If Harold had an impulse to dance for joy at Trask's unexpected good news, his battered body soon made him acquainted with the impossibility of such unconventional behavior. He ached in a hundred places. Already his bruises were stiffening so that he could hardly walk. But walk he must. For, following the informal procedure of his old Sanford High School football days, Harold had donned his togs in his room and walked to Tate Field. This to the snickering delectation of the gentlemanly loafers on University Street.
He stood on the sidewalk outside the gate of the football field and wondered miserably how he was going to summon up the strength to traverse the six or seven blocks to Clark Street His spirits were high, but his flesh was very, very low. In this emergency a taxicab rattled to the curb. The deus ex machina behind the steering wheel was a white man as tattered as his vehicle. This equipage now came to an asthmatic stop in front of Harold.
"Taxi, boss?" inquired the chauffeur. "Sure looks like you need one, boss."
