Life — July 15, 1926 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

If the National Sport Adopts Tennis Etiquette HE BATTER (as the ball Tenis in the catcher’s mitt): What a perfect strike! Tus Prrcuer: No, I'm sure that was a ball. Tue Barrer: Why, it went right over the outside corner. Really, I’m positive it was a strike. ‘Tux Prrener: But I could see it fron here. That makes two balls. Tue Barrer: Well, let’s ask the umpire. Tue Pirener: Owens, did you ‘Tie Umpire: No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I was watching some- body in the stands. Sorry. Tur Pitcner: Not at all. All right. Mr. e that? Well, All right. Splendid. misses.) Nice one! me out, ‘Tur Prrcuer: No, that’s only two strikes. Tu see Barrer: Three, I think. Let’s First you threw me a high one that I let go by. Then I struck at -no, that was three innings ago —oh, yes, then I fouled one into the That made it one and onc. Then I did miss one, so you see that last was the third strike. Tue Prrener: Well, I was lucky. Really, I never in the world deserved to fan you. I do think you're a little bit off to-day. Tue Barter: Not at all. You're pitching marvelously. I’ve never seen y oing so well. Tue Pircuer: It’s sweet of you to say so, ‘Tur Barter: Well, I’ve got to be running out to right field now. Thanks awfully for pitching to me. ‘Tite Prreuer: It was fun, wasn’t it? Parke Cummings. one stands, Wanted: A Heavyweight PENNSYLVANIA Dutch farmer, notorious for his tight- ness, had just lost his wife. He called on his lawyer one day, and the latter condoled with him on his bereavement, adding: “She was a d wife, John!” Yaw,” said John. “Good, but a little light for my work.” T HE prize-ring is no place for a slow-poke. Patient (nervously): AND WILL THE OPERATION BE DANGEROUS, DocTOR? Doctor: Nonsense! YOU COULDN’T BUY A DANGEROUS OPERATION POR FORTY DOLLARS. My Schedule I TRY every contest that comes along. Last Monday evening, to show you how I spend my spare time, I wrote seventeen corking good lines for a limerick contest. -Tues- day night was not long enough for me to do a crossword puzzle which ought to be solved by the average person, so called, in twenty-eight minutes. Wednesday, for three hours after dinner, I searched the dictionary for ideas in a name-this- new-soap contest. Thursday I tuned in on a radio contest. One hundred cans of coffee were to be awarded to the hundred persons writing the best letters of appreciation. I wrote one I wrote was the best of the lot. On Friday I learned of a new scenario contest. I did not beg actual work on a_ scenario, but instead I tabulated the character- istics of the winning scenarios of several other contests I had partici- pated in. Saturday I composed a few slogans for a new lawn mower. On Sunday I tackled the only puzzle I seem to solve successfully. I guided my car, without accident, through the ever-changing maze of traffic. Bill Sykes. ET me write the headlines of the tabloids and I care not who reads the Saturday Evening Post. “WHY DOESN’T FATHER SIT DOWN AND ENJOY THE LUNCH?” “\1e’s REPEATING ALL THE TRAFFIC COP WHO BAWLED HIM OUT, SNAPPY REMARKS HE MIGHT HAVE MADE TO THAT IP HE HAD ONLY THOUGHT OF THEM AT THE TIME.” comicbooks.com