Yale has won, eleven to four, and the
bruised and battered players of both teams have departed on their
respective tally-hos, and Josephine and I are free to receive the
congratulations of our friends with a calm mind, though my darling is
still haunted by the fear that our illustrious son has left a tooth or
two on the arena. Fred's run is on everybody's lips, and we as the
authors of his being are made much of. Mr. Leggatt, the banker, works
his way up to me through the crowd at great personal distress, for he
is a fat man, in order to say, with an enthusiastic shake of the hand:
"Great boy that of yours; splendid grit; I must have him when he
graduates."
I sputter many thanks confusedly. Here is a strange development truly.
I had been hoping, as you may remember, to be able to go to Mr.
Leggatt, at Fred's graduation, and to ask for a clerkship for my boy on
the plea of his steadiness and sterling common sense; and now the
solicitation has come to me on the score of his grit as a foot-ball
kicker. The world seems just a little topsy-turvy, and I am not quite
sure whether to laugh or to cry.
We got home at last somehow; and here I am sitting in my library trying
to collect my faculties and to appreciate the honor which has been
thrust upon me--the honor of being the father of a famous half-back.
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