ield.

Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kicked
that ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, the
more it became comprehensible that he had.

The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodged
two varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped on
the field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. The
Freshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the field
house. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhue
paused, calling out:

"Hello, Betty!"

At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand to
George.

"That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make me
congratulate you this way next fall after the big games."

"I'll do my best. I want you to," George said.

Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemed
unconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of his
mind.

"The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruel
cunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the higher
education at Yale or Harvard."

Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue.

"Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. I
told him before college opened he would be a great player."

Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent.

"It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said.

Betty went closer to him.

"Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won't
break training."

The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He felt
abruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, and
she smiled.

"And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebody
takes him by the hand."

George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out for
it, to close his eyes, to be led.

Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancour
and disgust cried out:

"You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes?
You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly."

"It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed.

"That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect a
woman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run."

Goodhue and George trotted off.

"I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said.

George didn't answer. Goodhu