The captain clapped Seeley on the shoulder, nodded at the ball, and the full-back limped on to the field to kick the goal or lose a victory.  There were no more signs of nervousness in his bearing.  With grave deliberation he stood waiting for the ball to be placed in front of the goal-posts.  The sun had dropped behind the lofty grand-stands.  The field lay in a kind of wintry twilight.  Thirty thousand men and women gazed in tensest silence at the mud-stained, battered youth who had become the crowning issue of this poignant moment.  Up in the press-box a thick-set, grayish man dug his fists in his eyes and could not bear to look at the lonely, reliant figure down yonder on the quiet field.  The father found courage to take his hands from his face only when a mighty roar of joy boomed along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, and he saw the ball drop in a long arc behind the goal-posts.  The kick had won the game for Yale.

Once clear of the crowds, Henry Seeley hurried toward the training quarters.  His head was up, his shoulders squared, and he walked with the free stride of an athlete.  Mr. Richard Giddings danced madly across to him: 

“Afraid to see him play were you, you silly old fool?  He is a chip of the old block.  He didn’t know when he was licked.  Wow, wow, wow, blood will tell!  Come along with us, Harry.”

“I must shake hands with the youngster, Dick.  Glad I changed my mind and came to see him do it.”

“All right, see you at Mory’s to-night.  Tell the boy we’re all proud of him.”

Seeley resumed his course, saying over and over again, as if he loved the sound of the words, “chip of the old block,” “blood will tell.”

This verdict was like the ringing call of bugles.  It made him feel young, hopeful, resolute, that life were worth having for the sake of its strife.  One thing at least was certain.  His son could “take his punishment” and wrest victory from disaster, and he deserved something better than a coward and a quitter for a father.

The full-back was sitting on a bench when the elder Seeley entered the crowded, steaming room of the training house.  The surgeon had removed the muddy, blood-stained bandage from around his tousled head and was cleansing an ugly, ragged gash.  The boy scowled and winced but made no complaint, although his bruised face was very pale.

“Must have made you feel pretty foggy,” said the surgeon.  “I shall have to put in a few stitches.  It was a deuce of a thump.”

“I couldn’t see very well and my legs went queer for a few minutes, but I’m all right now, thanks,” replied the full-back, and then, glancing up, he espied his father standing near the door.  The young hero of the game beckoned him with a grimy fist.  Henry Seeley went over to him, took the fist in his two hands, and then patted the boy’s cheek with awkward and unaccustomed tenderness.

“Sit still, Ernest.  I won’t interfere with the doctor’s job.  I just wanted to let you know that I saw your bully work.  It made me think of—­it made me think of—­”