(See Cover)
The guest of honor at last week's luncheon meeting of the Cleveland Touchdown Club seemed the soul of mild-mannered urbanity. He broke his rolls before he buttered them. He politely said nothing about the veal cutlet. He refolded his napkin neatly when he was through. He wore a charcoal herringbone suit, and he buttoned his vest all the wayso only his tailor knew for sure about those 17-inch biceps, that 46-inch chest and that 32-inch waist. But the banquet toastmaster was not fooled for a second. "Gentlemen," he firmly announced, "I...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
