“That’s sweet of you, Mother, but I couldn’t go on, living off you and Dad. There isn’t a man in Bridgeport who would give me a job after what happened to-day. I’ve got to get away. I must work and find myself. Somewhere, some place, there is a square hole that will fit my square-pegged personality. When I find that place, I’ll make good!”
Mrs. Phelps’ troubled eyes searched those of her own boy’s. She loathed to lose him, yet secretly she was proud of his determination to make good.
“But where will you go?”
“I don’t know—Europe, New York, California—anywhere so long as it is away from Yale. I’ve saved a little money, enough to take me away and keep me alive until I get something to do.”
“But—but you will come back, won’t you?” she pleaded.
“When I can show them all that I’m not the poor boob they believe me to be. Yes, then I’ll come back!”
An hour later, after he had sent his mother and father safely on their way, back to Bridgeport, Lefty arrived at the New Haven station, bought a ticket to New York and checked his trunk through.
He paced up and down the station platform, in and out of groups of people, waiting for the train, and passed howling newsboys who shrieked at the top of their lungs the announcement of the latest sports extra: “Wuxtra! Wuxtra! Read all about Lefty Phelps’ bonehead play. Wuxtra!”
Anxious to get away from the sight of human beings and the glaring, printed account of his stupid play, Lefty hurried off, around the side of the station, near the freight depot, now completely deserted.
Just as he turned around the corner, he heard someone approaching from behind.