Barbour Ralph Henry
Left Guard Gilbert

CHAPTER XX
AMY APPEARS FOR THE DEFENCE

PRACTICE on Monday was a wretched affair. To be sure, many of the fellows who had played in the Chambers game had been excused, but that didn't account for the fact that those who did take part went at their work as if half asleep. Both McPhee and Cotter failed to get any life into the first, and the second, while it, too, seemed to have taken part in the general slump, managed to score twice while the first was with difficulty wresting three touchdowns from its opponent. Mr. Robey shouted himself red in the face, Steve Edwards, who followed practice, pleaded and exhorted, and a stocky, broad-shouldered, bearded individual who made his appearance that afternoon for the first time frowned and shook his head, and all to small purpose. The players accepted scoldings and insults as a donkey accepts blows, untroubledly, apathetically, and jogged on at their own pace, guilty of all the sins of commission and omission in the football decalogue.

There was much curiosity about the newcomer and many opinions as to his identity were hazarded on the bench that afternoon. It was quite evident that he was a football authority, for Coach Robey consulted him at times all during practice. And it was equally evident that they were close friends, since the stranger was on one occasion seen to smite the head coach most familiarly between the shoulders! But who he was and what he was doing there remained a secret until after supper. Then it became known that his name was Proctor, Doctor George G. Proctor, that he was a practising physician some place in the Middle West and that he was visiting Coach Robey. But that was unsatisfactory data and some enterprising youth hunted back in the football records and, lo, the mystery was explained. Eight years before "Gus" Proctor had played tackle on the Princeton eleven and in his junior and senior years had been honoured with a position on the All-American Team. Subsequently he had coached at a college in Ohio and had put said college on the map. Now, having stolen away from home to see Princeton and Yale play next Saturday, he was staying for a day or two with Mr. Robey. After that became generally known Doctor Proctor was gazed at with a new respect whenever he appeared on field or campus.

Don and Tim went up to Number 12 that night after supper to call on Tom Hall. Tim was having hard work making Don face the music. If Don could have had his way he would have kept to himself, but Tim insisted on dragging him around. "Just keep a firm upper lip, Donald," he counselled, "and show the fellows that there's nothing in it. That's the only way to do. If you keep skulking off by yourself they'll think you're ashamed."

"So I am," muttered Don.

"You're not, either! You've done nothing to be ashamed of! Keep that in mind, you silly It. Now come along and we'll go up and jolly Tom a bit."

Steve Edwards was not at home, but Amy Byrd was enthroned on the window-seat when they entered in response to Tom's invitation, and Amy had evidently been holding forth very seriously on some subject.

"Don't mind us," said Tim. "Go ahead, Amy, and get it off your chest."

"Hello," said Amy. "Hello, Don, old man. Haven't seen you for an age. Make yourselves at home. Never mind Tom, he's only the host. How did you like the practice today, Tim?"

"I didn't see it, but I heard enough about it. It must have been fierce!"

"It was perfectly punk," growled Tom. "I should think Robey would want to throw up his hands and quit!"

"Did you see it, Don?" asked Amy.

"No, I didn't go over. What was the trouble?"

"Well, I'm no expert," replied Amy, taking his knees into his arms and rocking gently back and forth on the seat, "but I'd say in my ignorant way that someone had unkindly put sleeping-potions in the milk at training-table! The only fellow who seemed to have his eyes more than half open was McPhee. Mac showed signs of life at long intervals. The rest sort of stumbled around in their sleep. I think Peters actually snored."

"Oh, we're going to get a fine old drubbing next Saturday," said Tom pessimistically. "And what a fine exhibition for that chap Proctor! I'll bet Robey could have kicked the whole team all the way back to the gym. He looked as though it would have done him a world of good to have a try at it!"

"Oh, well, these things happen," said Tim cheerfully. "It's only a slump. We'll get over it."

"Slump be blowed!" said Tom. "This is a fine time to slump, five days before the game!"

"I know that, too, but there's no use howling about it. What we need, Tom, is to have you get back there at right guard, old man."

"That's what I've been saying," exclaimed Amy earnestly. "I want Tom to go to Josh and ask him to let him play, but he won't. Says it wouldn't be any good. You don't know whether it would or not, Tom, until you try it. Look here, Josh doesn't want us to get beaten Saturday any more than we want it ourselves, and if you sort of put it up to him like that – "

"I'd look well, wouldn't I?" laughed Tom. "Telling Josh that unless he let me off pro the team would get licked! Gee, that's some modest, isn't it?"

"You don't have to put it like that," replied Amy impatiently. "Be – be diplomatic. Tell him – "

"What we ought to do," interrupted Tim, "is get up a petition and have everyone sign it."

"I thought of that, too," said Amy, "but this dunder-headed Turk won't stand for even that."

"Why not, Tom?" asked Don.

"Because."

"And after that?" asked Amy sweetly.

"Well, look here, you chaps." Tom scowled intently for a moment. "Look here. It's this way. Josh put a bunch of us on pro, didn't he? Well, what right have I to go and ask to be let off just because I happen to be a football man? You don't suppose those other fellows like it any better than I do, do you?"

"Oh, forget that! I'm one of them, and I'm having the time of my life. It's been the making of me, Tom. I'm getting so blamed full of learning that I'll be able to loaf all the rest of the year; live on my income, so to say." And Amy beamed proudly.

"That's all right," answered Tom doggedly, "but I don't intend to cry-baby. I'm just as much in it as any of you. If Josh wants to let us all off, all right, but I'm not going to ask for a – a special dispensation!"

"You don't need to," said Tim. "Let the fellows do it. That has nothing to do with you. What's to keep us from going ahead and getting up a petition?"

"Because I ask you not to," replied Tom simply. "It's only fair that we should all be punished alike."

"But you're not," said Don.

"We're not? Why aren't we?" asked Tom in surprise.

"Because you're getting it harder than Amy and Harry Westcott and the others," answered Don quietly. "They aren't barred from any sport, and you are."

"By Jove, that's a fact!" exclaimed Amy.

"But – but we all got the same sentence," protested Tom.

"I know you did, but" – Don smiled – "put it like this. I hate parsnips; can't bear them. Suppose you and I were punished for something we'd done by being made to eat parsnips three times a day for – for a month! You like them, don't you? Well, who'd get the worst of that? The sentence would be the same, but the – the punishment would be a heap worse for me, wouldn't it?"

"'Father was right'!" said Tim.

"Oh, father never spoke a truer word!" cried Amy, jumping up from the window-seat. "That settles it, Tom! Get some paper, Tim, and we'll write that petition this minute and I'll guarantee to get fifty signatures before ten o'clock!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Tom stubbornly. "Don talks like a lawyer, all right, but he's all wrong. And, anyway, I'm out of football and I'm going to stay out for this year. I've quit training and I probably couldn't play if Josh said I might. So that – "

"Oh, piffle," said Amy. "Quit training! Everyone knows you never quit training, Tom. You could go out there tomorrow and play as good a game as you ever did. Don't talk like a sick duck!"

"There's no reason why I should play, though. Pryme's putting up a bully game – "

"Pryme is doing the best he knows how," said Tim, "but Pryme can't play guard as you can, Tom, and he never will, and you know it! Now have a grain of sense, won't you? Just sit tight and let us put this thing through. There isn't a fellow in school who won't be tickled to death to sign that petition, and I'll bet you anything you like that Josh will be just as tickled to say yes to it. Whatever you say about Josh Fernald, you've got to hand it to him for being fair and square, Tom."

"Josh is all right, sure. I haven't said anything against him, have I? But I won't stand for any petition, fellows, so you might as well get that out of your heads. Besides, my being on the team or off it isn't going to make a half of one per cent's difference next Saturday."

There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Amy went dejectedly back to the window-seat and threw himself on it at full length. "I think you might, Tom," he said finally, "if only on my account!"

"Why on your account?" laughed Tom.

"Because I'm the guy that got you all into the mess, that's why. And I've felt good and mean about it ever since. And now, when we think up a perfectly good way to – to undo the mischief I made, you act like a mule. Think what a relief it would be to my conscience, Tom, if you got off pro and went back and played against Claflin!"

"I don't care a continental about your conscience, Amy. In fact I never knew before that you had one!"

"I've got a very nice one, thanks. It's well-trained, too. It – " Amy's voice trailed off into silence and for the next five minutes or so he took no part in the conversation, but just laid on the cushions and stared intently at the ceiling. Then, suddenly, he thumped his feet to the floor and reached for his cap.

"What time is it?" he demanded.

"Most eight," said Tim. "We'd better beat it."

"What time – " began Amy. Then he stopped, pulled his cap on his head and literally hurled himself across the room and through the door, leaving the others to gaze at each other amazedly.

"Well, what's wrong with him?" gasped Tim.

"He's got something in that crazy head of his," answered Tom uneasily. "Don't let him start that petition business, Tim, will you? I don't want to seem mean or anything, you know, but I'd rather let things be as they are. Come up again, fellows. And maybe today's showing doesn't mean anything, Tim, just as you said. We'll hope so, eh?"

Faculty conferences took place on Monday evenings at half-past seven in the faculty meeting room in Main Hall. At such times, with the principal, Mr. Fernald, presiding at the end of the long table and all members of the faculty able to attend ranged on either side, all and sundry matters pertaining to the government of the school came up for discussion. The business portion of the conference was followed by an informal half-hour of talk, during which many of the students were subjected to a dissection that would have surprised them vastly had they known of it. Tonight, however, the executive session was still going on and Mr. Brooke, the secretary, was still making notes at the foot of the table, when there came a rap at the door.

Mr. Fernald nodded to Mr. Brooke. "See who it is, please," he said.

The secretary laid down his pen very carefully on the clean square of blue blotting-paper before him, pushed back his chair and opened the door a few inches. When he turned around his countenance expressed a sort of pained disapprobation. "It's Byrd, sir," announced Mr. Brooke in a low, shocked voice. "He says he'd like to speak to you."

"Byrd? Well, tell him I'm busy," replied the principal. "If he wants to wait I'll see him after the conference. Although" – Mr. Fernald glanced at the clock – "it's only four minutes to eight and he'd better get back to his room. Tell him I'll see him at the Cottage at nine, Mr. Brooke. As I was saying," and Mr. Fernald faced the company again, "I think it would be well to arrange for a longer course this Winter. Last year, as you'll recall – Eh? What is it?"

"He says, sir, that it's a faculty matter," announced Mr. Brooke deprecatingly, "and asks to be allowed to come in for a minute."

"A faculty matter? Well, in that case – All right, Mr. Brooke, tell him to come in."

As Amy entered eight pairs of eyes regarded him curiously; nine, in fact, for Mr. Brooke, closing the door softly behind the visitor, gazed at him in questioning disapproval.

"Well, Byrd, what can we do for you?" Mr. Fernald smiled, doubtless with the wish to dispel embarrassment. But he needn't have troubled about that, for Amy didn't look or act in the least embarrassed. "I'm afraid," continued the principal, "that I can't offer you a chair, for we're rather busy just now. What was it you wanted to speak of?"

"I guess it looks pretty cheeky, sir, for me to butt in here," replied Amy, with a smile, "but it's rather important, sir, and – and if anything's to be done about it it'll have to be done tonight."

"Really? Well, it does sound important. Suppose you tell us about it, Byrd."

"Thank you, sir." Amy paused, gathering his words in order. "It's this, Mr. Fernald: when we fellows were put on pro – probation, I mean, it was intended that we should all get the same punishment, wasn't it, sir?"

"Let me see, that was the affair of – Ah, yes, I recall it. Why, yes, Byrd, naturally it was meant to treat you all alike. What complaint have you?"

"It isn't exactly a complaint, sir. But it's this way. There were nine of us altogether. It was my fault in the first place because I put them up to it. They'd never thought of it if I hadn't." Amy glanced at Mr. Moller. "It was a pretty silly piece of business, sir, and we got what we deserved. But – but none of us meant to – to hurt anyone's feelings, sir. It was just a lark. We didn't think that – "

"We'll allow that, Byrd. Please get down to the purpose of this unusual visit," said Mr. Fernald drily.

"Yes, sir. Well, eight of us it doesn't matter so much about. We aren't football men and being on probation doesn't cut so much – I mean it doesn't matter so much. But Tom Hall's a football man, sir, and it's different for him. This is his last year here and losing his place on the team was hard lines. That's what I'm trying to get at, sir. You meant that we were all to be punished the same, but we weren't. It's just about twice as hard on Tom as it is on the rest of us. You see that, sir, don't you?"

There was a moment of silence and then Mr. Simkins coughed. Or did he chuckle? Amy couldn't tell. But the principal dropped his eyes and tapped his blotter with the tip of the pencil he held. At last:

"That's a novel point of view, Byrd," he said. "There may be something in it. But I must remind you that the Law – and the faculty stands for the Law here – takes no cognisance of conditions existing – hem!" Mr. Fernald glanced doubtfully down the table. "Perhaps it should, though. We'll pass that question for the moment. What is it you suggest, Byrd?"

"Well, sir, the team's in punk shape. It was awful today. It needs Tom, sir; needs him awfully. I don't say that we'll beat Claflin if he should play, Mr. Fernald, but I'm mighty sure we won't if he doesn't. And it seemed to me that maybe you and the other faculty members hadn't thought of how much harder you were giving it to Tom than to the rest of us, and that if you did know, realise it, sir, you'd maybe consider that he'd had about enough and let him off so he might play Saturday. The rest of us haven't any kick coming, sir. It's just Tom. And he doesn't know that I'm here, either. We tried to get him to let us petition faculty, but he wouldn't. He said he was going to take the same punishment as the rest of us."

"Then he doesn't agree with your contention, Byrd?"

"Oh, he sees I'm right, Mr. Fernald, but he – he's obstinate!"

Mr. Fernald smiled, as did most of the others.

"Byrd, I think you ought to take a law course," said the principal. "I might answer you as I started to by pointing out that it is no business of ours whether a punishment is going to hit one fellow harder than another; that just because it might should make that one fellow more careful not to transgress. But you've taken the wind out of my sails by getting me to testify that we intended the punishment to be the same for all. You've put us in a difficult place, Byrd. If we should lift probation in Hall's case it would seem that we had different laws for team members than for boys unconnected with athletics. You've made a very eloquent plea, but I don't just see – " Mr. Fernald hesitated. Then: "Possibly someone has some suggestion," he added, and it seemed to Amy that his gaze rested on Mr. Moller for an instant.

At all events it was the new member of the faculty who spoke. "If I might, sir," he said hesitatingly, "I'd like to make the suggestion that probation be lifted from all. It seems to me that that would – would simplify things, Mr. Fernald."

"Hm. Yes. Possibly. As the target of the extremely vulgar proceeding, Mr. Moller, the suggestion coming from you bears weight. Byrd, you'd better get to your studies. You'll learn our decision in the morning. Your action is commendable, my boy, and we'll take that into consideration also. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir. Good-night, sirs. Thank you."

Amy retired unhurriedly, unembarrassedly, and with dignity, as befitted one who had opened the eyes of Authority to the error of its ways!

The next morning Mr. Fernald announced in chapel that at the request of Mr. Moller, and in consideration of good behaviour, the faculty had voted to lift probation from the following students: Hall —

But just there the applause began and the other eight names were not heard.

CHAPTER XXI
THE DOCTOR TELLS A STORY

TUESDAY, with the return of all first-string players to the line-up and the appearance of Tom Hall once more at right guard, practice went about a hundred per cent better, and those who turned out to watch it went back to the campus considerably encouraged. The showing of the team naturally had an effect on the spirit of the mass meeting that evening. Ever since the Southby game the school had been holding meetings and "getting up steam" for the Claflin contest, but they had been tame affairs in contrast with tonight's. Brimfield was football-crazy now, for the Big Game loomed enormous but four days away. Fellows read football in the papers, talked football and, some of them, dreamed football. The news from Claflin was read and discussed eagerly. The fortunes of the rival eleven were watched just as closely as those of the home team. When a Claflin player wrenched an ankle Brimfield gasped excitedly. When it was published that Cox, of the blue team, had dropped fourteen goals out of twenty tries from the thirty-five-yard line and at a severe angle, depression prevailed at Brimfield. The news that the Claflin scrubs had held the first to only one touchdown in thirty minutes of play sent Brimfield's spirits soaring! Fellows neglected lessons brazenly and during that week of the final battle there was a scholastic slump that would undoubtedly have greatly alarmed the faculty if the latter, rendered wise by experience, hadn't expected it.

The first team players were excused from study hour subsequent to Monday in order that they might attend blackboard lectures and signal drills in the gymnasium. On Tuesday night, after an hour's session, and in response to public clamour, they filed onto the platform just before the meeting was to begin at nine-fifteen and, somewhat embarrassedly, seated themselves in the chairs arranged across the back. Mr. Fernald was there, and Mr. Conklin, the athletic director, and Coaches Robey and Boutelle, and Trainer Danny Moore, and Manager Morton and Childers, captain of the baseball team. And Steve Payne was at the piano. Also, sitting beside Mr. Robey, was Doctor Proctor.

Childers, who was cheer leader that Fall, presided, and, after the assemblage had clapped and shouted "A-a-ay!" as each newcomer appeared on the platform, opened proceedings with the School Song. Then Mr. Fernald spoke briefly, Captain Edwards followed, each being cheered loudly and long, and Childers introduced Mr. Robey. "What we are all anxious to know tonight," said Childers, "is whether we're going to win next Saturday. Mr. Fernald has said that he hopes we shall, Captain Edwards has said that he thinks we shall, and now we're going to hear from the only one who knows! Fellows, a long cheer for Mr. Robey, and make it good! Are you all ready? Now then! One – two – three!"

"Brimfield! Brimfield! Brimfield! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Brimfield! Brimfield! Brimfield! Robey!"

When the cheering, and the shouting and clapping and stamping that followed for good measure, had quieted down, Mr. Robey said: "Fellows, Captain Childers is much too flattering. I'm not gifted with second-sight, even if he thinks so. I don't know any more than he does or you do whether we're going to win on Saturday. Like Mr. Fernald, I hope we are and, like Captain Edwards, I think we are." Cheers interrupted then. "But I don't want to make any prediction. I'll say one thing, though, and that is this: If the team plays the way it can play, if it makes full use of the ability that's in it, there's only one thing that can happen, and that's a Brimfield victory! I've got every reason to expect that the team will do its utmost, and that is why I say that I think we'll win. We must remember that we're going up against a strong team, a team that in some ways has shown itself so far this season our superior. I don't say that the Claflin eleven is any better than ours. I don't think so, not for a moment. Our team this Fall is as good as last year's team. We've had our little upsets; we always do; but we've come down to practically the eve of the game in good shape. Every fellow has done his best and, I am firmly convinced, is going to do a little better than his best on Saturday afternoon. And that little better is what will decide the game, fellows. After the coaches have done their part and the players have toiled hard and earnestly and enthusiastically, why then it all comes down to fight! And so it's fight that's going to win the game.

"You fellows must do your part, though. You must be right back of the team, every minute – and let them know it. Cheering helps a team to win, no matter what anyone may say to the contrary. Only cheer at the right times, fellows. Just making a noise indiscriminately is poor stuff. But I don't need to tell you this, I guess, because your cheer leader knows what to do better than I do. But let the team know that you're right with them, backing them up all the time, fighting behind them, boosting them along! It counts, fellows, take my word for it!

"And now there's one other thing I want to say before I make way for someone who can really talk. It's this, fellows. Don't forget the team that has helped us all season, the team that doesn't get into the limelight. And don't forget the coach, who has worked just as hard, perhaps a good deal harder, to develop that team than I've worked. I'm going to ask you to show your appreciation of the unselfish devotion of Coach Boutelle and one of the finest second teams Brimfield has ever had!"

Mr. Robey bowed and retreated and Childers jumped to his feet.

"A cheer for Coach Boutelle, fellows!" he shouted. "A long cheer and a whopper!" And, when it had been given lustily: "And now one for the second team!" he cried. "Everyone into it! One – two – three!" The enthusiasm was mounting high now, and, after the cheer had died away, there were demands for a song. "We want to sing!" proclaimed the meeting. "We want to sing!"

Childers held up a hand. "All right, fellows! Just a minute, please! We've got a guest with us this evening, an honoured guest, fellows. Those of you who know football history know his name as well as you know the names of Heffelfinger and DeWitt and Coy and Brickley and – and many others in the Football Hall of Fame! I know you want to hear from him and I hope he will be willing to say a few words." Childers glanced at Doctor Proctor and the latter, smiling, shook his head energetically. "He says he will be glad to, fellows," continued Childers mendaciously, amidst laughter, "and so I'm going to call first for a cheer for – if the gentleman will pardon me – 'Gus' Proctor, famous Princeton and All-America tackle, and after that we're going to listen very attentively to him. Now, then, everyone into this! A long cheer for Doctor Proctor!"

"I'm an awfully poor speaker, fellows," began the doctor, when he had advanced to the front of the platform. "I appreciate this honour and if I don't do justice to the fine reputation your – your imaginative cheer leader has provided me with you must try to forgive me. Speaking isn't my line. If any of you would like to have a leg sawed off or something of that sort I'd be glad to do it free of charge just to prove that – well, that there's something I can do fairly decently!

"I saw your team practice yesterday and I thought then that perhaps an operation would benefit it. Then I saw it again today and discovered that my first diagnosis was wrong. Fellows, I call it a good team. I think you've got material there that's equal to any I've ever seen on a school team. Your coach says he won't prophesy as to your game on Saturday. I've known George Robey for ten years. He isn't a bad sort, take him all around, but he's a pessimist of the most pessimistic sort. He's the kind of chap who, if you sprang that old reliable one on him about every cloud having a silver lining, would shrug his shoulders and say, 'Humph! More likely nickel-plated!' That's the sort he is, boys. Now I'm just the opposite, and, at the risk of displeasing George, I'm going to tell you that, from what I've seen of the Brimfield football team in practice, I'm firmly convinced that it's going to win!"

Loud and prolonged cheering greeted that prediction, and it was fully a minute before the speaker could proceed.

"I've played the game in my day and I've coached teams, boys, and I think I've got a little of what your coach disclaimed. I mean a sort of – well, not second-sight, but a sort of ability to tell what a team will do from the looks of the players on it. In my profession we have to study human nature a lot and we get so we can classify folks after we've looked them over and watched them awhile. We make mistakes sometimes, but on the whole we manage fairly well to put folks in the classes they belong in. Doing that with the members of your team I find that almost without exception they class with the kind of fellows who don't like to be beaten! And when a fellow doesn't like to be beaten he isn't – not very often.

"I think I can read in the faces I see here tonight a great deal of that same spirit, and if the team has it and you fellows behind the team have it, why, I wouldn't give a last year's plug-hat for Claflin's chances next Saturday!

"Football," continued Doctor Proctor presently, "is a fine game. It's fun to play and it's a wonderful thing to train a fellow's body and mind. I've heard lots of folks object to it on various scores, but I've never heard an objection yet that carried any weight. More often than not those who run football down don't know the game. Why, if it did no more than teach us obedience and discipline it would be worth while. But it does far more than that. It gives us strong, dependable bodies, it teaches us to think – and think quick, and it gives us courage, physical and moral. I'm going to tell you of an incident that I witnessed only a few weeks since if you'll let me. I fear I'm taking up too much time – "

There were cries of "No, no!" and "Go ahead!"

"I'll try to be brief. Last Fall I was travelling on a train out my way, to be exact some eighty miles west of Cincinnati, when we had an accident. A freight train was slow about taking a side track and we came along and banged into it. It was about five o'clock in the morning and most of the passengers were asleep. A wreck's a nasty thing in any case, but when it happens at night or before it is light enough to see it is worse. The forward cars of our train and the freight caught fire from the engines, and there was a good deal of loose steam around, and things were pretty messy for awhile. There happened to be another doctor on the train and, as soon as we got our bearings, we started a first-aid camp alongside the track. Some of the passengers, mostly in the day coaches up front, were badly burned and we had our hands full.

"There is always more or less confusion in an affair of that sort and it was some minutes after the accident before the rescue work got under way. But one of the first rescuers I noticed was a young chap, a boy in fact, probably about seventeen years old. He didn't have a great deal on, I remember, but he was certainly Johnny-on-the-spot that morning! It was he who brought the first patient to me, a little dried-up Hebrew peddler I judged him, who had been caught under some wreckage in the forward day-coach. He had a broken forearm and while I was busy with him I saw this young chap climbing in and out of windows and wading through wreckage and always coming out again with someone. How many folks he pulled away from the flames and the scalding steam I don't know, but I never saw anyone work harder or more – more efficiently. Yes, efficiently is just the word I want! And I said to myself at the time: 'That fellow is a football man! And I'll bet he's a good one!' You see, it wasn't only that he had courage to risk himself, but he had the ability to see what was to be done and to do it, and do it quick! Why, he was pulling injured women and children and men from those burning, overturned cars before a grown-up man had sensed what had happened! And later on, when we'd done what we could for the burned and scalded bodies and limbs, I got hold of the boy for a moment. I asked him his name and he told it, and then I said: 'You've played football, haven't you?' And he said he had, a little. He wasn't much of a talker, and when some of us said some nice things about what he had done he got horribly fussed and tried to get away. But someone wanted to shake hands with him, and he wouldn't, and I saw that his own hand was burned all inside the palm, deep and nasty. 'How did you do that?' I asked him as I dressed it. Oh, he didn't know. He thought he'd got his hand caught between some beams or something; couldn't get it out for a minute. It wasn't much of a burn! Well, the wrecking train and a hospital train came along about then and I lost sight of that chap, and I didn't see him again.