Wolcott was waiting in Dr. Brayton’s reception room. Dr. Brayton had been delayed at the hospital, the maid explained, but would soon be in. So Wolcott, curbing his impatience, gazed with half-hearted curiosity at the decorations of the room, and alternately wished that his father would act like other fathers, and wondered what kind of a man Dr. Brayton would be. There were books and magazines on the table, but at this moment books and magazines offered no attraction. Through a door opening into another room he caught a glimpse of one end of a framed diploma, and as he moved restlessly to the next chair, two photographs of football teams hanging one above the other came into view.

Now framed diplomas had no possible interest for Wolcott Lindsay, Jr., but pictures of football teams, probably famous teams, belonged to an entirely different category. He strained his eyes to make out the letters on the jerseys and sweaters, for the elevens were of the period when uniforms always bore the college initial. Failing in this, he advanced to the door, and, still tempted, boldly crossed the room and stood face to face with the pictures. Yes, they were Yale and Harvard elevens. Odd that the two should be hanging together like this! They were fine-looking fellows, beyond a doubt, but light! Not one in either picture looked a match for Laughlin.

An authoritative voice from behind startled him.

“Well, what do you think of them?”

Flushing deeply at being discovered in a place where he was perhaps not expected to be, Wolcott turned round upon his questioner. Before him stood a man a little shorter than himself, though heavier, whose breadth of shoulders was not due to tailor’s padding, nor his girth of chest to shirt front. He looked like the older brother of one of the players in the upper picture. The head prematurely bald, the streaks of gray in the close-clipped mustache, the serious lines about the mouth significant of heavy responsibilities faithfully borne—all this befitted a man well on in middle life. But the figure was still alert and young, the complexion still fresh, and the eyes still shone with the vivacity and friendliness of youth.

“They look rather small for members of big college elevens,” answered Wolcott. “They must have been quick, though, and I don’t suppose they needed to be so heavy for the game they used to play then.”

The surgeon’s gaze swept him from head to foot, resting fleetingly on his chest and thighs, and returning again to his face.

“It was a more open game in those days,” said Dr. Brayton, “and less elaborate. The crushing wedge attack and the complicated system of interference hadn’t yet been developed. So the play was livelier, less dangerous, and I think more interesting to watch.”

“So he calls it dangerous, too,” thought Wolcott, with a sinking at the heart. Depressed at the doctor’s words, and shy under the searching gaze of the strange eyes, he turned again to the pictures, rather to hide his embarrassment than because his interest in them was still keen. In the moment of silence that followed it occurred to him that this was a strange way in which to conduct himself in the office of a distinguished man who had interrupted his daily programme to give him a special hearing, and still more dissatisfied with himself he swung round again and opened his mouth to explain his business. Just then Dr. Brayton began to speak, and the formal phrase on Wolcott’s lips took flight.

“Yes, as players they may not—I say may not—have been the equals of the football heroes of to-day; but your heroes of to-day will have to be something more than football players to match the work some of these little fellows are doing now.”

“What are they doing?” asked Wolcott, eagerly. Here was one of his father’s criticisms anticipated.

“Their part in the world,” Dr. Brayton answered. “Take the backfield of that Harvard team, for example. The full-back is head of an important city church; the right half-back is manager of one of the great Western copper mines; the other half is perhaps the cleverest surgeon of his age in Boston; one of the quarter-backs is professor at Columbia, and the substitute half is president of one of the largest publishing houses of the country. The team has been out of college considerably less than twenty years.”

“You don’t say anything about yourself,” said Wolcott, with complimentary naÏvetÉ.

Dr. Brayton laughed. “I belong to the second class—those who have been faithful in small things.”

“Have the Yale men done as well?” asked the young man.

“I don’t know so much about them. That man holding the ball is a full professor at Yale. The man at his left is governor of the Hawaiian Islands.”^[2]

“I’m much obliged to you for telling me all this,” said Wolcott. “My father thinks football players are an inferior kind of men, who never will amount to anything, and I’m glad to know some facts that prove the contrary. I suppose I ought to introduce myself,” he added, his shyness suddenly recurring.

“You don’t need to do that,” replied the doctor, laughing pleasantly. “When I have an appointment with a young man who wants an examination for football, and I find a stalwart youth in my inner room so absorbed in studying old football pictures that he doesn’t hear me come in, it isn’t difficult to guess who he is. But now for business. What is it that you wish me to do?”

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]

Dr. Brayton stared incredulously. “I shouldn’t want that doctor’s job. You must have a good trainer.”

“We have,” said the boy, simply.

The interview was apparently over. Wolcott put on his coat. “Would you mind telling me what kind of fellows it is dangerous for?” he asked.

“The overtrained and the undertrained; the weak and the flabby; and the man who plays against dirty football.”

“What about me?” asked Wolcott.

But Dr. Brayton would not answer. “I’ll see your father this evening, and he may hand on to you my opinion, if he chooses. If he does let you play, I shall expect of you two things: first don’t get hurt; second, beat Hillbury, as in my day we sometimes failed to do.”

That evening Wolcott hovered within sound of the door-bell, and watched from a retired place as the parlor maid opened the door. He heard Dr. Brayton ask for Mr. Lindsay and saw him shown into the reception room. After an endless half-hour he was ushered out, and Wolcott went boldly in. Mr. Lindsay was standing in deep thought.

“I want to know my fate, father,” said the son, looking eagerly down into his father’s eyes.

“Do you still want to play in that foolish game?”

“There is nothing in this world I want more.”

“Then if you hold me to my promise I shall be forced to let you do it, though it is against my better judgment. Brayton has gone back on me.”

Wolcott’s face shone with joy. “It’s awfully good of you to give in. Can’t you come to the game? You’ll see that it isn’t so bad as they pretend.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but it is unnecessary,” said Mr. Lindsay, grimly. “I shall be there! And if I’m convinced in the course of the contest that you are risking life or limb, I shall take you out, Dr. Brayton or no Dr. Brayton.”

There was joy in the football clique on Monday morning when Wolcott returned with the good news. He joined in the practice once more that afternoon, and went into his game like a storage battery recharged, full of fire and dash and strength. The head coach and the trainer took his case to heart in their after-practice consultation, and the result was that the work of the last week was materially lightened. The last signal practice left the team fresh, vigorous, and eager for the fray.