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Updated: June 9, 2025
When time was called after the last round, his face was dashed with blood and he was much winded; but his spirit did not flag, and if there had been another round, he would have gone into it with undiminished determination. From this contest there sprang up the legend that Roosevelt boxed with his eyeglasses lashed to his head, and the legend floated hither and thither for nearly thirty years.
There is the small boy to face. It is a question for him. Conciliate him, and you may laugh at the pragmatic. His, too, is a healthy barbarism, beneficent in its action, that thinks scorn of eyeglasses and spectacles, and leads him to denounce quadruple vision, as, indeed, all departure from the simplicities of physical perfection.
Dressed in white flannels, with white shoes, a jaunty cap upon his head, eyeglasses hanging from a gold chain, and a cane lightly swinging from his hand, he made a figure that might have passed unnoticed on the promenade before some fashionable summer hotel, but that seemed a breach of the laws of nature when seen on the streets of a corn-shipping town in Iowa.
He was reading the name of the yacht when she said: "Come here, boy. Have you a telegram for me?" She used excellent French, and the messenger handed her the small blue envelope he was carrying. The lady dropped her eyeglasses, and scanned the address quickly before she read it aloud. "Richard Royson, British Yacht Aphrodite, Marseilles," she announced, after a moment's pause.
"Hush oh, Van, how can you? and he's going back to college, and you won't see him for ever so many weeks." Van swallowed something in his throat, and bent all his energies to settling the different articles in the trunk. "Percy," said Polly presently in a lull, "I do just envy you for one thing." "What for, pray?" asked Percy, settling his beloved eyeglasses for a better view of her.
Presently he lifted his cold, greyish eyes but not his head, like a man looking up over eyeglasses: "You are this Kay McKay described here?" he inquired pleasantly. But in his very clear, very cold greyish eyes there was something suggesting the terrifying fixity of a tiger's. "I am the person described," said the young man quietly.
There were rings on both hands, a rather showy but valuable stickpin in the scarf. The hands were not those of a laboring man. At the bridge of the nose a faint depression showed that he wore eyeglasses. His complexion was blond, and his eyes, open now only to a slit, might also have been light in color.
"It does, sir," said Miss Belcher, unfolding the chart and pointing. Dr. Beauregard adjusted a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses and bent towards it. The writing was indistinct, and he put out a hand as if to take hold of the edge of the parchment and steady it. The hand, I noticed, did not tremble at all. "Stay a moment, sir." Miss Belcher turned the chart over.
"Don't worry; I sha'n't forget myself, nor what is due to a Bayley," with a short laugh. And then she heard him go into the drawing-room and close the door. When he came back, which he did in the space of half an hour, his face was wreathed in smiles, and he chuckled now and then, as he sat down in his big chair and drew out his eyeglasses.
It was a waterfront reporter. It was three waterfront reporters, from three mornin' papers, an' all lookin' for news. "'Joe, says one little runt, all hair an' nose an' eyeglasses, 'there ain't enough news on the Front to-day to dust a hummin' bird's eyebrow. Give me a story, Joe. Somethin' new an' brimmin' with human interest. You must have somethin' up your sleeve, ain't yuh?
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