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It was on the advice of my secretary, William Loeb, Jr., afterward head of the New York Custom-House, that the action was taken which started the uncovering of the frauds perpetrated by the Sugar Trust and other companies in connection with the importing of sugar.
Curtis that if she has to be washed, I'll wash her. I don't want no dago splashin' water all over the barn floor an' drawin' pay fer doin' it. Then's when I hears about the new car. Mr. Loeb comes out an' asts me if I ever drove a Packard twin-six. I says no I ain't, an' he says it's too bad. He asts the dago if he's ever drove one and the dago lies like thunder.
TRANSLATIONS: Rawlinson's edition with a version contains essays of the greatest value. It has been the standard for two generations and is not likely to be superseded. The Loeb Series contains a version by A. D. Godley. It contains everything necessary to confirm the claims of the historian. History, like an individual's life, is a succession of well-defined periods.
This Henry Moore could fling arguments like thunderbolts; he could marshall his authorities like an army; he could talk against the roar of the city and keep his restless audience about him; and if he did not believe in God he had complete faith in Haeckel and Jacques Loeb, and took at face value the lightest utterances of John Stuart Mill. I enjoyed listening to Henry Moore.
Herman Loeb, with red circles round her very black eyes, and her unrouged face rather blotched, sat in one of the second-floor-front rooms of a double buff-brick house on Washington Boulevard, hunched up in a red-velvet chair, chin cupped in palm, and gazing, through perfectly adjusted Honiton lace curtains, at the steady line of home-to-dinner motor-cars.
You don't know it, but you're walking in your sleep and the tenth-story window's open." "We oughtn't to come up here in business clothes," said Mr. Loeb, eying his cuff-edges. A woman sang of love. A chorus, crowned and girdled in inflated toy balloons, wreathed in and out among the tables. "She's not in that crowd."
Early the next morning he went down to a dingy frame building that cowered meanly in the shadow of the Criminal Court House. He mounted a creaking flight of stairs and went in at a low door on which "Loeb, Lynn, Levy and McCafferty" was painted in black letters.
Then came a cue of music like an avalanche, and quicker than Harlequin's wink the aisle was clean. "Gad!" said Mr. Loeb, his strong profile thrust forward and a light on it. "That little one with the black curls? Say! You can put her on your watch-fob and take her home." "Wouldn't mind!" said Mr. Loeb. "You and Moe Marx are like all the women-haters.
Andy wrote a nature letter once and sent it in about animals that he had seen caught in a trap lots of times. Loeb must have read it 'triplets, instead of 'trap lots, and sent the photo. Anyhow, it was useful to us to show people as a guarantee of good faith. "Me and Andy never cared much to do business in New York. It was too much like pothunting.
"One summer me and Andy Tucker, my partner, went to New York to lay in our annual assortment of clothes and gents' furnishings. We was always pompous and regardless dressers, finding that looks went further than anything else in our business, except maybe our knowledge of railroad schedules and an autograph photo of the President that Loeb sent us, probably by mistake.
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