for two years had been eating his heart out on the side-lines, and
made him into a quarter-back.

Then he had driven them all with the cruelty of a Cossack captain;
and when at last the dusk of this November day had settled, new
football history had been made. The world had seen a strange team
snatch victory from defeat, and not one of all the thirty thousand
onlookers but knew to whom the credit belonged. It had been a
tremendous spectacle, and when the final whistle blew for the
multitude to come roaring down across the field, the cohorts had
paid homage to Kirk Anthony, the weary coach to whom they knew the
honor belonged.

Of course this fervid enthusiasm and hero-worship was all very
immature, very foolish, as the general public acknowledged after
it had taken time to cool off. Yet there was something appealing
about it, after all. At any rate, the press deemed the public
sufficiently interested in the subject to warrant giving it
considerable prominence, and the name of Darwin K. Anthony's son
was published far and wide.

Naturally, the newspapers gave the young man's story as well as a
history of the game. They told of his disagreement with his
father; of the Anthony anti-football bill which the old man in his
rage had driven through the legislature and up to the Governor
himself. Some of them even printed a rehash of the railroad man's
famous magazine attack on the modern college, in which he all but
cited his own son as an example of the havoc wrought by present-
day university methods. The elder Anthony's wealth and position
made it good copy. The yellow journals liked it immensely, and,