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What a marvelous tournament this proved to be! In very truth it was a World's Championship. Mrs.
The scenes of enthusiasm that had marked our arrival were repeated, the Yale stand being the center this time of the maelstrom of cheers. I shall not attempt to describe our own feelings as we got the first glimpse of our opponents in the coming fray. Who can describe the sensations of the contestants in the first moment of a championship game?
The question on the lips of all the tennis players was whether the stars of pre-War days would return to their former greatness. The Championship of the World for 1919 at Wimbledon was anxiously awaited. Who would stand forth as the shining light of that meeting?
Andrews I go to Ganton An invitation to the south of France The Championship at Muirfield An exciting finish A stiff problem at the last hole I tie with Taylor We play off, and I win the Championship A tale of a putter Ben Sayers wants a "wun'" What Andrew thought of Muirfield I win the Championship again at Prestwick Willie Park as runner-up My great match with Park Excellent arrangements A welcome victory On money matches in general My third Championship at Sandwich My fourth at Prestwick Golf under difficulties.
"Ah! madame," I cried, "a face so fair as yours needs not the championship of one English stranger, who holds already a preference for blue eyes and yellow hair. I grant you that he has a sorry taste; but oh! I pray you, stop this duel!" She loosed her hand from the clasp of mine, and looked at me a moment in silence; then she laughed bitterly. "Thou little fool! Thou little blue-eyed fool!
Said they'd come to Siwash for a college education, not for a course of etymology in a workhouse. It was terrible. We scarcely dared to cut out our mufflers enough to whistle to each other on the street. By spring we were desperate. We had lost the basket-ball championship. The glee club was ruined.
I should speak too strongly if I were to say that he took pleasure in the man's company, but he did, I believe, almost in spite of himself, secretly encourage it. And there was, in spite of the comedy that persistently hovered about his figure and habits, some fine spirit in Andrey Vassilievitch's championship of his hero. How he hated Semyonov!
It was not any famous struggle that was being fought out on the old Ailesworth Ground; it was only second-class cricket, the deciding match of the Minor Counties championship. Hampdenshire and Oxfordshire, old rivals, had been neck-and-neck all through the season, and, as luck would have it, the engagement between them had been the last fixture on the card.
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant to me E'en take it for a sacrifice, acceptable to Thee. The Sunrise football eleven had held the championship record with an uncrossed goal line in the autumn. The basket-ball team had had no defeat this year. Debating tests had given Sunrise the victory. That came through Trench and the crippled student.
And in the picture she had of him, in the physical semblance she had made of him, was reflected his spiritual nature, reflected by her worshipful artistry in form and feature and expression his bravery, his quick temper, his impulsive championship, his madness of wrath in a righteous cause, his warm generosity and swift forgiveness, and his chivalry that epitomized codes and ideals primitive as the days of knighthood.
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