Such episodes are a matter of course, and
not to be taken too seriously. A broken rib or two is not a vital
matter, and only one rib is broken in the second three-quarters of an
hour. Even then the poor victim does not have to be carried off on a
litter, for he is able to walk with the help of the doctor and a
friend. It is not Fred; Fred has merely had the wind stamped out of
him a few times and is still doing wonders. Will it never end? I look
at my watch feverishly. The ball is close by the Harvard goal, and
Yale holds it there with the tenacity of a bull-dog. Bull-dog? They
are all bull-dogs--twenty-two bull-dogs cheek by jowl.
"Isn't it magnificent?" murmurs Sam, looking back at me. "They have
outplayed us fairly and squarely. Only five minutes left, and the
score eleven to four against us. We're not in it. That run of Fred's
was the most brilliant play of the day, though."
"The poor darling will be broken-hearted," whispers Josephine.
"That is better than being broken-headed--better for us," I whisper in
reply.
"I do hope he hasn't lost any of his front teeth. His mouth was
bleeding the last time he fell," continues his mother.
"False ones nowadays are very satisfactory," I answer,
Ten minutes later we are moving along with the rest of our acquaintance
on the way to the railroad.
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