“I believe there’s one man who will help us,” persisted Phil. “That Dr. Brayton is a Seaton alumnus, and knows football down to the ground—everything about it good and bad. If any one of the four doctors your father mentions will back you up, it’s Brayton. The thing for you to do is to get Grim to let you off for a day, and go up to Boston and see Brayton. If you tell him the story, and let him look you over, it’s an even chance that he’ll give you a clean bill of health. If he does, your father will have to back down.”
Wolcott leaned suddenly forward in his chair and fixed his eyes eagerly on Poole’s, while an expression of intense joy lighted his face. In a moment, however, the flash of hope had passed, and he sank back into his old position more despondent than ever.
“Is he the Brayton who was on the Seaton-Hillbury athletic committee last year?” asked Ware.
“Yes, and he helped save Dickinson for the team when they were trying to run him off, on a perfectly false charge of professionalism,” said Poole. “Dr. Brayton is as square a man as ever lived, and what’s more, believes in athletics.”
“I don’t suppose father knew that,” observed Wolcott.
“I don’t care whether he did or not,” retorted Poole, sharply. “All I say is, that if your father has agreed to take Brayton’s opinion, and there’s a chance of its being favorable, you’re a great fool if you don’t try to get it—unless you really don’t care to play.”
“He wants to play fast enough,” said Laughlin, taking the words out of Wolcott’s mouth, “and I’ll see that he tackles Dr. Brayton. If anybody thinks I’m going to play a poor man in that game when I can get a good one, he’s mistaken. The best we can scare up may not be good enough to beat Hillbury.”
Wolcott smiled feebly. “Of course I’ll try it, but I don’t expect anything to come of it.”
That night he arranged by telephone for an interview with Dr. Brayton, and on Saturday took the early train for Boston. It was a forlorn hope, but a hope none the less; and that was enough for the sanguine friends who gave him godspeed on his way. As for Wolcott’s own feelings, he had already suffered so much from suspense and disappointment that he went indifferent, expecting nothing good, fearing nothing bad.