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?”

“Not a bit!” answered the young man, cracking the smooch of mud by a sudden laugh. “I’ve a scratch or two, and my left hip seems to work as if it needed a little oiling, and I’m pretty tired, but that’s all. How did you like it? Wasn’t poor Dave in hard luck to have to go out just when we needed him most? It was dead silly in him to throw away his head-gear like that!”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” observed Mr. Lindsay, dryly.

“He’s all right now except for a headache,” went on Wolcott, eagerly. “He really didn’t know what he was about when he went off. The first thing he asked when he came to himself was whether Hillbury got the touchdown.”

“Come, Lindsay, don’t be hangin’ round here, gettin’ cold,” interrupted an authoritative voice from behind. “Hustle over to the gym, there, and get a bath and rub-down as soon as ever you can.”

Mr. Lindsay turned in surprise and beheld a businesslike man in a sweater, whom he immediately recognized as the guardian of pail and sponge, who had so suddenly scurried into the field on several occasions when an ankle was to be rubbed or a face bathed.

“This is Mr. Collins, our trainer,” said Wolcott, looking ruefully at his father. “I shall have to do what he says. You’ll find me over at the gymnasium if you care to come.”

And while Wolcott trotted slowly away toward the Hillbury gymnasium, the trainer continued, as if his interruption needed excuse: “It’s risky for ’em to be hanging round in sweaty clothes after a game like that; but they will do it. You have to watch ’em all the time, if you want to keep ’em up to the mark. They’re boys, not men, and it’s sometimes pretty hard to make ’em take proper care of themselves.”

“I judge that you have succeeded,” remarked Mr. Lindsay. “They seem to be in excellent condition.”

A smile of perfect satisfaction lighted Collins’s face. “Right on edge! That son of yours played the game to-day. I knew it was in him. He’ll make a great player in college if they don’t spoil him.”

Mr. Lindsay received this prophecy with less enthusiasm than might have been expected of a proud father, and turned to watch the boys gathering for their triumphant march to the station. They were off now in a long line, proudly counting the score as a marching chant. They counted loud and strong as they circled the field; they counted up the hill and past the brick buildings on its crest. And as they filed away into the twilight on the other slope, the sound of their counting still came back to vex the much-enduring ears of Hillbury.

The trainer’s last words were in Mr. Lindsay’s mind as he wended his way toward the gymnasium, following the direction given him by a sad-eyed Hillbury lad. He knew little about football,—though more perhaps than he wanted to know,—but he had heard enough and seen enough to be sure that Wolcott had contributed quite as much as any one else to the Seaton success. Yet not a word had passed the boy’s lips that showed any consciousness of superiority. “Fine!” thought the father, with pride. “But that is in the boy, not in the game. It’s the old strain reappearing. The Lindsays have always been men of action rather than braggarts.”

At the gymnasium door he proved his right to be admitted, and some one showed him to the Seaton quarters. There he found Wolcott with a towel about his loins, and Milliken similarly clad, Hendry just getting into his shirt, and Durand dressed still more simply in nature’s garb of muscles and sinews, with a most glorious smile crowning his athletic figure, like the laurel wreath of a Greek victor. The boys greeted him cordially, and went on undisturbed with their rubbing and dressing, gloating over the grand events of the day. Over in the corner, propped against the wall, sat Laughlin, nursing a splitting headache, but clothed and in his right mind, and keenly interested in every reminiscent detail. Presently Poole came in, and accompanied Mr. Lindsay to a more convenient waiting-place outside. There after a time Wolcott joined them, and together they strolled toward the station at a pace adapted to the supposedly weary condition of the player.

Here was hilarious confusion. The little station was full, the platform thronged, while the constantly increasing crowd were straggling over the tracks indifferent to danger. The cheer leaders saw their opportunity, and bellowing through their megaphones, kept the way clear for the passing trains. In the press on the platform Wolcott found Mr. Graham, whom his father was glad to meet again; also Mr. Lovering, and Tompkins, who had of course come out from Boston to see the game. Later Poole presented Ware, and while Mr. Lindsay exchanged compliments with the manager, Poole laid hands on a passing Peck, and brought him to be displayed.

“This is Donald Peck, Mr. Lindsay,” said Poole. “You have probably heard of him from Wolcott.”

“Oh, of course,” answered Mr. Lindsay, who during the exciting afternoon had seen so many boys, dressed and undressed, and heard so many names, that he was not quite certain where to place the newcomer. “I am very glad to meet you. Were you one of the players, too?”

“Oh, no!” said Donald, shocked at the assumption. “I never could get on any team. I’m not man enough.”

“You are probably just as well off,” replied Mr. Lindsay. “I don’t entirely believe in this athletic craze.”

Poole now ventured a remark, and Donald slipped away. A moment later Wolcott appeared from the other side with another lad in tow.

“Here is Duncan Peck, another of my friends. He rooms on the same floor with me.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” said Duncan, who, slow though he might be in the classroom, was always ready with a polite phrase. “You came to see your son play, I suppose.”

But Mr. Lindsay was not to be taken in. “I am happy to meet any of your friends, Wolcott,” he said, “but this young gentleman hardly needs a second introduction. Poole brought him up a moment ago.”

“Oh, no, sir,” replied the smiling Duncan, promptly. “You must have mixed me up with some one else. I am sure that you have never seen me before.”

Mr. Lindsay stared blankly at the glib youth, wondering what could be the object of this evident falsehood.

“This is Duncan,” explained Wolcott. “It was another copy of him named Donald, that Poole introduced. You really must see them together. They’re the pride of the menagerie.”

At this moment Poole brought up the fugitive again, and standing him beside his brother, asked Mr. Lindsay to tell which he had first met. And while Mr. Lindsay stood in puzzled amusement, there was a scream from a near-by locomotive, and the cheer leaders began shouting through their megaphones again: “Keep off the track! This is not our train! This is the train for Boston! Keep off the track!”

“That’s my train,” said Mr. Lindsay.

“Come back with us and see the celebration!” cried Wolcott.

For a moment Mr. Lindsay felt tempted, not by the celebration, of course, but by a desire to linger in the society of these friendly lads among whom he felt the full charm of vigorous, light-hearted, unsoured youth. Second thoughts came quickly. “I think I have had about all the celebration that is good for me; I am as tired now as if I had played the game.”

The train crept cautiously in. Mr. Lindsay said good-by, and, jostled by other passengers eager for seats, climbed the steps of the platform. The circle of boys at his back cried good-by again and waved their hands. Behind them still others roguishly took up the shout, and violently swung their arms, until the whole platform seemed to be waving salutes and shouting adieus. And Mr. Lindsay, squeezed by the crowd and deafened by the shouts, dropped into a seat exhausted, thankful for the comparative quiet of the rumbling train. After all it seemed hardly as dangerous for a boy to play football as for his father to attend the game.

The happy throng left behind by the departing train waited, patient though by no means silent, for its own long line of cars.

“I say, Wolcott,” said Tompkins, sidling up for the fifth time with congratulations; “this isn’t much like our funeral here last June, is it? That was a terribly sour-looking bunch! There wasn’t a man in it who didn’t look like a yaller dog born with a tin can tied to his tail.”

Wolcott laughed, not at Tompkins, but from pure joy of heart. At the moment there flashed into his recollection the words Laughlin had uttered when the possibilities of football had first presented themselves to the new boy. “It’s a great thing to win a Hillbury game; it’s fine just to play in one, but to win,—win fairly and squarely, because you’re a better team and know more football,—why, it’s like winning a great battle.” He understood it now, understood it all; and his face sobered as he contrasted the joy of an accomplished victory with the uncertainty and discouragement of the heavy task which Phil was facing, as captain of the nine, with but a scanty nucleus of a beaten team to support him.

Some such thought must also have entered Tompkins’s ecstatic brain, for he turned toward Phil, who was staring in solemn vacancy out across the tracks, and dropped his hand affectionately on the ball player’s shoulder.

“It won’t happen again, will it, Philly? You’re going to give us a winning nine!”

“I’m going to try to,” replied Phil, quietly.

How he tried, and what came of the trying, will be told among other things, in the next volume of the series, “With Mask and Mit.”