“And then, Clint, think of following your meteoric career in the papers!

As I nibble at my toast of a morning I prop the New York _Herald_
against the water giraffe and read, spilling my coffee down my neck:
‘The life of the party was Right Tackle Thayer
“And then, Clint, think of following your meteoric career in the papers!
As I nibble at my toast of a morning I prop the New York _Herald_
against the water giraffe and read, spilling my coffee down my neck:
‘The life of the party was Right Tackle Thayer. Seizing the elongated
sphere and tucking it under his strong left arm, Thayer dashed into the
embattled line of the helpless adversary. Hurling the foe right and left
and biting the Claflin quarter-back in the neck, he emerged triumphant
from the mle. Dodging the enemy’s bewildered secondary defence, and
upsetting the umpire with a dull thud, our hero dashed down the field.
Line after line vanished behind his flying feet. Shod with the wings of
Mercury, he sped on and on and still on toward the far-distant goal
line. Cheers thundered from the encompassing stadium, met overhead,
broke and descended upon the head of the speeding runner in a shower of
fragmentary vowels and consonants. Still on and on went Right Tackle
Thayer. Friend and enemy were far behind. Victory stretched eager arms
toward him. With a last, gallant effort he plunged across the goal line
and fell unconscious beneath the cross-bar. At a given signal a wreath
of laurel descended from above and fitted about his noble brow. The
score: Thayer, 98; Claflin, 0!’”