"Sir," exclaimed the young man, reaching a hamlike hand to scratch his crew-cut blond head in a nervous gesture that strained the buttons of his tight-fitting sports shirt, "the door was open and I took the liberty of waiting in here."
"That's all right," said Coach Blenheim, walking to the desk and tossing his ten-gallon hat on the littered top. "What can I do for you, son?"
"Sir," said the young man, "my name is Bob Wyczk."
"Wyczk?" repeated Blenheim.
"My father played for you, sir," the young man said. "First in Texas and then, his last year of eligibility, at State."
"Wait a minute here," said Blenheim slowly. "Wyczk, you say? Boy, you couldn't be the son of Wally Wyczk—Wildcat Wally Wyczk?"
The young man nodded eagerly.
"Wally Wyczk!" said Blenheim. "Just about the best tackle I ever had. Would have made All-America that last year if he hadn't broken his—what did the ol' Wildcat break?"
"His leg, sir," said the young man.
"Oh, yes," said Coach Blenheim. "I remember our docs fixed him up good as new. It was always a comfort to me to know that my boys got the finest where medical, dental and surgical care were concerned. Tell me, Bob, what line of endeavor did ol' Wally follow?"