Part 12 (1/2)
”Glad to know you,” said the coach. ”What's your position, Edwards?”
”I've been playing end, sir.”
”End, eh? You look fast, too. We'll see what you can do, my boy. And you,--er----”
”Jim Hall,” supplied Danny. ”Another close friend o' me boyhood, sir, an' a fine lad, too, be-dad!”
”Tackle, sir, mostly,” replied Tom.
”It's a relief to find a couple who aren't bent on being backs,” said the coach with a smile to Miller. ”All right, fellows. We'll give you all the chance in the world. Report to Sawyer now.”
Steve and Tom, with the parting benediction of a portentious wink from Danny Moore, joined the thirty-odd candidates of many ages and sizes who, formed in two rings, were pa.s.sing footb.a.l.l.s under the stern and frowning regard of Eric Sawyer. They edged their way into one of the circles and were soon earnestly catching and tossing with the rest. If Sawyer recognised them as the boys who had aroused his ire in the rubbing room the day before, he showed no sign of it. It is probable, though, that their football attire served as a sufficient disguise.
Sawyer apparently took his temporary position as a.s.sistant coach very seriously and bore himself with frowning dignity. But it was not at all beneath his dignity to call erring candidates to order or to indulge in a good deal of heavy satire at the expense of those whose inexperience made them awkward. Neither Steve nor Tom, however, fell under the ban of his displeasure.
Falling on the ball followed the pa.s.sing, and, in turn, gave place to starting and sprinting. For this they were formed in line and Sawyer, leaning over a ball at one end of the line, snapped it away as a signal for them to leap forward. By that time the warmth of the day and the exertion had tuckered a good many of them out and Sawyer found much fault with the performances.
”Oh, get moving, you chap in the black s.h.i.+rt there! Watch the ball and dig when I snap it! That's it! Go it! _Hard!_ All right for you, but about a dozen of you other chaps got left entirely. Now get down there and throw your weight forward. Haven't any of you ever practised starts before? Anyone would think your feet were glued down! Get in line again.
Ready now! Go, you flock of ice-wagons!”
Fortunately for the softer members of the awkward squad, practice was soon over to-day, and Steve and Tom somewhat wearily tramped back with the rest across to the gymnasium, determined to have the luxury of a shower-bath even if they would have to get back into their togs again after it.
”We'd better see about getting lockers,” said Steve. ”I wonder where you go.”
”They cost a dollar a year,” answered Tom, who knew the contents of the school catalogue by heart, ”and if we don't make the team we won't need the lockers.”
”Sure we will. If we use the swimming pool we'll need a place to keep our clothes. And even if we don't make the big teams we'll play with the Hall, probably. Wish we had them now and didn't have to go back to the room to change. I'm tired, if you care to know it!”
”So am I,” panted Tom. ”Sawyer worked us hard for a warm day.”
”Yes, and did you notice that fat fellow? There he is ahead there, with the striped stockings. He was just about all in and puffing like a locomotive.”
”He was probably tender,” said Tom.
”Yes, he--Tender! That'll do for you!” said Steve indignantly, aiming a blow at Tom's ribs which was skilfully evaded. ”Let's stop at the office in here and see if we can get lockers.”
They could. Moreover, Mr. Conklin, the physical director, informed them, to their deep satisfaction, that the charge of one dollar each would be placed on their term bill if they wished. They wished with instant enthusiasm and departed, keys in hand, to find their lockers. They found the room thronged with fellows in various stages of undressing, while from the baths came deep groans and shrill shrieks and the hiss and splash of water. Their lockers were side by side at the farther end of the last aisle; and, after making certain that the keys fitted them, they began to get out of their clothes, only to make the discovery when partly disrobed that they had no towels.
”I'm going to ask someone to lend me one,” said Steve. ”You can use an end of it if I get it. I'm going to have that shower or bust.”
A cheerful-faced youth draped in a frayed bathrobe came up at that moment and Steve sought counsel of him.
”Towel? I'd lend you one in a minute, but mine are all soiled. You can see for yourself.” He nodded toward the open door of his locker on the floor of which lay a pile of what were evidently bath towels. ”I forgot to send them to the wash before I went away in the spring. If you ask Danny he might let you have one. I guess he's around somewhere.”
Steve found the trainer leaning against the doorway of the rubbing room.
”'Tis Sam Edwards!” greeted Danny. ”An' how did it go to-day, me boy?”
”Pretty good, thanks. Could you lend me a couple of towels, Mister--er--Danny?”