PSAT

Line 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 City Hall was a lunatic pile of a building: a great, grim, resolutely ugly dust-catcher which had been designed eighty years before by the then mayor, one Clement “Nutsy” McGrath. An ebullient man of antic behavior, he was the only mayor of the city ever to be kicked to death by a camel. This had happened in Egypt; he had paused there while on an ill-advised world tour. Wandering about Cairo, he had encountered his first camel—hitherto like the roc, a creature of fable to him. This high-spirited and slightly demented man could hardly resist teasing such an odd beast; the response of the camel had been savagely disproportionate, and that had been the end of Nutsy. It was from this man’s unskilled and laboriously drawn plans that the present City Hall had arisen, and for generations it had been decried as the prime eyesore of the community. Despite this, the building had its defenders, and intermittent suggestions that it be razed had met with howls of protest from those who had worked long within it and who, with a certain rude poetic vision, saw in this inefficient, tangled warren the perfect symbol for municipal administration. It was a noisy and an active place. In its old, high-ceilinged chambers the elected and appointed officials of government slumbered, mused, or conducted the affairs of the city; in this they were guided by the opportunities afforded them and, to a somewhat lesser degree, by the strictures of conscience. Along the endless, outmoded corridors, hard by elevator shafts and water coolers, ranged little bands of political guerillas; having no perceptible tie with the management of the city, they were nevertheless perpetually busy with concerns of their own. Red of face, shrewd of eye, agile of tongue, they continually nodded, winked, and flashed the cabalistic signs of confederacy, all the while regarding one another with a surreptitious if unremitting attention. Mayor Frank Skeffington’s offices were on the third floor. Normally well-filled, this morning they were jammed to the doors, for with the announcement of last night the re-election band wagon officially had begun to roll, and the crowd was rushing to get on board. It was a familiar sight to Skeffington; he had seen it often before, this quick parade of the professionals to the post; and as often as he had seen it, he had felt the same undimmed flush of joyous anticipation. Much as he loved to win, he loved the fight to win even more, and in his appraisal of his own strengths he put in first place that of the born campaigner. This morning, once within the Hall, progress had been slow: there were more well-wishers lining his path from the outer door. He had greeted them all, addressing the majority by name. At length he reached his reception room, where the process was repeated; in addition to the individual greetings, he made a short speech, thanking all those assembled for their anticipated support in the campaign to come. Under cover of the cheers that followed this, he bowed, waved, and disappeared into his office. Here three men waited for him: his chief secretary, Tom Lacy, and his two principal advisers, Sam Weinberg and old John Gorman. “Gentlemen,” Skeffington said. “A grand day to start the ball rolling. As well as heads. What’s on the schedule, Tom?” “Everything’s fairly routine this morning,” Lacy said, planting a small pile of papers upon the great mahogany desk. “These are all for your signature: the notices to all heads of departments about the collection for Tom McCabe’s widow, the Easter proclamation, thank-you letters to the K. of C. And the Polish-American War Veterans. Then there’s the press conference, after which you’re giving the keys to the city to Fats Citronella. Then lunch with the members of the Highway Safety Committee.” Skeffington held up a hand. “One moment,” he said. “A little amplification is required: who is Fats Citronella? And why am I giving him the keys to the city?” “He’s a piano player. He’s coming here this week for an engagement at the Poli, and the theater people were anxious to have him officially welcomed. Cuke Gillen set it up.” “And I agreed?” “Yes, one day last week; Cuke caught you on the run. Actually,” Lacy said, “it may not be bad from the standpoint of publicity. Citronella’s apparently quite well known.”

City Hall was a lunatic pile of a building: a great, grim, resolutely ugly dust-catcher which had been designed eighty years before by the then mayor, one Clement “Nutsy” McGrath. An ebullient man of antic behavior, he was the only mayor of the city ever to be kicked to death by a camel. This had happened in Egypt; he had paused there while on an ill-advised world tour. Wandering about Cairo, he had encountered his first camel—hitherto like the roc, a creature of fable to him. This high-spirited and slightly demented man could hardly resist teasing such an odd beast; the response of the camel had been savagely disproportionate, and that had been the end of Nutsy. It was from this man’s unskilled and laboriously drawn plans that the present City Hall had arisen, and for generations it had been decried as the prime eyesore of the community. Despite this, the building had its defenders, and intermittent suggestions that it be razed had met with howls of protest from those who had worked long within it and who, with a certain rude poetic vision, saw in this inefficient, tangled warren the perfect symbol for municipal administration. It was a noisy and an active place. In its old, high-ceilinged chambers the elected and appointed officials of government slumbered, mused, or conducted the affairs of the city; in this they were guided by the opportunities afforded them and, to a somewhat lesser degree, by the strictures of conscience. Along the endless, outmoded corridors, hard by elevator shafts and water coolers, ranged little bands of political guerillas; having no perceptible tie with the management of the city, they were nevertheless perpetually busy with concerns of their own. Red of face, shrewd of eye, agile of tongue, they continually nodded, winked, and flashed the cabalistic signs of confederacy, all the while regarding one another with a surreptitious if unremitting attention. Mayor Frank Skeffington’s offices were on the third floor. Normally well-filled, this morning they were jammed to the doors, for with the announcement of last night the re-election band wagon officially had begun to roll, and the crowd was rushing to get on board. It was a familiar sight to Skeffington; he had seen it often before, this quick parade of the professionals to the post; and as often as he had seen it, he had felt the same undimmed flush of joyous anticipation. Much as he loved to win, he loved the fight to win even more, and in his appraisal of his own strengths he put in first place that of the born campaigner. This morning, once within the Hall, progress had been slow: there were more well-wishers lining his path from the outer door. He had greeted them all, addressing the majority by name. At length he reached his reception room, where the process was repeated; in addition to the individual greetings, he made a short speech, thanking all those assembled for their anticipated support in the campaign to come. Under cover of the cheers that followed this, he bowed, waved, and disappeared into his office. Here three men waited for him: his chief secretary, Tom Lacy, and his two principal advisers, Sam Weinberg and old John Gorman. “Gentlemen,” Skeffington said. “A grand day to start the ball rolling. As well as heads. What’s on the schedule, Tom?” “Everything’s fairly routine this morning,” Lacy said, planting a small pile of papers upon the great mahogany desk. “These are all for your signature: the notices to all heads of departments about the collection for Tom McCabe’s widow, the Easter proclamation, thank-you letters to the K. of C. And the Polish-American War Veterans. Then there’s the press conference, after which you’re giving the keys to the city to Fats Citronella. Then lunch with the members of the Highway Safety Committee.” Skeffington held up a hand. “One moment,” he said. “A little amplification is required: who is Fats Citronella? And why am I giving him the keys to the city?” “He’s a piano player. He’s coming here this week for an engagement at the Poli, and the theater people were anxious to have him officially welcomed. Cuke Gillen set it up.” “And I agreed?” “Yes, one day last week; Cuke caught you on the run. Actually,” Lacy said, “it may not be bad from the standpoint of publicity. Citronella’s apparently quite well known.”

City Hall was a lunatic pile of a building: a great, grim, resolutely ugly dust-catcher which had been designed eighty years before by the then mayor, one Clement “Nutsy” McGrath. An ebullient man of antic behavior, he was the only mayor of the city ever to be kicked to death by a camel. This had happened in Egypt; he had paused there while on an ill-advised world tour. Wandering about Cairo, he had encountered his first camel—hitherto like the roc, a creature of fable to him. This high-spirited and slightly demented man could hardly resist teasing such an odd beast; the response of the camel had been savagely disproportionate, and that had been the end of Nutsy. It was from this man’s unskilled and laboriously drawn plans that the present City Hall had arisen, and for generations it had been decried as the prime eyesore of the community. Despite this, the building had its defenders, and intermittent suggestions that it be razed had met with howls of protest from those who had worked long within it and who, with a certain rude poetic vision, saw in this inefficient, tangled warren the perfect symbol for municipal administration. It was a noisy and an active place. In its old, high-ceilinged chambers the elected and appointed officials of government slumbered, mused, or conducted the affairs of the city; in this they were guided by the opportunities afforded them and, to a somewhat lesser degree, by the strictures of conscience. Along the endless, outmoded corridors, hard by elevator shafts and water coolers, ranged little bands of political guerillas; having no perceptible tie with the management of the city, they were nevertheless perpetually busy with concerns of their own. Red of face, shrewd of eye, agile of tongue, they continually nodded, winked, and flashed the cabalistic signs of confederacy, all the while regarding one another with a surreptitious if unremitting attention. Mayor Frank Skeffington’s offices were on the third floor. Normally well-filled, this morning they were jammed to the doors, for with the announcement of last night the re-election band wagon officially had begun to roll, and the crowd was rushing to get on board. It was a familiar sight to Skeffington; he had seen it often before, this quick parade of the professionals to the post; and as often as he had seen it, he had felt the same undimmed flush of joyous anticipation. Much as he loved to win, he loved the fight to win even more, and in his appraisal of his own strengths he put in first place that of the born campaigner. This morning, once within the Hall, progress had been slow: there were more well-wishers lining his path from the outer door. He had greeted them all, addressing the majority by name. At length he reached his reception room, where the process was repeated; in addition to the individual greetings, he made a short speech, thanking all those assembled for their anticipated support in the campaign to come. Under cover of the cheers that followed this, he bowed, waved, and disappeared into his office. Here three men waited for him: his chief secretary, Tom Lacy, and his two principal advisers, Sam Weinberg and old John Gorman. “Gentlemen,” Skeffington said. “A grand day to start the ball rolling. As well as heads. What’s on the schedule, Tom?” “Everything’s fairly routine this morning,” Lacy said, planting a small pile of papers upon the great mahogany desk. “These are all for your signature: the notices to all heads of departments about the collection for Tom McCabe’s widow, the Easter proclamation, thank-you letters to the K. of C. And the Polish-American War Veterans. Then there’s the press conference, after which you’re giving the keys to the city to Fats Citronella. Then lunch with the members of the Highway Safety Committee.” Skeffington held up a hand. “One moment,” he said. “A little amplification is required: who is Fats Citronella? And why am I giving him the keys to the city?” “He’s a piano player. He’s coming here this week for an engagement at the Poli, and the theater people were anxious to have him officially welcomed. Cuke Gillen set it up.” “And I agreed?” “Yes, one day last week; Cuke caught you on the run. Actually,” Lacy said, “it may not be bad from the standpoint of publicity. Citronella’s apparently quite well known.”

City Hall was a lunatic pile of a building: a great, grim, resolutely ugly dust-catcher which had been designed eighty years before by the then mayor, one Clement “Nutsy” McGrath. An ebullient man of antic behavior, he was the only mayor of the city ever to be kicked to death by a camel. This had happened in Egypt; he had paused there while on an ill-advised world tour. Wandering about Cairo, he had encountered his first camel—hitherto like the roc, a creature of fable to him. This high-spirited and slightly demented man could hardly resist teasing such an odd beast; the response of the camel had been savagely disproportionate, and that had been the end of Nutsy. It was from this man’s unskilled and laboriously drawn plans that the present City Hall had arisen, and for generations it had been decried as the prime eyesore of the community. Despite this, the building had its defenders, and intermittent suggestions that it be razed had met with howls of protest from those who had worked long within it and who, with a certain rude poetic vision, saw in this inefficient, tangled warren the perfect symbol for municipal administration. It was a noisy and an active place. In its old, high-ceilinged chambers the elected and appointed officials of government slumbered, mused, or conducted the affairs of the city; in this they were guided by the opportunities afforded them and, to a somewhat lesser degree, by the strictures of conscience. Along the endless, outmoded corridors, hard by elevator shafts and water coolers, ranged little bands of political guerillas; having no perceptible tie with the management of the city, they were nevertheless perpetually busy with concerns of their own. Red of face, shrewd of eye, agile of tongue, they continually nodded, winked, and flashed the cabalistic signs of confederacy, all the while regarding one another with a surreptitious if unremitting attention. Mayor Frank Skeffington’s offices were on the third floor. Normally well-filled, this morning they were jammed to the doors, for with the announcement of last night the re-election band wagon officially had begun to roll, and the crowd was rushing to get on board. It was a familiar sight to Skeffington; he had seen it often before, this quick parade of the professionals to the post; and as often as he had seen it, he had felt the same undimmed flush of joyous anticipation. Much as he loved to win, he loved the fight to win even more, and in his appraisal of his own strengths he put in first place that of the born campaigner. This morning, once within the Hall, progress had been slow: there were more well-wishers lining his path from the outer door. He had greeted them all, addressing the majority by name. At length he reached his reception room, where the process was repeated; in addition to the individual greetings, he made a short speech, thanking all those assembled for their anticipated support in the campaign to come. Under cover of the cheers that followed this, he bowed, waved, and disappeared into his office. Here three men waited for him: his chief secretary, Tom Lacy, and his two principal advisers, Sam Weinberg and old John Gorman. “Gentlemen,” Skeffington said. “A grand day to start the ball rolling. As well as heads. What’s on the schedule, Tom?” “Everything’s fairly routine this morning,” Lacy said, planting a small pile of papers upon the great mahogany desk. “These are all for your signature: the notices to all heads of departments about the collection for Tom McCabe’s widow, the Easter proclamation, thank-you letters to the K. of C. And the Polish-American War Veterans. Then there’s the press conference, after which you’re giving the keys to the city to Fats Citronella. Then lunch with the members of the Highway Safety Committee.” Skeffington held up a hand. “One moment,” he said. “A little amplification is required: who is Fats Citronella? And why am I giving him the keys to the city?” “He’s a piano player. He’s coming here this week for an engagement at the Poli, and the theater people were anxious to have him officially welcomed. Cuke Gillen set it up.” “And I agreed?” “Yes, one day last week; Cuke caught you on the run. Actually,” Lacy said, “it may not be bad from the standpoint of publicity. Citronella’s apparently quite well known.”

City Hall was a lunatic pile of a building: a great, grim, resolutely ugly dust-catcher which had been designed eighty years before by the then mayor, one Clement “Nutsy” McGrath. An ebullient man of antic behavior, he was the only mayor of the city ever to be kicked to death by a camel. This had happened in Egypt; he had paused there while on an ill-advised world tour. Wandering about Cairo, he had encountered his first camel—hitherto like the roc, a creature of fable to him. This high-spirited and slightly demented man could hardly resist teasing such an odd beast; the response of the camel had been savagely disproportionate, and that had been the end of Nutsy. It was from this man’s unskilled and laboriously drawn plans that the present City Hall had arisen, and for generations it had been decried as the prime eyesore of the community. Despite this, the building had its defenders, and intermittent suggestions that it be razed had met with howls of protest from those who had worked long within it and who, with a certain rude poetic vision, saw in this inefficient, tangled warren the perfect symbol for municipal administration. It was a noisy and an active place. In its old, high-ceilinged chambers the elected and appointed officials of government slumbered, mused, or conducted the affairs of the city; in this they were guided by the opportunities afforded them and, to a somewhat lesser degree, by the strictures of conscience. Along the endless, outmoded corridors, hard by elevator shafts and water coolers, ranged little bands of political guerillas; having no perceptible tie with the management of the city, they were nevertheless perpetually busy with concerns of their own. Red of face, shrewd of eye, agile of tongue, they continually nodded, winked, and flashed the cabalistic signs of confederacy, all the while regarding one another with a surreptitious if unremitting attention. Mayor Frank Skeffington’s offices were on the third floor. Normally well-filled, this morning they were jammed to the doors, for with the announcement of last night the re-election band wagon officially had begun to roll, and the crowd was rushing to get on board. It was a familiar sight to Skeffington; he had seen it often before, this quick parade of the professionals to the post; and as often as he had seen it, he had felt the same undimmed flush of joyous anticipation. Much as he loved to win, he loved the fight to win even more, and in his appraisal of his own strengths he put in first place that of the born campaigner. This morning, once within the Hall, progress had been slow: there were more well-wishers lining his path from the outer door. He had greeted them all, addressing the majority by name. At length he reached his reception room, where the process was repeated; in addition to the individual greetings, he made a short speech, thanking all those assembled for their anticipated support in the campaign to come. Under cover of the cheers that followed this, he bowed, waved, and disappeared into his office. Here three men waited for him: his chief secretary, Tom Lacy, and his two principal advisers, Sam Weinberg and old John Gorman. “Gentlemen,” Skeffington said. “A grand day to start the ball rolling. As well as heads. What’s on the schedule, Tom?” “Everything’s fairly routine this morning,” Lacy said, planting a small pile of papers upon the great mahogany desk. “These are all for your signature: the notices to all heads of departments about the collection for Tom McCabe’s widow, the Easter proclamation, thank-you letters to the K. of C. And the Polish-American War Veterans. Then there’s the press conference, after which you’re giving the keys to the city to Fats Citronella. Then lunch with the members of the Highway Safety Committee.” Skeffington held up a hand. “One moment,” he said. “A little amplification is required: who is Fats Citronella? And why am I giving him the keys to the city?” “He’s a piano player. He’s coming here this week for an engagement at the Poli, and the theater people were anxious to have him officially welcomed. Cuke Gillen set it up.” “And I agreed?” “Yes, one day last week; Cuke caught you on the run. Actually,” Lacy said, “it may not be bad from the standpoint of publicity. Citronella’s apparently quite well known.”