A tall, heavy-hung gentleman in his seventies yet surprisingly quick-stepping, got off a train at Winslow, Ariz, one day last week and boarded a plane for San Simeon, Calif. It was the Lord of San
Simeon himself, a sadder but wiser and sounder William Randolph Hearst. His return from New York was not entirely a Waterloo. He was sad because he had killed his dearly beloved New York American (TIME, July 5).* He felt wiser because he had at last taken the advice of his business associates who urged him to drop or consolidate losing...
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