Once outside of the great Yale Bowl, Panama stopped to roll a cigarette as his fellow noncoms followed suit. “I wonder what is going to become of that poor guy?” he said, somewhat absently. “You mean, Phelps?” asked the noncom who lost the money on the game. Panama nodded his head and proceeded to light his handmade weed. “I don’t know what’ll happen to him,” the third Marine added, “but if it was me, I’d blow my brains out.” Williams again was overcome with a fit of laughter, managing to add as a final retort: “That’s impossible, Red. That guy ain’t got no brains!” CHAPTER II Alone in the locker room for more than an hour after the game, Lefty worked out in his mind, the plans for the future. As much as it hurt him to reach the decision, he came to the conclusion that he would have to leave Yale, and the sooner he went, the better matters would be for all concerned. There was no other way around it, half the world thought him to be a blithering idiot, while the rest of humanity would whisper that his play was intentional, meant to throw the game to Harvard. It was six of one, and half a dozen of the other. Irrespective of what the world believed, the logical course for Lefty to follow was to leave New Haven and bury his identity until his present difficulties were at least forgotten. When he dressed, he found his mother and father still waiting for him. It was some time before any member of this unhappy trio found courage enough to speak, and when the moment arrived, it was Lefty who broke the silence. They were seated in the rear of a little restaurant on the outskirts of the town, near West Haven, a place discreetly chosen by Phelps, senior, because of the fact that college boys never went in that direction for their meals. “I’m going away,” Lefty began, with a display of hesitance in his voice. “I’m leaving to-night!” His mother’s face turned chalk white and she found her hand automatically grasping the edge of the table for support. “Oh, Son, you can’t do that!” “But I must, Mother. I could never bear to go back there and face their jeers, whispers and laughter. It is too much to ask of me!” “Then come home with us,” the little old lady pleaded. “We understand. Besides, no matter what has happened, Dad and I want you, Son.” Lefty’s eyes rested on the white tablecloth before him. He dared not look at his mother, less she detect the faint moisture trickling down his cheek. “That’s sweet of you, Mother, but I couldn’t go on, living off you and Dad. There isn’t a man in Bridgeport who would give me a job after what happened to-day. I’ve got to get away. I must work and find myself. Somewhere, some place, there is a square hole that will fit my square-pegged personality. When I find that place, I’ll make good!” Mrs. Phelps’ troubled eyes searched those of her own boy’s. She loathed to lose him, yet secretly she was proud of his determination to make good. “But where will you go?”