f he
hadn't been a prominent college man with such ties among the great as
Blodgett hadn't been able to knot himself. What was more to the point,
the stout man admired George's ambition. He was more generous with his
surreptitious advice. He paid a larger salary which he admitted was less
than George earned during that summer. George, therefore, went back to
Princeton with fuller pockets. Again Mundy was loath to let him depart.

"You know more about this game than men who've worked at it for years."

His face of a parson grimaced.

"You'd soon be able to hire me, if you'd stick on the job instead of
going back to college to get smashed up at football."

George, however, didn't suffer much damage that year. He played
brilliantly through a season that without him would have been far more
disastrous than it was.

When it was all over Squibs sat one night silently for a long time. At
last he stirred, lighted his pipe, and spoke.

"I ought to say to you, George, that I was as satisfied with you in
defeat as I was in victory."

"I outplayed Planter, anyway, didn't I?"

Bailly studied him.

"Did that mean more to you than having Princeton beaten?"

"It kept Princeton from being beaten worse than it was."

"Yes," Bailly admitted, "and, perhaps, you are right to find a personal
victory somewhere in a general defeat."

"But you really think it selfish," George said.

"I wish," Bailly answered, "I could graft on your brain some of Allen's
mental processes, even his dissatisfactions."

"You can't," George said, bluntly. "I'm tired of Allen's smash talk.
Most people like him could be bought with the very conditions they
attack."

Bailly arose and limped up and down. When he spoke his voice vibrated
with an unaccustomed passion:

"I don't know. I don't think so. But I want you to realize that
prostrate worship of the fat old god success is as wicked as any other
idolatry. I want you to understand that Allen and his kind may be
sincere and right, that a vision unblinded by the bull's-eye may see
the target all awry. My fear goes back to your first days here. You are
still ashamed of service."

"I've served," George said, hotly.

"Was it real service," Bailly asked gently, "or a shot at the
bull's-eye?"

Almost involuntarily George clapped his fingers to his head.

"You're wrong, sir," he cried. "I've served when nothing but the thought
of service brought me through."

Mrs. Bailly hurried in. She put one ha