you know, but what I
want you to know is this--is this--what I want you to understand is
just how darned _white_ that was of you!"

"All right," said Stover frigidly, because he was tremendously moved
and in terror of showing it.

"That's not what I wanted to say," said Tough, frowning terrifically
and kicking the floor. "I mean--I say, you know what I mean, don't
you?"

"All right," said Stover gruffly.

"And I say," said Tough, remembering only one line of all he had come
prepared to say, "if you'll let me, Stover, I should consider it an
honor to shake your hand."

Dink gave his hand, trembling a little.

"Of course you understand," said Tough who thought he comprehended
Stover's silence, "of course we fight it out some day."

"All right," said Stover gruffly.

Tough McCarty went away. Dink, left alone, clad in his voluminous
football trousers, sat staring at the door, clasping his hands tensely
between his knees, and something inside of him welled up, dangerously
threatening his eyes--something feminine, to be choked instantly down.

He rose angrily, flung back his hair and filled his lungs. Then he
stopped.

"What the deuce are they all making such a fuss for?" he said. "I only
told the truth."

He struggled into his jersey, still trying to answer the problem. In
his abstraction he drew a neat part in his hair before perceiving the
_faux pas_, he hurriedly obliterated the effete mark.

"I guess," he said, standing at the window still pondering over the
new attitude toward himself--"I guess, after all, I don't know it all.
Tough McCarty--well, I'll be damned!"

Saturday came all too soon and with it the arrival of the stocky
Andover eleven. Dink dressed and went slowly across the campus--every
step seemed an effort. Everywhere was an air of seriousness and
apprehension, strangely contrasted to the gay ferment that usually
announced a big game. He felt a hundred eyes on him as he went and
knew what was in every one's mind. What would happen when Ned Banks
would have to retire and he, little Dink Stover, weighing one hundred
and thirty-eight, would have to go forth to stand at the end of the
line. And because Stover had learned the lesson of football, the
sacrifice for an idea, he too felt not fear but a sort of despair that
the hopes of the great school would have to rest upon him, little Dink
Stover, who weighed only one hundred and thirty-eight pounds.

He went quietly to the Upper, his eyes on t