PERRY KING, tall, thin, bony and ungainly, stood beside a pile of tumbled sweaters and tasted an importance that was new, and strange, and intoxicating. Bristow, the editor of the Northfield Breeze, had actually asked him to bring back the story of the game for the school paper. And, if that were not glory enough, Hammond, quarterback and captain of the eleven, had asked him to keep check on the time. He caught Hammond's eye and made a signal with his fingers. Seven minutes to play! A great game, with Northfield in the lead 14 to 7; and he, Perry King, with his part in it all.
The stands were bleak and deserted; the crowd was following the game along the side lines. The sky was gray, the ground was damp, a chill wind blew across the field—but Perry did not bother to button his topcoat across his narrow chest. He did not even feel the penetrating rawness of the day. The ambition that had been part of him
