“Stover! Stover! Out here!”
He jumped up, oblivious of everything but the sudden thumping of his heart and the curious stir in the ranks of the candidates.
“Here, leave your sweater,” shouted Tompkins, who had repeated the summons.
“Oh, yes.”
Clumsily entangled in the folds of his sweater, he struggled to emerge. Tompkins, amid a roar of laughter, caught the arms and freed him, grinning at the impetuousness with which Stover went scudding out.
On the way he passed the man he was replacing, returning rebelliously with a half antagonistic, half apprehensive glance at him.
“Take left end on the scrub,” said Dana, who was not in the line of scrimmage. “Farley, give him the signals.”
The scrub quarter hastily poured into his ears the simple code. He took up his position. The play was momentarily halted by one of the coaches, who was hauling the center men over the coals. Opposite Stover, Bangs, senior, was standing, legs spread, hands on his hips, looking at him with a look Stover never forgot. For three years he had plugged along his way, doggedly holding his place in the scrubs, patiently waiting for the one opportunity to come. Now, at last, after the years of servitude, standing on the coveted side of the line, suddenly here was a freshman with a big reputation come in the challenge that might destroy all the years of patience and send him back into the oblivion of the scrubs.
Stover understood the appealing fury of the look, even in all the pitilessness of his ambition. Something sharp went through him at the thought of the man for whose position, ruthlessly, fiercely, he was beginning to fight.
Five or six coaches, always under the direction of Case, head coach, were moving restlessly about the field, watching for the first rudimentary faults. One or two gave him quick appraising looks. Stover, moving restlessly back and forth, his eyes on the ground, too conscious of the general curiosity, awaited the moment of action. The discussion around the center ended.
“Varsity take the ball,” called out Dana; “get into it, everyone!”
The two lines sprang quickly into position, the coaches, nervous and vociferous, jumping behind the unfortunate objects of their wrath, while the air was filled with shrieked advice and exhortation.
“On the jump, there, Biggs!”
“Charge low!”
“Oh, get down, get down!”
“Break up this play!”
“Wake up!”
“Smash into it!”
“Charge!”
“Now!”
“Block that man!”
“Throw him back!”
“Get behind!”
“Push him on!”
“Shove him on!”
“Get behind and shove!”
“Shove!”
“Shove! Oh, shove!”
Attack and defense were still crude. The play had gone surging around the opposite end, but in a halting way, the runner impeded by his own interference. Stover, sweeping around at full speed, was able to down the half from behind, just as the interference succeeded in clearing the way. At once it was a chorus of angry shouts, each coach descending on the particular object of his wrath.
“Beautiful!”
“You’re a wonder!”
“What are you doing—growing to the ground?”
“What did I tell you?”
“Say, interference, is this a walking match?”
“Wonderful speed—almost got away from the opposite end.”
“Say, Charley, a fast lot of backs we’ve got.”
“Line ’em up!”
Two or three plays through the center, struggling and squirming in the old fashion of football, were succeeded by several tries at his side. Stover, besides three years’ hard drilling, had a natural gift of diagnosis, which, with the savagery of his tackling, made him, even at this period, an unusual end, easily the best of the candidates on the field. He stood on guard, turning inside the attack, or running along with it and gradually forcing his man out of bounds. At other times he went through the loose interference and caught his man with a solid lunge that was not to be denied.
The varsity being forced at last to kick, Bangs came out opposite him for that running scrimmage to cover a punt that is the final test of an end.
Stover, dropping a little behind, confident in his measure of the man, caught him with his shoulder on the start, throwing him off balance for a precious moment, and then followed him down the field, worrying him like a sheepdog pursuing a rebellious member of his flock, and caught him at the last with a quick lunge at the knees that sent him sprawling out of the play. Up on his feet in a minute, Stover went racing after his fullback, in time to give the impetus of his weight that sent him over his tackle, falling forward.
“How in blazes did that scrub end get back here?” shouted out Harden, a coach, a famous end himself. He came up the field with Bangs, grabbing him by the shoulder, gesticulating furiously, his fist flourishing, crying:
“Here, Dana, give us that play over again!”
A second time Bangs sought to elude Stover, goaded on by the taunts of Harden, who accompanied them. Quicker in speed and with a power of instinctive application of his strength, Stover hung to his man, putting him out of the play despite his frantic efforts.
Harden, furious, railed at him.
“What! You let a freshman put you out of the play? Where’s your pride? In the name of Heaven do something! Why, they’re laughing at you, Ben—they’re giving you the laugh!”
Bangs, senior society man, manager of the crew, took the driving and the leash without a protest, knowing though he did that the trouble was beyond him—that he was up against a better man.
Suddenly Harden turned on Stover, who, a little apart, was moving uneasily, feeling profoundly sorry for the tanning Bangs was receiving on his account.
“Look here, young fellow, you’re not playing that right.”
Stover was amazed.
“What’s the first thing you’ve got to think about when you follow down your end?”
“Keep him out of the play,” said Stover.
“Never!” Harden seized him by the jersey, attacking with his long expostulating forefinger, just as he had laid down the law to Bangs. “Never! That’s grandstand playing, my
