Press: Columnist to Columnist

In a small cottage at Bethany Beach. Del., one tumultuous night last week, General Hugh S. Johnson sat down at his telephone by candlelight. Outside the wind screamed and howled in the flying spume as the tail of a West Indian hurricane lashed the little house, creaked its beams, I rattled its windows.

"HELLO!" screamed General Johnson to Central. "Hello! Get me New York City—Murray Hill 2-3020!"

The tempest's teeth had snatched out main telephone lines, necessitated emergency connections. Distant operators relayed the call and in Manhattan a tiny voice answered: "Hello—United...

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