ed brain understood that they desired to honour the
man who had done the giant's share, the one who had made victory
possible, and he sensed a wrong, a sublime ignorance or indifference
that they should carry only him. The victory went back of George Morton.
He bent down, screaming into the ears of his bearers.

"Squibs Bailly! He found me. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't have played
to-day. Bailly, or let me down! Bailly made that run! I tell you, Bailly
played that game!"

In his earnestness he grew hysterical.

Maybe it was because they wanted to humour the hero, or perhaps they
caught his own hysteria, realizing what Bailly had done for him. They
stopped in front of the stands to which Bailly's bad foot had condemned
him during this triumphant march. They commenced a high-pitched, frantic
chant.

"We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly!"

George waved his hands, holding the column until the slender figure,
urged by the spectators remaining in the stands, came down with
difficulty and embarrassment to be caught and lifted tenderly up beside
George.

Then, with these two aloft in the very front, the wild march was resumed
through the Yale goal posts while Squibs' wrinkled face twitched, while
in his young eyes burned the unsurpassable light of a hopeless wish
miraculously come true.

XXVII

Green rescued George when his head was drooping and his eyes blurred. He
got him to the gymnasium and stretched him out there and set the doctors
to work on his head.

A voice got into George's brain. Who was talking? Was it Goodhue, or
Stringham?

"I guess you can see him, but he's pretty vague. Played the whole game
with a broken head. Lied to the doctors."

George forced his eyes open. Lambert Planter, still in his stained
football clothes, bent over him.

"Hello, Planter!"

Lambert grasped the black hand.

"Hello, George Morton!"

That was all. Lambert went away, but George knew that what he had really
said was:

"It's only what you've made of yourself that counts."

XXVIII

At Princeton they kept him in the infirmary for a few days, but he
didn't like it. It filled him with a growing fear. Since it made no
particular difference now how long he was ill, they let him see too many
callers. He distrusted hero worship. Most of all was he afraid when such
devotion came from Betty.

"Being a vicarious hero," Mrs. Bailly said, "has made my husband the
happiest man in Princet