My score at this was perfect; that is to say, sometimes when it came my turn to catch I missed the ball, but the ball never once missed me.

Always it landed on some tender portion of my anatomy, so that my average, written in black-and-blue spots, remained an even 1000.
Daily I cantered around and around and around a running track until my breathing was such probably as to cause people passing the building to think that the West Side Y.M.C.A.

was harboring a pet porpoise inside.
Once, doing this, I caught a glimpse of my own form in a looking-glass which for some reason was affixed to one of the pillars flanking the oval.
A looking-glass properly did not belong there; distinctly it was out of place and could serve no worthy purpose.

Very few of the sights presented in a gym which largely is patronized by city-bred fat men are deserving to be mirrored in a glass.

They are not such visions as one would care to store in fond memory's album.