In the Line

by Albertus T. Dudley

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.”