"Shock" Shaw suddenly asked Harold, "Like to meet Trask and the boys?" And, without waiting for Harold's ecstatic "yes," led him up to the speaker's table, parked him in front of the great man and introduced him.
Chester Trask, holding court like a potentate, arose smiling and extended his hand, seizing Harold's hand and shaking it with the swift downward movement that was all the rage in the colleges.
"I didn't get the name," Trask apologized.
"Lamb," Harold ventured. "Harold Lamb." Worship shone in his eyes.
"One of the finest football players in the middle west," Shaw, who had been investigating the side show in the anteroom, added glibly.
"Good," Trask exclaimed. "We'll look for you out at football practice in the Fall."
Harold did not have the heart to say that he would look in vain. At that moment Harold would willingly have given his right arm to go to Tate, to associate with these undergraduate demigods, to be eligible later for assemblages of real he-men like this.
Then he was being presented to the less spectacular Rhoades, whom he somehow fancied even more than the redoubtable Trask. And to "Chick" Spencer, knight of the diamond. And to "Pep" Young.
