“I don’t know—Europe, New York, California—anywhere so long as it is away from Yale. I’ve saved a little money, enough to take me away and keep me alive until I get something to do.” “But—but you will come back, won’t you?” she pleaded. “When I can show them all that I’m not the poor boob they believe me to be. Yes, then I’ll come back!” An hour later, after he had sent his mother and father safely on their way, back to Bridgeport, Lefty arrived at the New Haven station, bought a ticket to New York and checked his trunk through. He paced up and down the station platform, in and out of groups of people, waiting for the train, and passed howling newsboys who shrieked at the top of their lungs the announcement of the latest sports extra: “Wuxtra! Wuxtra! Read all about Lefty Phelps’ bonehead play. Wuxtra!” Anxious to get away from the sight of human beings and the glaring, printed account of his stupid play, Lefty hurried off, around the side of the station, near the freight depot, now completely deserted. Just as he turned around the corner, he heard someone approaching from behind. “Hey, mister,” a tiny voice called, “want a paper? Read all about the Yale prize boob what won for Harvard!” Lefty increased his speed, hoping to escape from the boy, but before he had taken another step, the newsie was alongside of him. The boy stared up into Lefty’s face, partly hidden by the turned down brim of his hat. In a moment, the former football player’s identity was discovered. “Holy mackerel!” cried the youngster, “if it ain’t the guy what ran backward hisself!” The man, flushed with anger and shame, brushed the boy aside, hurrying through a door that led to the men’s wash room, in fear that someone near by might have heard the newsie’s exclamation. When the harassed college man entered the wash room, he was relieved to find the place deserted save for two Marines, one who was busily making his toilet, while the other sat perched on the bootblack stand, reading the evening paper. These men, soldiers of the sea, would have little interest in football. For that matter, they probably didn’t even know a game had been played in town that day. Taking no chances, the boy pulled his hat a trifle farther down over his eyes and walked to the farther corner of the room, unnoticed by the men in uniform. “Say, I sure would like to get a peep at that guy,” the Marine perched on the bootblack’s stand finally broke the silence by saying. “I’ll bet he’s a fourteen carat pain in the arches.” The Marine leaning over the washbasin looked up, with wet face and grinning from ear to ear. “You said it,” he agreed. “If that guy has any brains, he’ll wear a beard from now on!” Both men continued to indulge in a repartee of light bantering at the expense of Lefty, whose cheeks were flushed crimson. Presently, the old darky in charge of the wash room entered, going directly to where Sergeant Williams was standing, buttoning his regulation blouse.