cious, after the first
moment of meeting, of a continued scrutiny from Squibs, of a hesitancy
of manner, of an unusually careful choice of words.

He had small opportunity to test this impression, for it was noon when
he reached the house in Dickinson Street, and there were many of the
tutor's products in the dining-room, snatching a cold bite while they
roared confused pessimism about the game.

"You're going to the side-lines," Squibs said when they had climbed the
ramp to their section of the stadium.

"I'd be in the way," George objected.

Bailly stared at him.

"George Morton on a football field could only be in the way of Harvard
and Yale."

George experienced a quick, ardent wish for thick turf underfoot, for a
seat on the bench among players exhaling a thick atmosphere of eager and
absorbed excitement. So he let the tutor lead him down the steps. Squibs
called to Green, who was distrait.

"What is it, Mr. Bailly?"

"I've got Morton."

Green sprang to life.

"Mr. Stringham! An omen! An omen!"

He met George at the gate and threw his arms around him. Stringham
hurried up. Green crowed.

"I believe we'll lick these fellows or come mighty close to it."

"Of course you'll lick them, Green. Hello, Stringham! May I sit down?"

"The stadium's yours," Stringham said, simply.

As he walked along the line of eager players, smothered in blankets or
sweaters, George caught snatches of the curiosity of youth, because of
nervousness, too audibly expressed.

"Who's the big fellow?"

"That? Longest kicker, fastest man for his weight ever played the game.
George Morton--the great Morton."

"He never played with that leg! What's the matter with his leg?
Football?"

George caught no answer. He sat down among the respectful youths,
thinking whimsically:

"The war's so soon over, but thank God they can't forget football!"

XXV

At the very end of the first half, when the Princeton sections
experienced the unforeseen glow of a possible victory, George caught a
glimpse of Lambert and Wandel close to the barrier, as if they had left
their places to catch someone with the calling of time. Just then the
horn scrunched its anxious message. George called.

"Lambert Planter!"

Stringham paused, grinning.

"Come over here, you biting bulldog."

Lambert made his way through the barrier and grasped Stringham's hand.

"Come along to the dressing-room," Stringham suggested, cordially. "Nice
bulldog, althoug