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We walked about for a time and finally reached the Obelisk. Biffy Lee, the head coach, suggested that we run through our signals. All of us doffed our overcoats and hats and, there on the expansive lawn, flanked by Cleopatra's Needle and the Metropolitan Art Museum, we ran through our signals. We then resumed our walk and returned to the hotel for dinner.
Biffy was in full evening dress an enormous white carnation in his button-hole and a crush hat under his arm. He was booked for a "Stag," he said with a yawn, or he would stay and keep him company. Jack didn't want any company certainly not Biffy most assuredly not any of the young fellows who had asked him about Gilbert's failure.
Pooch Donovan cannot say enough in favor of Doctor E. H. Nichols, the doctor for the Harvard team. Pooch's judgment is endorsed by many a Harvard man that I have talked to. Keene Fitzpatrick When Biffy Lea was coaching at the University of Michigan in 1901, it was my opportunity and privilege to see something of Western football.
I'm going to stop in on my way uptown this afternoon and apologize to her. I have her note, but I haven't had a minute to let her know why I didn't come. I'll show her the ring; then she'll know why. Saw it, didn't you?" Jack hadn't seen it. He had been too excited to look. Now he examined it. With the flash of the gems Biffy sat up straight, and the others craned their heads.
A committee was present from the Society of Architects to which Garry belonged; half a dozen of his old friends from the Magnolia were present, Biffy among them; the village Council and the Board of Church Trustees came in a body, and even McGowan felt it incumbent upon him to stand up during the service and assume the air of one who had been especially bereft.
He believed in exercise, and when word was sent out that Neil Snow had gone, it was found that he had just finished playing in a game of racquets in Detroit, and before the flush and zest were entirely gone, the last struggle and participation in athletic contests for Neil Snow were over. It was my experience to have been at Ann Arbor in 1900, when Biffy Lee coached the Michigan team.
Here was a man doing something we had never rehearsed as a team. But safe and sure the pass went from Horace Bannard and as Biffy Lea remarked after the game, "when Arthur kicked the ball, it seemed to stay up in the air about twenty minutes." Some people have said that I turned a somersault and landed on my ear, and collapsed.
Billy was with her, so I heard.... When they got to Delmonico's there came near being a scrap.... No.... Never had a dollar on Daisy Belle, or any other horse...." Loud laughter was now heard at the end of the hall. A party of young men had reached the foot of the stairs and were approaching Biffton and Jack. Garry's merry voice led the others. "Still hard at work, are you, Biffy?
While Biffy and his chums could always be found together, there were other less-fortunate young fellows, not only without coupon shears, but sometimes without the means of paying their dues who formed a little coterie of their own, and who valued and used the club for what it brought them, their election carrying with it a certain social recognition: it also widened one's circle of acquaintances and, perhaps, of clients.
Balliet, Beef Wheeler, Biffy Lea, Gus Holly, Frank Morse, Doggy Trenchard, Douglas Ward, Knox Taylor, Harry Brown, Jerry McCauley, and Jim Blake; King, nevertheless, stood out in lonely eminence, ready to touch the ball down, await the thunder of the joining lines of interference and pick up the tremendous pace, either at the apex of the crashing V or cunningly concealed and swept along to meet the terrific impact with the waiting line of Blue.
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