And then had come his great opportunity. A quiet, solidly built man, with wrinkled face, bright eyes and tangled hair, had watched his high school football exploits from the sidelines. From time to time he had beckoned and had whispered: “Hold the ball closer to your body. Lean. Lean far over. Don’t run for the sidelines. Break your way through.”
There had been an air of authority and knowledge not to be questioned about this old man. Red had listened and had tried to follow the other’s teaching.
Then, one day during his senior year at Central High the old man had touched him on the arm and had pronounced magical words:
“The university will need you.”
Red had thrilled at these words. He knew now, on the instant, that this was the “Grand Old Man” of football, the fairest, squarest coach that ever lived.
It had been good to know that the university would need him, for long ago he had learned that in his upward climb he would need the university. The university had found him. He had found the university. In his freshman year, a cub, there had been bitter days and hours of triumph. But why think of all that?
With a restless motion he rose, took three steps, the extent of his cabin, retraced them and sat down. “Like a beast in a cage!” he muttered low. “I’ll not stand it!”
He thought soberly: “No, this is not to be endured. Better the hard grind of football.”
But this girl in that other log-walled prison cell? His mind did a sudden flip-flop.
“She’s rich,” he mused. “At least her father is. That crook said he was. She did not deny it.” Red did not approve of rich people. They had too much, others too little. He thought still less of their children. It mattered little to him that the sons and daughters of certain rich men had endeavored to make friends with him since his success at football. He could not understand them, was puzzled by their ways, and wished quite sincerely that they would leave him alone.