In the midst of the cheering and shouting that greeted the return of the team and its supporters, Will Phelps attained a glimpse of the sturdy heroes themselves who had fought the battle of the gridiron.  Some of them were somewhat battered and he could see that Hawley carried his arm in a sling.  His classmate’s face was pale, but as he was surrounded by a crowd of students, Will found it was impossible to make his way to him and soon gave up the attempt.  He was standing somewhat back from the train eagerly watching all that was going on about him, but only in a half-hearted way joining in the excitement, for the defeat of the team and his own disappointment in not being able to make the trip had chilled his enthusiasm.

Suddenly he caught sight of Foster as he stepped down upon the platform and instantly Will began to push his way forward to greet him.  As Foster stepped down he turned back as if to assist some one, and Will perceived that it was Peter John Schenck who was being assisted.  But his actions were strange and his general appearance was woebegone in the extreme.

“What’s the matter with Peter John?  Sick?” inquired Will as he pressed forward.

“Sick?  Sick nothing!” retorted Foster in a low voice.  “Can’t you see what ails him?  The fool!”

The maudlin expression on Peter John’s face, his wabbling steps, the silly smile with which he greeted Will at once disclosed what his condition was and with a feeling of disgust Will turned away.

“Hold on, Will,” called Peter John tremulously, beginning to cry as he spoke, “don’t go backsh on a fellow now.  I los’ all my money.  Seven dollar I put up on the team an’ they jis’ sold out,” and Peter John’s tears increased and he threatened to fall on Foster’s shoulder.

Will had turned back sharply at the words, his disgust and anger so plainly stamped upon his face that even Peter John was moved by it and began to sob audibly.  “Sold out, Will!  Seven dollar all gone!  Too bad!  Too bad!”

“Get a taxi, Will,” said Foster in a low voice.  “If we can get the fellow up to his room without attracting too much attention we may be able to put him in bed.”

As Will turned away, he was rejoiced to notice that his classmate’s condition had apparently not attracted the attention of the crowd, which was too much occupied in the excitement of greeting the team to be mindful of other matters.  Disgust and anger were so mingled in Will’s feelings that he was hardly aware of what he was doing, but at last he succeeded in getting a taxi, and bidding the driver hold it near the end of the platform, he hastened back to the assistance of Foster.

As he returned he noticed that Mott was now with Peter John, and only one glance was required to show that he was in a condition similar to that of Peter John, though not quite so helpless.

“Glad t’ see you, freshman,” stammered Mott as Will approached.  “Great sport, that fellow,” and he pointed stupidly at Peter John as he spoke.  “Put up his monish like li’le man.  No squeal from him, no, not a squeal.  No, goo’ man.  Goo’ man, freshman.”