Part 22 (2/2)

Neil strove to look intelligent by banis.h.i.+ng the expression of bewilderment from his face, and stood patiently by until the last coach had hurled the last bolt at his defenseless head--defenseless, that is, save for the head harness that was dripping rain-drops down his neck.

Then he trotted off to the line-up with a queer, half-painful grin on his face.

”I guess it's settled for me,” he said to, himself, as he rubbed his cold, wet hands together. ”Evidently I sha'n't have to play off to give Paul his place; I've done it already. I suppose I've been bothering my head about it until I've forgotten what I've been doing. I wish though--” he sighed--”I wish it hadn't been necessary to disgust Mills and Bob Devoe and all the others who have been so decent and have hoped so much of me. But it's settled now. Whether it's right or wrong, I'm going to play like a fool until they get tired of jumping on me and just yank me out in sheer disgust.

”Simson's got his eagle eye on me, the old ferret! And he will have me on the hospital list to-morrow, I'll bet a dollar. He'll say I've gone 'fine' and tell me to get plenty of sleep and stay outdoors. And the doctor will give me a lot of nasty medicine. Well, it's all in the bargain. I'd like to have played in Sat.u.r.day's game, though; but Paul has set his heart on it, and if he doesn't make the team he'll have seven fits. It means more to him than it does to me, and next fall will soon be here. I can wait.”

”_Fletcher! Wake up, will you_?”

Foster was glaring at him angrily. The blood rushed into Neil's face and he leaped to his position. Even Ted Foster's patience had given out, Neil told himself; and he, like all the rest, would have only contempt for him to-morrow. The ball was wet and slimy and easily fumbled. Neil lost it the first time it came into his hands.

”Who dropped that ball?” thundered Mills, striding into the back-field, pus.h.i.+ng players left and right.

”I did,” answered Neil, striving to meet the coach's flas.h.i.+ng eyes and failing miserably.

”You did? Well, do it just once more, Fletcher, and you'll go off! And you'll find it hard work getting back again, too. Bear that in mind, please.” He turned to the others. ”Now get together here! Put some life into things! Stop that plunging right here! If the second gets another yard you'll hear from me!”

”First down; two yards to gain!” called Jones, who was acting as referee.

The second came at them again, tackle-back, desperately, fighting hard.

But the varsity held, and on the next down held again.

”That's better,” cried Mills.

”Use your weight, Baker!” shrieked one of the second's coaches, slapping the second's left-guard fiercely on the back to lend vehemence to the command.

”Center, your man got you that time,” cried another. ”Into him now!

Throw him back! Get through!”

Ten coaches were raving and shrieking at once.

”Signal!” cried the second's quarter, Reardon. The babel was hushed, save for the voice of Mills crying:

”Steady! Steady! Hold them, varsity!”

”_44--64--73--81!_” came Reardon's m.u.f.fled voice. Then the second's backs plunged forward. Neil and Gillam met them with a crash; cries and confusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurled themselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped ”Down!”

the whistle shrilled.

”Varsity's ball!” said the referee. ”First down!”

The coaches began their tirades anew. Mills spoke to Foster aside. Then the lines again faced each other. Foster glanced back toward Neil.

”_14--12--34--9!_” he sang. It was a kick from close formation. Neil changed places with full-back. He had forgotten for the moment the role he had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flying toward him from center. He would do his best. The pigskin settled into his hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound.

But the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretched hand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players. In a moment it came to light tightly clutched by Brown of the second eleven.

”I don't have to make believe,” groaned Neil. ”Fate's playing squarely into my hands.”

<script>