What exactly was Mrs. Twyne up to to provoke such genuine antipathy? She came with search warrants, and what she was up to as a legitimate representative of the humane societies of Virginia and North Carolina was a hoof-by-hoof inspection of the horses she suspected of being "sored"—hooves treated with acid to cause blistering and thus pain the animal into lifting its feet higher. It is an old, reprehensible trick of Walking Horse owners (SI, Jan. 11, 1960 et seq.), and it goes on almost unabated. Mrs. Twyne has been campaigning against this particular brand of cruelty for years, sometimes without due caution, hence her immediate recognition in Raleigh. She has had film taken from her, her photographer roughed up, and she was once threatened with a shotgun. This time she thought to enlist the aid of the local constabulary, and a squad car was there for refuge when the mob closed in. She retreated without completing her investigation, an unconked crusader, but she said she had not given in or up. "I can never stop," she said. "Just think of those poor horses." She also said she could take being called a bitch, "but I do object to being called an old bitch. That's just not true." A crusader Mrs. Twyne is; a woman she is also.
MAKING ENDS MEET
The lone winner of a whopping $47,032 twin double payoff at Pimlico racetrack in Maryland recently was a fidgety, middle-aged man who begged that his name not be revealed—because he owes "about $50,000 worth of bills."
ACK-ACK FOR POLAR BEARS
The modern polar bear hunter is an intrepid fellow who spots his game from the air, stalks it (runs it ragged) across the ice until it is on the threshold of exhaustion, then lands and shoots it. A rule of thumb might be: don't land until you see the color of his tongue. The principal requirement of the hunt is not that the hunter be a good shot but that he have good flying weather. Tracking a milk cow in wet sand is the sporting equivalent.
Last year Shelby Longoria, an intrepid hunter from Matamoros, Mexico, chartered two planes—you never know when a polar bear is going to shoot one down—out of Kotzebue, Alaska and knocked off the biggest polar bear ever. Field & Stream magazine saw fit to recount the chase, and its editors defended it on the grounds that Longoria had risked his life flying over the ice. By this specious logic, you might defend a hit-and-run driver on the grounds that he had to drive on the freeway. In any case, the Boone and Crockett Club accepted Longoria's trophy, then in a smart about-face declared it would no longer recognize trophies shot in such a manner.
Four years ago—ever since the Alaska Fish and Game Department indicated that polar bears were underharvested—hunting from the cockpit became a booming business. Frequently bears have been shot while the hunter was still in the air. But now the polar bear may be becoming extinct. This week in the Alaskan press, U.S. Senator E. L. Barlett announced that he will push for an international agreement to protect the bears from dive bombers. Good for Senator Barlett. Spotting and chasing polar bears—or moose, or elephant, or man-eating grasshoppers—by plane should be outlawed. Hunters can darn well reach the bear by boat and stalk him by foot if they have a mind to, and if that's time-consuming and dangerous, then that's the way it ought to be.
A Lakeland, Fla. insurance man, Al Wieczorek, thought it was high time Lakeland put on a boxing match. He found others whose thinking was similarly backward, and they all put up $600 apiece to promote a match between welterweights Jose Stable and Rudolph Belt. Promotion money was short and the match was postponed, but eventually it was rescheduled for Henley Field, where the Detroit Tigers conduct spring training. Ticket sales ($6.60 for choice seats) were brisk—that is, they moved—and on the night of the fight 400 people were in the stands. The fighters were taped up and ready. But something was amiss. A $6.60 ticket holder was first to figure it out. "Hey," he cried, "there ain't no ring."
Sure enough, there was no ring. The two truck drivers Wieczorek assigned to round one up that afternoon in Tampa were unable to make contacts, so—in the way of truck drivers—they shrugged and went home. Al King, a Tampa promoter who was loaning Lakeland the ring, noticed the evening coming on and went into delayed action. With a friend he personally dismantled the ring and put it on a rented truck. Halfway to Lakeland, the truck ran out of gas. A friendly highway patrolman called a Lakeland wrecker, and the whole procession arrived at Henley Field at 9 p.m. By this time the crowd was out of the mood. And when the ring finally was assembled, it listed 12� to starboard. One fighter would definitely have had an uphill fight. Wieczorek threw up his hands and refunded the money.
TRY, TRY, TRY ONCE
We are busy compiling a dossier on the sportsmen of Grand Ledge, Mich., and the first conclusion we jump to is that they will a) try anything, or b) try anything, but only once. Recently we quoted an advertisement from the Grand Ledge Independent advertising a pair of football shoes that had been worn one hour. Now we are in possession of a Grand Ledge Reminder ad. "For Sale—red hunting suit, 2-piece, size 40. Nylon quilted lining. Worn once. $30."