“The Yale confidence of winning the game with Princeton to-morrow has been shattered, and gloom enshrouds the camp of the Elis to-night. Collins, the great full-back, who has been the key-stone of Yale’s offensive game, was taken to the infirmary late this afternoon. He complained of feeling ill after the signal practice yesterday; fever developed overnight, and the consulting physicians decided that he must be operated on for appendicitis without delay. His place in the Princeton game will be filled by Ernest Seeley, the Freshman, who has been playing a phenomenal game in the back-field, but who is so lacking in experience that the coaches are all at sea to-night. The loss of Collins has swung the betting around to even money instead of 5 to 3 on Yale.”
The elder Seeley wiped his glasses as if not sure that he had read aright.
Ernest had seemed to him no more than a sturdy infant and here he was, on the eve of a championship football battle, picked to fight for the “old blue.” The father’s career at Yale had been a most honorable one. He, too, had played on the eleven and had helped to win two desperate contests against Princeton. But all this belonged to a part of his life which was dead and done for. He had not achieved in after years what Yale expected of him, and his record there was with his buried memories.
Supper was forgotten while Henry Seeley wondered whether he really wanted to go to New Haven to see his boy play. Many of his old friends and classmates would be there and he did not wish to meet them.
And it stung him to the quick as he reflected:
“I should be very happy to see him win, but—but to see him whipped! I couldn’t brace and comfort him. And supposing it breaks his heart to be whipped as it has broken mine? No, I won’t let myself think that. I’m a poor Yale man and a worse father, but I couldn’t stand going up there to-day.”
Even more humiliating was the thought that he would shrink from asking leave of the city editor. Saturday was not his “day off,” and he so greatly hated to ask favors at the office, that the possibility of being rebuffed was more than he was willing to face.
Into his unhappy meditations broke a boisterous hail:
“Diogenes Seeley, as I live. Why, you old rascal, I thought you were dead or something. Glad I didn’t get foolish and go to bed. Here, waiter, get busy.”
Seeley was startled, and he looked much more distressed than rejoiced as he lumbered from his table to grasp the outstretched hand of a classmate. The opera-hat of this Mr. Richard Giddings was cocked at a rakish angle, his blue eye twinkled good cheer and youthful hilarity, and his aspect was utterly care-free.