THE MAN IN THE WINDOW
He hated defeat. He hated still more to be chaffed about defeat by fun-loving classmates.
Likewise he had avoided telling his story to older graduates. During his football days he had become well acquainted with some of the New York alumni, who coached the eleven. One of these he knew well; but Young did not feel like going to his nice, hard-wood office and bothering him.
"I'm not a football player now," he explained to himself. "I'm a poor young man from the country. Oh, it's all very fine being an athlete when you're in college, but it doesn't count you much when you get out and try to earn a living." He kept repeating this bitterly. He was getting desperate.
"I wish some of those horses would run away, or something happen so I could rush in and do something. What if I should get killed? I shouldn't be hungry then."
He was passing brightly lighted restaurants, and well-fed New Yorkers were already getting out of cabs and walking comfortably in and sitting comfortably down,
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