Part 31 (1/2)
”You'll have to change over,” he said finally. Andy grunted agreement.
”And we'll have to take Turner or Edwards from the second to-morrow and beat him into shape.”
”Edwards is the better,” said Andy.
”I suppose so. If he played the way he played yesterday and to-day he might have a chance against Mumford. Still----”
”I'd better take that end,” said Andy. ”Let Roberts start the game at left and then put in Edwards--unless Benson mends enough.”
”He won't,” said the coach pessimistically. ”You can't play end with a sore ankle. He's out of it, Andy. Tough luck, too. I'll find Edwards and tell him to join the squad to-night. He's got to learn signals and plays and----” The coach's voice dwindled into silence and he gloomed frowningly out the window. ”I wish now I'd let Danny have his way,” he lamented. ”We could have run through plays indoors and had a hard practice to-morrow. Well----” He shrugged his shoulders again and his gaze came back to Andy. ”How are you?” he asked. ”You look a bit f.a.gged.”
”I'll be all right after supper,” replied the captain. ”I'll be glad when Sat.u.r.day night comes, though.” And he smiled a trifle wanly as he slipped off the table.
Mr. Robey grunted. ”So will I. Somehow, this year seems to mean more, Andy. Still, there's no use in worrying about it. Much better not think of it any more than you can help.”
”I know,” agreed Andy as he wrapped a big towel about his glowing body and moved toward the door, ”but when you're captain it--it's a whole lot different. There's Edwards over there. Shall I call him?”
The coach nodded. ”I think so. He's better than Turner, isn't he? Left end is Turner's position, though.”
”Edwards'll take to it quick enough. He's got more bulldog than Turner has, too. I guess he's the man for us. Oh, Edwards! Will you come over here a minute?”
Steve pushed his way through the crowded aisles, past Thursby who winked and grinned and whispered ”You're going to catch it!” past Tom who turned his head away as he approached, past Eric Sawyer, a big hulk in a crimson bathrobe, who scowled upon him, and so to where, by the rubbing room door, the captain and coach awaited him. It was Mr. Robey who brusquely made the announcement. The coach was anxious and tired to-day and his voice was harsh.
”Edwards, you join the 'varsity to-night. We may have to use you at left end. Benson's pretty badly hurt, I understand. Be upstairs at eight-fifteen promptly. You've got to learn the signals and about fifteen plays before Sat.u.r.day. Tell your coach I've taken you, please.”
”Yes, sir.” Steve's eyes, round and questioning, turned to the captain.
Andy smiled a little.
”Rather sudden, eh?” he asked. ”Do your best to learn, Edwards. Get the signals and plays down pat. There isn't much time, but you can do it if you'll put your mind on it. You wanted to make the 'varsity, you know, and now you've done it, and here's your chance to make good, Edwards.
But you've got to work like thunder, old man!” He laid a hand on Steve's shoulder and his fingers tightened as he went on. ”Everyone's got his hands full right now, you see, and there's no one to coach you much.
You've got to buckle down and learn things yourself. You can do it, all right. And on Sat.u.r.day, if you get in--and I can't see how you can help it--you've got to play real football, Edwards. Think you can do all that?”
”Yes.” Steve's heart was thumping pretty hard and his breathing was uncertain, as though he had raced the length of the field with a pigskin tucked in the crook of his arm, and his gaze sought the floor for fear those two would read the almost tragic ecstasy that shone in them.
”Yes,” he repeated, ”I'll learn. And I'll--I'll play!”
”All right. You'd better join the 'varsity table to-night. See Lawrence about it. That's all.” Coach Robey nodded and turned away. Andy Miller, following, paused and stepped back. One hand clutched the folds of the big towel about him, the other was stretched out to Steve.
”I'm glad, Edwards,” he said in a low voice as Steve's hand closed on his. Steve nodded. He wasn't quite certain of his voice just then.
”You'll do your best for us, won't you, old man?”
Steve gulped. ”I--I'll play till I drop,” he muttered huskily.
CHAPTER XXIII
DURKIN SHEDS LIGHT
Steve felt frightfully lonely that evening. He wanted so much to talk over his good fortune with Tom. But Tom, very grave of countenance, sat in frozen silence across the table and never so much as glanced his way.
Had he done so he might have caught one of the wistful looks bent upon him and, perhaps, relented. Not being able to discuss the amazing thing which had happened to him, detracted at least half the pleasure, Steve sadly reflected. Of course Tom knew of it, for Steve had sat at the 'varsity training table at supper-time and he could still hear in imagination the buzz of interest that had filled the hall when, somewhat consciously skirting the second team table, he had walked to the corner and sank into a seat between Fowler and Churchill. They had been very nice to him at the 'varsity table. Only Roberts, who might be expected to view his appearance with misgivings, had eyed him askance. Poor Joe Benson was confined to the dormitory. Thursby, himself only a recent addition to the big squad, grinned at Steve from the length of the long table in a way which seemed to say: ”They had to have us! I guess we fellows on the second team are pretty bad, what?”