Alone in the locker room for more than an hour after the game, Lefty
worked out in his mind, the plans for the future.
As much as it hurt him to reach the decision, he came to the conclusion
that he would have to leave Yale, and the sooner he went, the better
matters would be for all concerned.
There was no other way around it, half the world thought him to be a
blithering idiot, while the rest of humanity would whisper that his play
was intentional, meant to throw the game to Harvard.
It was six of one, and half a dozen of the other. Irrespective of what
the world believed, the logical course for Lefty to follow was to leave
New Haven and bury his identity until his present difficulties were at
least forgotten.
When he dressed, he found his mother and father still waiting for him.
It was some time before any member of this unhappy trio found courage
enough to speak, and when the moment arrived, it was Lefty who broke the
silence.
They were seated in the rear of a little restaurant on the outskirts of
the town, near West Haven, a place discreetly chosen by Phelps, senior,
because of the fact that college boys never went in that direction for
their meals.
“I’m going away,” Lefty began, with a display of hesitance in his voice.
“I’m leaving to-night!”
His mother’s face turned chalk white and she found her hand
automatically grasping the edge of the table for support.
“Oh, Son, you can’t do that!”
“But I must, Mother. I could never bear to go back there and face their
jeers, whispers and laughter. It is too much to ask of me!”
“Then come home with us,” the little old lady pleaded. “We understand.
Besides, no matter what has happened, Dad and I want you, Son.”
Lefty’s eyes rested on the white tablecloth before him. He dared not
look at his mother, less she detect the faint moisture trickling down
his cheek.
“That’s sweet of you, Mother, but I couldn’t go on, living off you and
Dad. There isn’t a man in Bridgeport who would give me a job after what
happened to-day. I’ve got to get away. I must work and find myself.
Somewhere, some place, there is a square hole that will fit my
square-pegged personality. When I find that place, I’ll make good!”
Mrs. Phelps’ troubled eyes searched those of her own boy’s. She loathed
to lose him, yet secretly she was proud of his determination to make
good.
“But where will you go?”
“I don’t know—Europe, New York, California—anywhere so long as it is
away from Yale. I’ve saved a little money, enough to take me away and
keep me alive until I get something to do.”
“But—but you will come back, won’t you?” she pleaded.
“When I can show them all that I’m not the poor boob they believe me to
be. Yes, then I’ll come back!”
An hour later, after he had sent his mother and father safely on their
way, back to Bridgeport, Lefty arrived at the New Haven station, bought
a ticket to New York and checked his trunk through.
He paced up and down the station platform, in and out of groups of
people, waiting for the train, and passed howling newsboys who shrieked
at the top of their lungs the announcement of the latest sports extra:
“Wuxtra! Wuxtra! Read all about Lefty Phelps’ bonehead play. Wuxtra!”
Anxious to get away from the sight of human beings and the glaring,
printed account of his stupid play, Lefty hurried off, around the side
of the station, near the freight depot, now completely deserted.
Just as he turned around the corner, he heard someone approaching from
behind.
“Hey, mister,” a tiny voice called, “want a paper? Read all about the
Yale prize boob what won for Harvard!”
Lefty increased his speed, hoping to escape from the boy, but before he
had taken another step, the newsie was alongside of him.
The boy stared up into Lefty’s face, partly hidden by the turned down
brim of his hat. In a moment, the former football player’s identity was
discovered.
“Holy mackerel!” cried the youngster, “if it ain’t the guy what ran
backward hisself!”
The man, flushed with anger and shame, brushed the boy aside, hurrying
through a door that led to the men’s wash room, in fear that someone
near by might have heard the newsie’s exclamation.
When the harassed college man entered the wash room, he was relieved to
find the place deserted save for two Marines, one who was busily making
his toilet, while the other sat perched on the bootblack stand, reading
the evening paper.
These men, soldiers of the sea, would have little interest in football.
For that matter, they probably didn’t even know a game had been played
in town that day.
Taking no chances, the boy pulled his hat a trifle farther down over his
eyes and walked to the farther corner of the room, unnoticed by the men
in uniform.
“Say, I sure would like to get a peep at that guy,” the Marine perched
on the bootblack’s stand finally broke the silence by saying. “I’ll bet
he’s a fourteen carat pain in the arches.”
The Marine leaning over the washbasin looked up, with wet face and
grinning from ear to ear.
“You said it,” he agreed. “If that guy has any brains, he’ll wear a
beard from now on!”
Both men continued to indulge in a repartee of light bantering at the
expense of Lefty, whose cheeks were flushed crimson. Presently, the old
darky in charge of the wash room entered, going directly to where
Sergeant Williams was standing, buttoning his regulation blouse.
“Brush yo’ off, suh?” the negro ventured, picking up a large whisk
broom.
“Okay, Sambo,” Panama agreed, good-naturedly. “Did you see the game
to-day?”
The old darky chuckled for a moment and then replied that he had,
calling the soldiers’ attention to the faux pas made by Lefty.
“That was some retreat that guy made, eh, Sambo?” the Marine on the
bootblack stand added. “Say, I wouldn’t have a thing like that on my
conscience for a million!”
The negro’s lips parted in a broad smile, showing a mouth full of white
teeth. “No, suh, dat’s one kind o’ dirt soap can’t wash off nohow!”
Turning about to allow the Negro to brush the back of his blouse, Panama
noticed the presence of another man in the room for the first time.
“Did you see the game, pardner?” the Marine asked Lefty, not recognizing
him.
The boy moved uncomfortably in his seat, casting his eyes upon the
advertisements on the wall and pretending not to have heard the
soldier’s question.
“I’m going out on the platform and look the femmes over,” the other
Marine announced, jumping down from the stand and going toward the door.
“See you later, Panama!”
As Williams tipped the negro and reached for his hat, his attention was
again centered upon Lefty.
“I say, did you see the game to-day, friend?”
Again there was no response save for Lefty’s moving away and the nervous
twitching of his fingers.
Panama was at peace with the world now, and in a keen mood for happy
chiding.
“You must be a Yale man that probably lost dough,” he heckled. “It’s all
right, feller. Those things will happen—I lost five bucks myself—but
it’s hard to believe that guy’s silly play was on the level. If you ask
me, I think he got a piece of change from the Harvard crowd!”
At these words, Lefty’s face became livid with rage.
His play was stupid, he was aware of that, and he expected to be a
source of ridicule for the entire world for the rest of his life, but
accusing him of deliberately throwing the game was more than he could
stand.
He rose, glared at the unsuspecting sergeant for a moment, pulled off
his coat and threw his hat on the floor, crossing the room to where
Panama stood and confronted the man, to the utter amazement of the old
negro.
“You’re a liar!” he shrieked, “a dirty, contemptible liar! Take that
back—take it back, or I’ll knock your block off!”
Panama, still not realizing that he was face to face with the topic of
his conversation, was somewhat amused over Lefty’s attitude, believing
the boy’s motive to be one of school pride.
“You’ll knock my block off?”
“You heard me!” Lefty shot back, still eyeing his antagonist.
“You and who else?”
Lefty stepped back a little, ready to make a lunge at the soldier.
“Just me, do you hear, just me! I’ve been sitting here taking all your
dirty insults, and now you’re going to take ’em back!”
Panama moved closer, unable to fathom this boy’s object in flaring up
over something that was probably upon the lips of a million other people
at that very moment.
“Wait a minute, before I knock you on your ear,” he warned. “What’s
eatin’ you, anyway, my boy?”
Lefty was at the end of his rope. He had stood all and more than the
average man in his position would have taken, and he was bent upon
putting a stop to matters here and now. Besides, he wasn’t cognizant of
the fact that the man standing before him was unaware of his true
identity.
“That remark you made about me taking money for throwing the game—that’s
what’s eating me! Laugh at me for being a bonehead if you want to, but I
won’t stand by and let you call me a crook! You’re going to take it
back—you hear? Every word of it or I’ll kill you!”
Lefty made a leap for Panama’s throat, backing the Marine against the
wall and, raising his fist, prepared to crash it into the face of his
antagonist.
Williams brought his senses into action, raised his arm to avoid the
blow and, at the same time, used his left shoulder to push the boy off
of him.
The excited college man would have been clay in the hands of the trained
fighter who had faced and beaten men twice his size the world over, yet
Panama was not in the mood for whipping the boy, especially as he
realized now how much his idle taunting had hurt Phelps.
“Wait a minute, buddy. I didn’t know you were Lefty Phelps. Gee, kid,
I’m sorry! Say, I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world! Sure I
apologize, I take it all back—everything, and if you want to take a good
rap at my chin, you’re welcome to, ’cause I’m certainly due a kickin’
around after what I pulled!”
Lefty sensed the complete change in the Marine’s demeanor, noting the
profound look of self-condemnation registered on the man’s face and a
smile of understanding and apology written on his lips.
The reaction of it all completely unstrung the sensitive boy, and as his
nerves slightly gave away, he rested on the washbasin behind him for
support, his eyes moistening with tears.
“I guess I just lost my head,” he mumbled, somewhat incoherently as his
eyes avoided those of the other man’s. “Everybody’s been laughing at me
and——”
“Wuxtra, Wuxtra! Read all about Lefty Phelps’ bonehead play!” cried a
newsboy, on the platform outside, interrupting Lefty.
The two men stood silent, gazing out the window, in the direction of the
screaming newsie and his deadly papers.
“Hear that?” Lefty asked, overcome by the conflicting emotions within
him, and trying desperately to laugh. “It’s almost funny—yeah, it is
funny, the way I’ve been running away from things. I don’t suppose I’ll
ever live this all down.”
Panama smiled generously and sympathetically. He gently slapped the boy
on the shoulder, endeavoring to give him a feeling of confidence and
security.
“Why, sure you will! That’s nothing. Say—I pull boners all the time, and
in my game, it’s a lot unhealthier to get foolish than it is in
football. What’s a game anyway? You’ve got your whole life to live.
Don’t let a thing like that set you back!”
Lefty smiled gratefully at the man who, a few moments before, he wanted
to kill. His eyes then fell upon the silver wings on Panama’s chest, and
for a moment, he forgot everything else.
“Why—you’re a flyer, aren’t you?”
Panama, pleased with the reverent manner in which Lefty put his question
to him, grinned complacently, explaining that he was a sergeant in the
aviation detachment of the Marine Corps. At that moment, the door opened
and the other Marine stuck his head in.
“Hey, Panama, snap into it, the train’s leaving now.”
Panama grabbed for his hat and bag, starting out the door, and then
stopped to look back at Lefty.
These two gazed at each other, silently for a moment, then the Marine
dropped his grip and walked back to where the boy stood.
“Buck up now, trooper, and forget it,” he advised, cheeringly, holding
out his right hand which Lefty gripped firmly. “My name’s Williams,
Sergeant Panama Williams. I’m stationed at the San Diego base. If you’re
ever out that way, drop in; I’ll he glad to see you!”
Lefty smiled at the other warmly and released his hold upon the man’s
hand.
“You’ve been great! If I ever go West, I’ll look you up!”
“Well, I got to shake now, buddy,” Panama said, reaching for his bag.
“Keep a stiff upper lip and I’ll bet another five bucks you come out on
top!”
After the Marine had gone, Lefty walked to the window and watched them
board the train. He felt a lump rise in his throat and a deplorable
feeling of loneliness cast its spell upon the unhappy boy.
When the train was well out of sight, he walked over to where he had
left his suitcase. Just ahead of him was one of the regulation colored
posters used by the United States Marine Corps in their recruiting
campaigns.
He studied the illustration of a manly, healthy looking aviator seated
in the cockpit of a Marine plane, and read the caption over, several
times.
“The Marine Air Force make men,” he spoke aloud, repeating the
announcement printed on the poster. “I wonder what kind of a job they’d
make out of me?”