"What! in PRISON?" questioned another, in a shocked voice.

"Only for speeding. It was his third offence, and his father let
him take his medicine."

"How cruel!"

"Old man Anthony doesn't care for this sort of thing. He's right,
too. All this young fellow is good for is to spend money."

Up in the banquet-hall, however, it was evident that Kirk Anthony
was more highly esteemed by his mates than by the public at large.
He was their hero, in fact, and in a way he deserved it. For three
years before his graduation he had been the heart and sinew of the
university team, and for the four years following he had coached
them, preferring the life of an athletic trainer to the career his
father had offered him. And he had done his chosen work well.

Only three weeks prior to the hard gruel of the great game the
eleven had received a blow that had left its supporters dazed and
despairing. There had been a scandal, of which the public had
heard little and the students scarcely more, resulting in the
expulsion of the five best players of the team. The crisis might
have daunted the most resourceful of men, yet Anthony had proved
equal to it. For twenty-one days he had labored like a real
general, spending his nights alone with diagrams and little
dummies on a miniature gridiron, his days in careful coaching. He
had taken a huge, ungainly Nova Scotian lad named Ringold for
centre; he had placed a square-jawed, tow-headed boy from Duluth
in the line; he had selected a high-strung, unseasoned chap, who