Coming up this week on the old-time radio snack wagon, it's done, I killed as any man would have killed, I run as any man would run, it's done, I killed as any man would have killed, with my embroidery scissors, listen to the old-time radio snack wagon, snack wagon.net or wherever you get your podcast.

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Well, now it's time for this week's episode of The Man Called X. The original air date is April the 7th, 1951, and the title is India.

Now we present Herbert Marshall as The Man Called X. The Cyber night feature on NBC's five show festival of comedy, music, mystery, and drama brought to you by Chester Field, the only cigarette that gives you mildness plus no unpleasant aftertaste. The cigarette that brings you Bing Crosby and Bob Hope.

By the makers of Anison, for fast-reli from Panephetic, Neuritis, Neurogia, and by RCA Victor, world leader in radio, first in recorded music, first in television.

Herbert Marshall as The Man Called X. Wherever there is mystery, intrigue, romance, in all the strange and dangerous places of the world, there you will find The Man Called X.

Now wait a minute, here come our boys again. Bob, do you realize we only have one thing in common? Hardly enough for a happy marriage, is it? What's that being?

Chester Fields, of course. We both like and we both sell. And we better get to sell now. You know folks, better tasting Chester Field is the only cigarette that combines for you mildness with no unpleasant aftertaste.

How do you know their mild? Or you just make our mildness test? You buy them, open them up and enjoy that mildly aroma. Then smoke a Chester Field. You'll know it's milder because it smokes milder.

And Chester Field leaves no unpleasant aftertaste. That fact has been confirmed by the country's first and only cigarette taste panel. So, always buy Chester Field. Let's sum it up musically.

Buy Chester Field. Chester Field. The one that proves its case. Yes, Chester Fields are milder, milder, plus no aftertaste.

Oh, open the pack and give them a sniff. Then you'll smoke them.

The street known as Kalachaya winds its crooked filthy waves through the colorful heart of the jewel of India, the city of Bombay.

Down tall the Arabian Sea, the street winds, finally coming to an abrupt end amidst the turmoil and confusion of Bombay's dock area.

And it is there among the English merchants, the last car sailors, the Hindu, Muslim and Brahman dock hands and steve doors, that we find a familiar fock here, visibly flying his wares.

But believe me Saiyib, I swear by the father of my father, my father, nowhere, nowhere in all India. Could you find razor blades like these?

They'll sharpen pencils, often tin cans. You could even use them for cutting your whiskers.

Yeah, you get, okay, okay, now you don't have to get tough about a dock. Hey you, you, Saiyib. Maybe you'd like some peanut pictures, eh?

You get navel norm and theta bar and marry pig for that. Believe me for ten rupees a piece. How wrong can you go and beside the villa?

Pardon, Saiyib. Huh?

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