Rat-Hole

In Boston, one B. Tracey Ansell, elongated (6 ft. 6 in.), willowy (165 lb.), youthful (19 years), Harvard senior, aroused curiosity, interest, alarm, dismay, by roosting his exaggerated frame upon a stool in a lunch room and gulping down two, four, half a dozen, a dozen, two dozen, three dozen, three dozen and one, and five, and ten--four dozen soft-boiled (2 1/2 min.) hen's eggs, in 45 minutes. At the 37th egg he choked, gasped out, "That egg was rotten." As the 48th mingled with its predecessors, he unfolded himself, arose, collected a bet ($10) and the price of his orgy, paid the pop-eyed waitress, stalked through the crowd and made for his rooms.

In Washington, Mrs. Ansell, wife of Brigadier General S. T. Ansell, U. S. Army (retired), received the news calmly, cheerfully. Said she: "Feeding that boy has always been like putting cheese down a rat-hole."

Chance

At Los Angeles, a grocer on the city's outskirts whiled away time before his supper listening to his radio, heard a voice at Station KPO (San Francisco) saying: "Allen Straight is asked to communicate immediately with his father at Loveland, Colo. Straight is thought to be en route between Del Mar and San Diego." It was part of KPO's daily call for "missing people."

Thrifty, the grocer was still tending store when, two hours later, a motorist entered to make purchases. Hospitable, the grocer engaged his customer in conversation. Confiding, the customer let fall that his name was Straight. Quick-witted, the grocer asked if he was Allen Straight. Yes, he was. . . . Mrs. Straight was dying in Colorado.