The hot, damp reek of the great bathroom, from the open doors of which clouds of steam were issuing, the noisy, echoing voices of the boys, the heaps of dirty jerseys and moleskin trousers and heavy, cleated shoes lying about on the floor, the open lockers, in which clothing was crowded with varying regard for neatness, and, most of all, the boys themselves, loudly discussing, so earnest that they were forgetting to dress, forgetting, some of them, even to rub themselves dry with their towels,—these were the facts that somehow touched Phil Ward's heart and made him think of the time when he had been such a boy.
He looked about for Harry Harding, but saw no face that he recognized. In one corner a boy, stripped to the waist, lay flat on the floor, while another bent over him, kneading his back and rubbing it with alcohol. Ward stepped up and inspected the two; neither of them was Harry.
Over by the scales eight or ten naked fellows who had finished rubbing themselves down were waiting in line to see how much
