Wolcott explained his situation. He wanted Dr. Brayton to look him over and see what condition he was in, and then he hoped—he really had no hope—that the report to his father might in some way permit him to slip back into the game. “If you have any idea that I’m going to say that football is not a dangerous game, you are mistaken,” said the doctor, gravely, poising his stethoscope in his hand. “It is a dangerous game; but while for some the danger is considerable, for others it is insignificant—not greater than in any sport where physical strength and endurance are severely tested. In my judgment football doesn’t compare in risk with bicycle riding or automobiling, or sailing or swimming. Given the right man in the right conditions, and the danger is trifling. The only question is whether you are the right man, and whether you play under the right conditions.” For some minutes the thumping and sounding went on. When at last the stethoscope went back into the drawer, Wolcott asked eagerly, “Am I the right man?” But Dr. Brayton, instead of answering, started a series of questions as to how long he had played, what injuries he had received, whether he had gained or lost in weight during the season, how he felt at the present time, whether listless and tired, or elastic and eager for the game; whether the coach and trainer were capable and trustworthy men, what kind of a game was played at Seaton, and between Seaton and Hillbury; and a dozen similar questions. The last question touched on the accidents of the season. “There have been hardly any at Seaton this year,” said Wolcott. “A few have been out for a while with bad ankles or Charley Horse, and one fellow had a football ear. Why, the manager told me this morning that the doctor’s bill for the care of the first and second elevens—thirty-five men—for seven weeks was only nineteen dollars.”[3] ----- Footnote 3: