“Come, Lindsay, don’t be hangin’ round here, gettin’ cold,” interrupted an authoritative voice from behind. “Hustle over to the gym, there, and get a bath and rub-down as soon as ever you can.”
Mr. Lindsay turned in surprise and beheld a businesslike man in a sweater, whom he immediately recognized as the guardian of pail and sponge, who had so suddenly scurried into the field on several occasions when an ankle was to be rubbed or a face bathed.
“This is Mr. Collins, our trainer,” said Wolcott, looking ruefully at his father. “I shall have to do what he says. You’ll find me over at the gymnasium if you care to come.”
And while Wolcott trotted slowly away toward the Hillbury gymnasium, the trainer continued, as if his interruption needed excuse: “It’s risky for ’em to be hanging round in sweaty clothes after a game like that; but they will do it. You have to watch ’em all the time, if you want to keep ’em up to the mark. They’re boys, not men, and it’s sometimes pretty hard to make ’em take proper care of themselves.”
“I judge that you have succeeded,” remarked Mr. Lindsay. “They seem to be in excellent condition.”
A smile of perfect satisfaction lighted Collins’s face. “Right on edge! That son of yours played the game to-day. I knew it was in him. He’ll make a great player in college if they don’t spoil him.”
Mr. Lindsay received this prophecy with less enthusiasm than might have been expected of a proud father, and turned to watch the boys gathering for their triumphant march to the station. They were off now in a long line, proudly counting the score as a marching chant. They counted loud and strong as they circled the field; they counted up the hill and past the brick buildings on its crest. And as they filed away into the twilight on the other slope, the sound of their counting still came back to vex the much-enduring ears of Hillbury.
The trainer’s last words were in Mr. Lindsay’s mind as he wended his way toward the gymnasium, following the direction given him by a sad-eyed Hillbury lad. He knew little about football,—though more perhaps than he wanted to know,—but he had heard enough and seen enough to be sure that Wolcott had contributed quite as much as any one else to the Seaton success. Yet not a word had passed the boy’s lips that showed any consciousness of superiority. “Fine!” thought the father, with pride. “But that is in the boy, not in the game. It’s the old strain reappearing. The Lindsays have always been men of action rather than braggarts.”