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RADIO MIRROR
sake, but he knew little of Government policy and nothing whatever about radio.
Floyd calmed his jangled nerves, promised to watch his words, and suggested that Segrario stand beside him during the broadcast and stop him if he started to say something he shouldn't.
Broadcast time came, and with Segrario at his elbow, Floyd started out by describing a peaceful, happy Madrid. "But," he said, "though it's Sunday, there are no church bells ringing in Madrid."
A warning shake of the head from the little manager stopped him, and he returned to harmless details. Then, once more, reportorial enthusiasm overcame judgment, and he tried to tell of the bodies he had seen on the campus — only to be stopped again, this time more peremptorily. The watching guards posted in the studio knew something was wrong, though they couldn't understand English. Their hands crept toward the breeches of their rifles. Another misstep, and Floyd knew there would be no time to explain.
He finished the broadcast, not knowing when he might say the fatally wrong thing, even unintentionally. Days later, he learned that he had been quietly cut off the air in the midst of his talk.
THE broadcast a week later was easier, ' in a way. At least, he had a script ready for submission to the officials. It was returned to him, ten minutes before broadcast time, butchered even of remarks he had considered perfectly harmless to the Government.
Floyd left Madrid with the intention of finding General Franco, leader of the Rebel forces in the north, and interviewing him. He had to take a roundabout route to do so — eastward from Madrid to Valencia, then by cruiser to Barcelona,
Mallorca, and Marseilles; across France to Hendaye, back of the Rebel lines at the French border, and down to Burgos, where, along with several other correspondents, he was effectively bottled up for several days.
Franco was at Caceres, some distance to the south, but no credentials were being issued to correspondents to go there to see him. Moreover, Floyd and the others were in danger as long as they stayed in Burgos.
At last Floyd and three other correspondents— H. R. Knickerbocker of the New York Journal, John Whitaker of the Herald Tribune, and a man from an English paper — lost patience, hired a car, and set out for Caceres.
In sight of Caceres, they instructed the driver to start blowing the horn and make more noise than three Spaniards. With the exhaust open and the horn bleating they tore through the winding streets like a messenger from Mars. The car screeched to a stop before Franco's headquarters and the quartet of correspondents leaped out in high excitement, waving their papers.
Their impetuous attack was too much for the guards surrounding their general. For all they knew, these men had just come from the front with news that Madrid had fallen. They fell back and let the reporters rush past them, direct to the room in which sat Franco.
Floyd's latest exploits, the Spanish ones, are no more than minor items in a long list. All his life he has had one motive, one desire — to be where the excitement and danger were thickest.
You can find the clue to his character in his childhood, and in his parents. He was born in Washington, D. C. on July 16, 1887. His father, Edward Thomas
Gibbons, who died two years ago, was an advertising man and promoter, a person of tremendous physical and mental energy, who always had more ideas than he had time to carry out.
Gibbons was usually successful in his enterprises, sometimes not. The family, which consisted of Floyd, Edward, Donald, Zelda, and Margaret, was always comfortably well-off. Sometimes Gibbons was very rich; sometimes it was necessary to economize.
LJIS mother, who before her marriage ■■ was Emma Theresa Phillips, undoubtedly contributed her share to Floyd's love of adventure and change of scene. "She was a regular gypsy, she enjoyed traveling so much," Floyd says affectionately of her. Far from complaining at the various uprootings which occurred during Floyd's childhood because Edward Gibbons had conceived a project in some distant city, she liked them.
When he was eleven he made his entry into the newspaper business. You can call it that, anyway. The Spanish-American War had broken out, and all Washington was in a ferment of excitement.
Newspapers couldn't be printed fast enough to satisfy the public demand for news from the front. Any boy with an armload of papers was sure to be sold out in a few minutes.
He went to his mother and asked to be allowed to sell the papers. He said he thought he ought to earn a little money, himself. Mrs. Gibbons agreed with him and gave her consent, but she wasn't fooled in the least by all his high-sounding talk. She knew exactly how he felt.
That was Floyd's first newspaper job. The second one came eight or nine years later, in Minneapolis. In between, there
MCK-DONT YOU KNOW,
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KEEP YOUR ENERGY LOW
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other food elements. As a result, your blood carries more and better food to your muscles and nerves.
Eat 3 cakes of Fleischmann's Yeast daily — one cake about K hour before meals. Eat it plain, or in a little water. Start today.
FLEISCMMANN'S FRESH YEAST CONTAIN 4 V/TAMINS IN APPITION TO HOQMONE -LIKE SUBSTANCES, WMkTM HELP TH£ POPV 6ET GREATER VAUU6 H2QMTHE ¥000 YOU EAT, ANP^ertT FASTER
ITS YOUR BLOOD THW *FEEDS"YOUR BODY.,.
One of the important functions of your blood stream is to carry nourishment from your food to the muscle and nerve tissues of your entire body.
When you find you get overtired at the least extra effort, it is usually a sign that your blood is not supplied with enough food. What you need is something to help your blood get more nourishment from your food.
Copyright, 1936
Standard Brands Incorporated