Spray: Foam-Fare presents its own "candid-camera" called...The Spyglass. The following actually took place, Sat., Oct. 5, 1963 (all names have been omitted to protect the editor--from lawsuits).

2:00 PM the spyglass roves.
2:20 PM the spyglass discerns a large, frame barn half-shrouded in oak tress. Long shadows play up to its massive double doors and a high wind rushes from the tree-tops through the creaking upper story. A shingle flaps desolately on the roof, then settles to a steady drumming that echoes in the hollow rooms below. As if in answer to the beating code the doors suddenly swing open, silently, swiftly, crunching into the dust at either side of the path. Out from the shadowy opening rides our hero, ---- ------.
2:30 PM Our hero runs a huge hand over his closely-cropped blond hair and dismounts ten feet from the barn door where his horse has been standing since 2:20. He shakes his head sadly, muttering: "I never seen anything like it...."
2:32 PM Out hero has re-entered the barn--on foot. Two voices float from the doorway, the slow, lethargic tones of our hero and the raspy, guttural cut of the stablemaster. "What 'ya mean I gave you a bum horse?" the latter shouts. "Aw, cripe. I'm tellin' ya he's a bum horse...he just stands there...he don't move...I never seen anything like it!" "Are you sure you've ridden a horse before?" "Yes, I tell ya,...aw, cripe...he's a bad horse, that's all." "Well tell the (censored) to (censored)!" "All right...cripe, I've had it with him."
2:33 PM Our hero reappears, shuffles to his trusty steed and mounts. "All right, horse! Get your (censored...) movin!" A pause. I said (censored ...)!" No reaction. "(censored....................... .....................................)" The secret words prove detrimental both to our hero's moral sense and the task at hand. At this point a little girl steps from the barn, takes the horse by the reins and leads it and rider out into a field.
6:30 PM At last observation, the spyglass saw our hero still mounted, still motionless, still shouting...framed against a setting sun.

In case you still haven't recognized the subject, and additional recollection or two may bring him in focus. I've had occasion to walk across Telegraph on my hands with him at 2 AM--a stunt which seemed to fit his routine. It has also come within my experience to observe his keen sense of smell. One night in particular, he detected an unopened champagne bottle at fifteen feet. This too seems to fit his system (also fill it). Methinks he should be quite well in focus by now, but for those pessimists/optimists who refuse to venture a guess on pain of being wrong, our hero's initials are R.S. and his last name rhymes with...........


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