"They say that Larned's a regular find for Yale," remarked a chrysanthemum-headed youth to his friend hanging to a strap beside him. "He kicked a goal from the field last week, when he was playing on the scrub, from the forty-five-yard line. You ought to see him buck a line!" Teddie's name was on every one's lips, and the pater began, in spite of himself, to feel proud of his son, and to have a sneaking desire to see some of those accomplishments of his that other people seemed to know so much about. Fighting his way through the crush at the gate, Mr. Larned finally found himself inside, albeit in a decidedly dishevelled condition. An official with a long flowing badge directed him to the training-quarters where the Yale team was reposing during the last hour before the game. At the door the pater was confronted by Mike, the grizzled old trainer. "Of course Mr. Larned's here," he responded, surprisedly, to the former's inquiry, "but he can't see anybody just now." "Tell him that his father wishes to speak with him at once," said the pater, authoritatively. The trainer's manner became more respectful. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Larned," he said, firmly, "but the team can see no one before the game. The coachers are giving them a last talk now." "Do you mean to tell me," the pater demanded, hotly, "that I can't see my own son?" "Exactly, sir," replied the trainer, inexorably. "Just at present he's the full-back on the Yale eleven, and nothing else goes. And now, Mr. Larned, I'll write you out a pass to the grand stand, and then I must run back to the boys. After the game you can see your son aplenty--if there's anything left of him." And with this cheering suggestion, Mike scribbled a few words on a card, which he handed to Mr. Larned, and retired. The latter stood speechless for a moment. That a power on the Street, a man whose name was among the great ones of Manhattan, should be treated thus cavalierly, and that by a hired trainer-- "Why, it's preposterous!" exclaimed the pater to himself; nor was his ruffled self-esteem soothed when he read the scrawl on the card: "This is Teddie Larned's father. He wants to see the game. Mike." But then it proved an "open sesame," and the ushers, after reading the magic words, received him with the most marked attention, passed him along through the crowds of ordinary people who were not fathers to famous full-backs, and finally seated him in a front box which was specially reserved for the parents of the players--though Mr. Larned did not know this. Next to him was seated a tall, ruddy-faced man, wearing the slouch hat which the old generation of Westerners still cling to. He was beaming with jollity, and joined a deep bass to some of the college songs that Yale voices were chanting all around him. "Well, to-day's the day we watch the youngsters distinguish themselves," he remarked, cheerily, to Mr. Larned, during a lull in the cheering that was surging up and down the grand stand.