chance of ever getting to college than I have of being president of the First National Bank."
A glance at the ineffectual face and bent shoulders of Henry Lamb, for twenty years occupant of the same high stool behind the bars of the First National, would have convinced one that Harold's chances of emulating the famous Lester Laurel or Chester Trask were very slim indeed.
But the elder Lamb's outburst had brought Harold's soaring imagination back to earth. When the carpet-slippered radio listener had shuffled out of the room, his son slumped dejectedly upon the bed and began slowly pulling off the big white sweater. Gone now the vision of himself as Tate's greatest son. Gone now the scenes of triumph on football and baseball field and as cheer leader extraordinary, just enacted by him, with the aid of one football, one baseball bat and one battered megaphone and one extremely vivid imagination, in front of his bedroom dresser mirror. He had acted them very well, with intricate and exact pantomime, thanks to plenty of practice before this same mirror and to his recent view of Lester Laurel in "The College Hero"—so well that he seemed actually to have felt the groping Union State tackler's hands around his ankles, to have experienced
