This soldier, who found keen enjoyment in the coquetry of a tropical native girl, the roar of a sixteen-inch gun or the intricacies of a Wright motor, lounged in a box at the Yale Bowl, visibly bored with the activities going on about him, and completely unresponsive to the spirit of the play; a direct contrast to the Marine beside him, who sat, seething with emotion. Over by the Yale bench, the worried coach, now confronted with the reality that his star player was lost to this game, entered into a hurried conference with his assistants. Each man viewed the row of players sprawled on the bench before them until the eyes of the coach fell upon the tall, gaunt figure of a fair-haired youth who sat, wrapped in a blanket, twitching his large fingers from nervousness. “I’m going to send in Phelps as Baer’s substitute,” the coach announced at length, his words almost deafened by the roars of objections raised by his assistants. “Lefty Phelps?” Scotty, the coach’s chief aid, questioned, “Why, he’s never been in a big game in his life!” “If you put him in as quarter,” another assistant ventured, “we’re bound to take plenty of punishment.” “Why?” the coach asked, visibly determined in having his own way. “Well, for one thing, he’s the nervous type,” Scotty explained, “and it’s just that failing that may break up the game.” The coach smiled broadly as if his assistant had grasped the very purpose behind his idea in selecting Lefty. “Nervous is right. His over-anxiety may get him so rattled that he’ll come through with a touchdown!” Lefty, of course, could not help but overhear this discourse on his failings and, at the words uttered by the coach, leaped to his feet and joined the little group of men. “You have been itching for a chance to win your ‘Y’,” the coach explained as Lefty confronted him. “Get in there as quarter. Carry the ball around left end. You’ve only got time for two plays. Now get that ball and come through with a touchdown! Do you hear?” Lefty didn’t stop to reply, but darted off to the umpire with the words of the coach still ringing in his ears: “A touchdown, do you hear?” The whistle blew for time up as Lefty announced his substitution. Over in the grand stand, on the Yale side, a white-haired man and woman rose with pride. There were smiles of triumph written over their aged faces as their boy entered the field for Yale and victory. “Mother, it’s our boy!” cried the man. “He’s going in!” The old lady’s eyes were moist with tears of joy. “God bless him—and Yale!” she murmured softly. “God help him!” bellowed the father. “Come on, Son. Touchdown! Come on!” In the box occupied by the Marines, enthusiasm had reached its peak with all the occupants save Panama.