Mr. Lindsay climbed stiffly down the tiers of seats, and edged his way past the side-lines into the field, over which the exultant crowd had suddenly scattered, like leaves flung broadcast by a whirlwind from the gardener’s neatly ordered pile. He wanted to make sure that Wolcott was unhurt and to congratulate him upon his escape. This, at least, was his avowed object. Within his heart, however, lurked another motive, less definite and unacknowledged, to show some recognition of the work the boy had done; some appreciation of the skill, the physical power, the coolness and alertness of mind, the tremendous persistence, which had marked Wolcott’s play from the beginning. There are boys before whom a teacher must sometimes feel like standing uncovered, so much more faithful and sufficient do they seem in their places than he in his. Some such impulse of respect Mr. Lindsay felt, as he pushed by the stragglers toward the groups about the players. It was not the victory,—he cared nothing for that,—nor the silly boys’ enthusiasm for an athlete; the play as an achievement, as an example of what training and determination and hard endeavor could accomplish, appealed to him in spite of himself. But to know where Wolcott was to be found was one thing, to get at him another. Around each group of players crowded the hero-worshippers, who, though they shifted and squirmed and danced in and out of their places, still kept a serried line of backs to the outer world, and offered no practicable opening to a middle-aged intruder, awkwardly conscious that he was out of place. As he stood wavering on the outskirts of the throng, there passed within his reach an eager, glad-faced youth, with a red badge on the lapel of his coat, a megaphone in his hand, and, as Mr. Lindsay discovered on addressing him, a hoarse voice in his throat. The youth halted, heard the stranger’s appeal, and dived unceremoniously under the elbows of the outer circle. Soon the circle parted again and Wolcott popped forth, making haste a little stiffly, and showing a face on which smears of mud were streaked by rivulets of sweat, but shining with exultation. “We did it, father, didn’t we?” he cried, as he caught Mr. Lindsay’s clean glove in both his grimy hands. “Oh, it was splendid! You can’t imagine the fun; I wouldn’t have missed it for anything! Didn’t Milliken buck the line, though? When he once got his nose by my shoulder, they simply couldn’t stop him. And Hendry was all over the lot—there seemed at least two of him. And Paul Durand! Wasn’t that the cleanest tackle that ever was made? If Joslin had got by that time, I believe we’d have been done for. You’ll never see anything better than that if you go to a hundred games!” “I dare say not,” calmly interposed Mr. Lindsay, who had no desire to see one more game, not to mention a hundred. “Did you get hurt?”