct beat to it; you had to hear it, not see it. And sibilants were taboo ("Sixteen suicides saw Stanford staggering" was not a good radio sentence). You had to be conscious moreover that a listener might tune in at any moment in the broadcast, which made it necessary to repeat the name of the person you were writing about more frequently than would be necessary in a regular news story. People were found to be innocent, or guilty. We didn't use "not guilty" because a listener might turn on his set between the "not" and the "guilty." That kind of thing. Great attention was also paid to sensibilities. If one hundred Flying Fortresses went on a raid and ninety-eight came back, you didn't say "only two were lost," because some listener's husband, father, son, or brother might be aboard that missing Fort. You wrote either "ninety-eight came back," or "two bombers are missing."

A cardinal rule was that when difficult-to-pronounce names came up, the rewriteman supplied the pronunciation to help the announcer read it right off without hesitation. The classic story of what happened when such precautions were omitted is the bulletin filed in the Congo when Dag Hammerskjöld's plane crashed. The first sentence read: "The secretary-general of the United Nations is believed to have been killed in a plane crash in Africa." When one announcer came upon Dag Hammerskjösld's name in the second sentence with no clue as to its pronunciation, he smoothly interjected: "The victim's identity is being withheld pending notification of relatives."

In the early forties, the networks were small and struggling; United Press with its 1,400 client stations was the nation's largest radio news service, which gave us the heady feeling that we were in the front lines of news delivery.

There were, in general, three rewritemen on every shift. When we came in, the editor in charge--George Marder in the morning, Arnold Dibble in the afternoon, Ed Korry often on the overnight--would assign us one of three news areas: the home front, the Western front, and the Pacific. We'd inherit a folder from our predecessor that contained clips of all the incoming stories from the various desks: the foreign news desk, the cable desk, the city desk, the domestic bureaus, and the rest. He'd tell us how much copy--we talked in terms of news minutes--he wanted us to produce. On a hot news day in Europe, the Western front might be assigned eight minutes of the fifteen-minute report, the Pacific two minutes, and the home front five. But these segments could change as the news changed. An editor or a copy boy would keep replenishing our folder with more details, changed casualty figures, new enemy attacks, whatever, and we would have to weave them into our copy.

Often the editor, impatient to put the package together, would come over and tear the paper out of the typewriter as you plugged away. George Marder, unaccustomed to dealing with sensitive young women, once crumpled up Mary Frances Jordan's copy and flung it in her face telling her it WOULD NOT DO. She burst into tears. Poor George was flabbergasted. No one he had ever worked with had burst into tears. Usually they would just swear back at him and attack the story again. Mary Frances wasn't cut out for fast-action news rewrite, but since she was so very nice and sweetly Southern and willing to work practically for free, she was reassigned to the Feature Department to churn out stories for the Sunday supplements. (Features was, in our collitchgirl minds, the equivalent of the Woman's Page.)

An Ear and Good Timing

To be good at radio rewrite you had to have an ear, good news sense, and an excellent memory so that you could absorb the news that was bombarding you from all quarters and reshape it in your mind into a coherent story with the numbers falling into place when called for. There was no time to leaf through the mounds of copy and check that it was ninety-eight bombers that got back, not ninety-six. Intelligence helped, but to be able to recognize the news nut and play it hard was essential. Digital dexterity--how fast you could hit those typewriter keys whatever technique you favored--was essential. (Sometimes you had to make an instant judgment call as when, on the night of FDR's death, we got word that Harry S. Truman's first reaction when told he was now president of the United States was, "I felt like as if a load of hay had fallen on my head." After a quick consultation we excised the offending "like.")

Both Lee Jones and Randolph ("Randy") Jennings had those talents, plus intelligence. Lee would go on to become articles editor of This Week magazine in its heyday, and later the managing intelligence at Magnum, the premier news photograph agency in the nation. Randy would run UP's West Virginia bureau at Charlestown and later, while her husband Norman Farquhar was going to law school at night in D.C., write most of the famous Eric Severeid fifteen-minute eleven o'clock news show in the early fifties. She wrote the ten-minute news segment, he the prestigious five-minute commentary that led to his later career in television.

Randy spent most of her UP days on the overnight shift, which was just as well. She, a West Virginia friend of hers, named Cissie Lively, who worked for Pan Am, and I once shared an apartment on Forty-seventh Street and Lexington Avenue. We were attracted to it by its wide enclosed wooden balcony on which we had a swinging couch, a picnic table, a cot, and several chairs. We slept there because the apartment had only one small single-bed bedroom. But come winter, when the winds howled through the wooden frame of the porch, we managed with just the bedroom only by working three different shifts: Cissie the conventional day shift, 1 the 2 to 10 P.M., and Randy the midnight to seven.

It's Bische, Pronounced BEESH

It was Randy who pulled off a truly joyous caper. American forces pushing out from the Ardennes in Belgium were headed for a small but important rail junction at a town called Bische. Our managers, rightly fearful that when Bische--pronounced Beesh--fell some disc jockey would mispronounce it, ordered us to include its proper pronunciation in caps whenever we mentioned the town. "Attn: Editors: Bische is pronounced B E E S H." To no avail. When the bulletin came in early one morning that Bische had fallen, Randy started her news report: "The sons of Bische surrendered tonight."

In those days if the United Press wire had carried "bitch" or any other off-color word, dozens of newspapers and radio stations in the Southern bible belt would have canceled their contracts instantly. So when, some years later, President Truman blew his stack at Washington Post music critic Paul Hume for savaging his daughter Margaret's performance in a concert, the UP reporter handled it thus: President Truman, he said, called the Post critic: "a --- -- - ----." Within minutes, a client was complaining that he couldn't figure out what that last four-letter word could be, which occasioned the following deadpan correction: Correction, In 2nd lead Truman, 2nd pgh, make it read xxx called him "a --- -- - -----."

On another overnight shift, the cable desk sent out a story about an obscure military action which was datelined "Globasawanne, India." The New York Times , then as now insufferably prissy and precise, called demanding that UP pinpoint Globasawanne on the map. Someone sighed and reached for the atlas, and many heads pored over it, magnifying glasses were invoked, but no Globasawanne could be located. It was only then that some old-timer went back to the original cable story and found that Globa Sawanne was the name of the local stringer who had originated the story, not the place from which he was writing.

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String of Pearls On the News Beat in New York and Paris

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