“I’m Mel Crozier,” he said in an unhurried tone. “You’re Connors, I believe.”
I nodded and we shook hands. I’d stood close to him before, and I’d heard him talk. He was very direct, and yet he didn’t rush things. He looked at Mick, who was standing near a port behind his bed.
“And you’re O’Rourke,” he said, slowly, smiling a little. “A couple of good Irish names.”
I said: “Just a couple more like Mick— and we’d have a Notre Dame backfield.”
Crozier nodded, still smiling. Then he went over to a chair and sat down. I picked out another, but Mick stayed on his feet. Crozier said:
“Babe Harron’s father is a friend of mine. This is a pretty rotten thing.”
His face was serious suddenly. I said:
“It’s a damn shame.”
Crozier nodded. “Jones, Captain Latham, a Rita Velda, and a Carla Sard— t
