ocked one of his arms down as it was
outstretched to catch it. George missed the tackle but said nothing. A
second time almost identically the same thing occurred. This time he
remarked grimly, "Good trick that, Poe." But when the same thing
happened a third time on the same afternoon, he exclaimed, "Poe, if you
weren't so small, I'd hit you."

In '89 Thomas '90, substitute guard, was highly indignant at the way
some Boston newspaper described him. "The Princeton men were giants, one
in particular was picturesque in his grotesqueness. He was 6 feet 5 and,
when he ran, his arms and legs moved up and down like the piston rods of
an engine."

In '90 Buck Irvine '88 brought an unknown team to Princeton, Franklin
and Marshall, which he coached, and they scored 16 points against the
Tigers. And though the latter won, 33 to 16, still that was the largest
score ever made against Princeton up to that time. They did it, too, by
rushing, which was all the more to their credit.

Victor Harding, Harvard, and Yup Cook, Princeton '89, had played on
Andover and Exeter, respectively, and had trouble then, so four years
later when they met, one on Princeton and the other on Harvard, they had
more trouble. Both were ruled off for rough work. Cook picked Harding up
off the ground and slammed him down and then walked off the field. In a
few minutes Harding, after trying to trip Ames, also was ruled off. That
was the net result of the old Andover-Exeter feud.

In '91 Princeton was playing Rutgers. Those were the days of the old "V"
trick in starting a game. When the Orange and Black guards and centers
tore up the Rutgers' V it was found that the Captain of the latter team
had broken his leg in the crush. He showed great nerve, for while
sitting on the ground waiting for a stretcher, he remarked in a
nonchalant way, "Give me a cigarette. I could die for Old Rutgers," his
tone being "Me first and then Nathan Hale." One version quite prevalent
around Princeton has it that a Tiger player rushed up and exclaimed,
"Die then." This is not true as I played in that game and know whereof I
speak.

Fifteen years after that had happened, I met Phil Brett who had
captained the Rutgers Team that day, and he told me that his life had
been a burden to him at times, and like Job, he felt like cursing God
and dying, because often upon coming into a cafe or even a hotel
dining-room some half drunken acquaintance would yell out, "Hello, Phil,
old man, cou