companions (one an expert on lizards, one a snorer, and one an Armenian who swore in Spanish). I had pegged it as the master suite for, even though it was only 9 feet by 6 feet and had no lock on the door, it was the only room with paint on the walls; and after chasing a mouse out from under the bed and cleaning out several hundred dead bees from between the windows, it ceased to resemble a menagerie. Indeed we were fortunate, for many residents were obliged to enter and exit their rooms through the screens. My companions were disposed to practice their separate arts for the next three days-- study lizards, snore, and swear; it was a long meet. But it was a good meet for me. It taught me a great deal about swimming and the intense, concentrated, yet full world it contains. I saw people from all over the country at that meet...people gathered under one aura of competition and emotion. I saw the novice, eager, keyed up to qualify--quick to joy, quick to hurt. I saw him win and I saw him lose, and either way he gained, though he might not know it. I heard the chatter in the marshaling area, and sat next to other swimmers nervously bending their lane cards or shaking their legs loose. Then there was the relief after the race: the quick sure movements of the winner, the sluggish withdrawal of the loser; the girl surrounded by males--a happy girl is always so full of beguiling charm, the boy surrounded by females--a little self- conscious. They were all part of the swimming world. But there were others...the little boy leaning against the fence in the cold night air, with tears and water dripping from his face, because he "lost the relay"; the little girl showing her parents her first award; and an older swimmer, after a disappointing race, with a sad smile on his face--the mark of many disappointments--for he had passed the point of despair and now in his exhaustion gave in to a cruel self- amusement at his own shortcomings....

The following was submitted anonymously in a mysterious envelope marked "Articles for Foam Fare." It is a letter addressed to Joanne Scarborough and, though unsigned, I have it on good authority (Seaweed Sully's cousin Sherlock Sully) that it was written by George Laskowski:

Dear Joanne, Being fairly new to the Patton ranks, I was extremely interested in the team's activities, especially those portrayed in your great, literary epic, the Clodyssey. You are wondering, maybe, how I found out you wrote it, since it was printed in our Communist Chronicle (Foam-Fare) as an anonymous contribution. At the Chatauqua Meet I wandered into Tom Sullivan's room (or should I say Bee-Hive) and while rummaging through his equipment for a raw hot-dog and some peanuts, I came across this ageless classic and happened to read the title and authoress before Tom walked in, covered with mosquito netting and armed with a "Bee" swatter and a can of insecticide. He got rid of the bees but had a little trouble with a bug who wanted to be George Washington at 3:00 in the morning. Anywho, the story thus far is great, written in the style of...ah...Mark Tw--no,...ah... Charles Dick--no,...ah, hummm, ah...Seaweed Sul-no, never, ...ah, oh well, written in a good style. You conveyed your ideas in masterful color with local understanding and it was


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