Names make news. Last week these names made this news:
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Tablehoppers, a newly opened Hollywood saloon for members only. One of the founding Tablehoppers. Hotel Heir Conrad ("Nicky") Hilton Jr., 27, whooped his way out of the place in the tow of a good Samaritan, Cinemactor John (Surrender) Carroll, who tried to beach rudderless Nicky in a quiet berth in Carroll's apartment near by. On their long voyage home, Nicky got hold of the car door, expertly swung it to blacken Carroll's eye. Local cops, called by Carroll's neighbors, described the rest of the trip. To the echoes of cursing, screaming and collapsing furniture, Nicky greeted them with a manful challenge: "You want a fight? Here I am!" In handcuffs, Nicky was hauled in a radio car to the police station, where he hoarsely announced: "I can buy and sell the lot of you, and I'm going to do it, too." After kicking a cop in the shins, Nicky was calmed down. He gave his age as 22, his occupation as "loafer," his pleasure as getting sprung for $1,000 bribe (declined). Booked as a common drunk, Nicky was taken to county jail with exactly $14.16 in his jeans.
In Iran, an appeals tribunal upheld the punishment of former Premier Mohammed Mossadegh, who, in deference to his allergy to jail, had got one of history's shortest stretches for high treason: three years in prison, thus far livened only by a "fast unto death" that lasted two days.
Two of the nation's most venerable poets, New England's patriarchal Robert (Birches) Frost, 79, and the Midwest's lean-jawed Carl (Chicago) Sandburg, 76, looking more than ever like blood brothers, showed up at Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria for some new laurels. To them and eight other U.S. authors went awards from the Limited Editions Club for having written "books which seem most likely to survive as classics."