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.”