1922 Yearbook
Source URL
Title
1922 Yearbook
Description
The Ambrosian
from the turf. His measurements were then
taken for a wooden overcoat and he was carried slowly off the field. Aubrey Devine (the
same guy who made Walter Camp realize that
out past the yellow, winding Father of Waters; out in the wild, woolly and uncultured
Central West; out where the dogs bark at
trees, was situated the state of Iowa) was
entered in the place left vacant by Driscoll.
But still the three musketeers plugged and
plunged for gains. The Ancients were in a
joyous uproar while their descendants across
the field had settled into a glum silence. Next
Gibbons was carried off the field and the triumphant Ancient machine had the ball on the
Moderns' 5 yard line. Who would take Gibbons' place? A small, motionless figure completely wrapped in a thick blanket, sat on the
bench. He said nothing, but his large, dark,
Valentino-like eyes were shining with eagerness and the light of battle. He gazed pleadingly at Coach Gump, who craning his 13
inch neck in his 15 collar, glanced down the
bench and beckoned him. Throwing aside his
blanket the youth jumped to his feet, and,
after listening intently to the stream of wisdom Andy poured on him, trotted out upon
the field. Frank Merriwell for Gibbons was
marked up. But there was no hope. The
modern athletes seemed beaten. They were
tired, disgusted, battered, bruised, bleeding and fought but feebly. Play was resumed. The Ancients shifted to the right and the backfield came hurtling around the
end with Porthos toting the pigskin under his 20 inch biceps. A touchdown seemed
certain, but something maroon and pink streaked by the interference, crashed into the
musketeer and brought him to the ground three yards from the line. The streak was
our hero—ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Merriwell. But poor Frank's shoulders and
both ankles were broken. Nevertheless he fought on. They formed again; D'Artagnan barked out the signals; the ball was snapped and D'Artagnan started around
right end, behind perfect interference, on a sweeping end run. Van Albert broke
through the interference and tackled the runner around the ankles.
In falling, D'Artagnan fumbled the ball and Mermvell rushed in,
scooped it up and started down the field to the goal line, ninety-nine
yards away. Frank's handsome face was frightfully distorted with
the intense pain he was suffering from his broken ankles. But clamping his arrow-collar-man-like jaws together he bravely carried on,
with the whole Ancient team, led by the furious, cursing, revengeful
D'Artagnan, following but 10 yards behind. At mid-field the lead was
shortened to five short yards. Merriwell could hear the deafening
roar of the modern rooters urging him on. He also heard the thunder
of curses from the other side. He grew weaker and weaker with each
stride. He faltered on the 25 yard line but with a superhuman effort
he kept on. Within 15 yards of the goal he almost fell, and, although
his head was in a whirl and dark specks kept dancing before his eyes,
he stubbornly refused to quit. He reached the five yard line when he
One Hundred Seventy-two
from the turf. His measurements were then
taken for a wooden overcoat and he was carried slowly off the field. Aubrey Devine (the
same guy who made Walter Camp realize that
out past the yellow, winding Father of Waters; out in the wild, woolly and uncultured
Central West; out where the dogs bark at
trees, was situated the state of Iowa) was
entered in the place left vacant by Driscoll.
But still the three musketeers plugged and
plunged for gains. The Ancients were in a
joyous uproar while their descendants across
the field had settled into a glum silence. Next
Gibbons was carried off the field and the triumphant Ancient machine had the ball on the
Moderns' 5 yard line. Who would take Gibbons' place? A small, motionless figure completely wrapped in a thick blanket, sat on the
bench. He said nothing, but his large, dark,
Valentino-like eyes were shining with eagerness and the light of battle. He gazed pleadingly at Coach Gump, who craning his 13
inch neck in his 15 collar, glanced down the
bench and beckoned him. Throwing aside his
blanket the youth jumped to his feet, and,
after listening intently to the stream of wisdom Andy poured on him, trotted out upon
the field. Frank Merriwell for Gibbons was
marked up. But there was no hope. The
modern athletes seemed beaten. They were
tired, disgusted, battered, bruised, bleeding and fought but feebly. Play was resumed. The Ancients shifted to the right and the backfield came hurtling around the
end with Porthos toting the pigskin under his 20 inch biceps. A touchdown seemed
certain, but something maroon and pink streaked by the interference, crashed into the
musketeer and brought him to the ground three yards from the line. The streak was
our hero—ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Merriwell. But poor Frank's shoulders and
both ankles were broken. Nevertheless he fought on. They formed again; D'Artagnan barked out the signals; the ball was snapped and D'Artagnan started around
right end, behind perfect interference, on a sweeping end run. Van Albert broke
through the interference and tackled the runner around the ankles.
In falling, D'Artagnan fumbled the ball and Mermvell rushed in,
scooped it up and started down the field to the goal line, ninety-nine
yards away. Frank's handsome face was frightfully distorted with
the intense pain he was suffering from his broken ankles. But clamping his arrow-collar-man-like jaws together he bravely carried on,
with the whole Ancient team, led by the furious, cursing, revengeful
D'Artagnan, following but 10 yards behind. At mid-field the lead was
shortened to five short yards. Merriwell could hear the deafening
roar of the modern rooters urging him on. He also heard the thunder
of curses from the other side. He grew weaker and weaker with each
stride. He faltered on the 25 yard line but with a superhuman effort
he kept on. Within 15 yards of the goal he almost fell, and, although
his head was in a whirl and dark specks kept dancing before his eyes,
he stubbornly refused to quit. He reached the five yard line when he
One Hundred Seventy-two
Date
1922
Rights
St. Ambrose University, 518 W. Locust St., Davenport, IA 52803
Identifier
http://cdm16810.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/ref/collection/p16810coll2/id/8246