He hired, through his CocaCola connections, a cooler, iced it up, and filled it with a trial case of the stuff, and parked it in the downstairs hall of the Theta chapter house.
We felt like Athenian sailors waiting for Persian triremes to blunder into the straits of Messina, but we were probably more like Vietcong irregulars waiting to ambush American swiftboat captains.
From the cabin came that horrible song: Here's to the feet wot have walked the plank. Yo ho! for the dead man's throttle.
Here's to the feet wot have walked the plank. Yo ho! for the dead man's throttle.
They are everywhere today, whistled in the streets, broadcasted, jukeboxed, danced to in ballrooms.
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