“Why, sure you will! That’s nothing. Say—I pull boners all the time, and in my game, it’s a lot unhealthier to get foolish than it is in football. What’s a game anyway? You’ve got your whole life to live. Don’t let a thing like that set you back!” Lefty smiled gratefully at the man who, a few moments before, he wanted to kill. His eyes then fell upon the silver wings on Panama’s chest, and for a moment, he forgot everything else. “Why—you’re a flyer, aren’t you?” Panama, pleased with the reverent manner in which Lefty put his question to him, grinned complacently, explaining that he was a sergeant in the aviation detachment of the Marine Corps. At that moment, the door opened and the other Marine stuck his head in. “Hey, Panama, snap into it, the train’s leaving now.” Panama grabbed for his hat and bag, starting out the door, and then stopped to look back at Lefty. These two gazed at each other, silently for a moment, then the Marine dropped his grip and walked back to where the boy stood. “Buck up now, trooper, and forget it,” he advised, cheeringly, holding out his right hand which Lefty gripped firmly. “My name’s Williams, Sergeant Panama Williams. I’m stationed at the San Diego base. If you’re ever out that way, drop in; I’ll he glad to see you!” Lefty smiled at the other warmly and released his hold upon the man’s hand. “You’ve been great! If I ever go West, I’ll look you up!” “Well, I got to shake now, buddy,” Panama said, reaching for his bag. “Keep a stiff upper lip and I’ll bet another five bucks you come out on top!” After the Marine had gone, Lefty walked to the window and watched them board the train. He felt a lump rise in his throat and a deplorable feeling of loneliness cast its spell upon the unhappy boy. When the train was well out of sight, he walked over to where he had left his suitcase. Just ahead of him was one of the regulation colored posters used by the United States Marine Corps in their recruiting campaigns. He studied the illustration of a manly, healthy looking aviator seated in the cockpit of a Marine plane, and read the caption over, several times. “The Marine Air Force make men,” he spoke aloud, repeating the announcement printed on the poster. “I wonder what kind of a job they’d make out of me?” CHAPTER III Six months of discouragement, six long months of faded dreams, hiding from the world’s laughter and literally running away from himself, was what Lefty had undergone since that eventful November afternoon in New Haven’s great sports stadium when a football game had changed the entire course of his life. He wandered from city to city and job to job, meeting with some success momentarily until the usual thing happened—someone recognized him and he again became the center of ridicule.