Neil trotted out to the locker-house with throbbing heart. Mills had as
good as promised him his place. That is, if he could learn to kick
goals. The condition didn't trouble Neil, however; he _could_ learn to
drop-kick and he _would_ learn, he told himself exultantly as he panted
under the effects of a cold shower-bath. For a moment the wild idea of
rising at unchristian hours and practising before chapel occurred to
him, but upon maturer thought was given up. No, the only thing to do was
to follow Mills's advice: "Put your heart and brain and muscle into it,"
the coach had said. Neil nodded vigorously and rubbed himself so hard
with the towel as to almost take the skin off. He was late in leaving
the house that evening, and as all the fellows he knew personally had
already taken their departure, he started back toward the campus alone.
Near the corner of King Street he glanced up and saw something a short
distance ahead that puzzled him. It looked at first like a cluster of
bicycles with a single rider. But as the rider was motionless Neil soon
came up to him.

On nearer view he saw that the object was in reality a tricycle, and
that it held beside the rider a pair of crutches which lay in supports
lengthwise along one side. The machine was made to work with the hands
instead of the feet, and a bow-shaped piece of steel which fitted around
the operator's knee served as steering apparatus. The youth who sat
motionless on the seat was a rather pale-faced, frail-looking lad of
eighteen years, and it needed no second glance to tell Neil that he was
crippled from his waist down. As Neil approached he was pulling the
handles to and fro and looking perplexedly at the gear. The tricycle
refused to budge.

"I guess you've broken down," said Neil, approaching. "Stay where you
are and I'll have a look."