“Yes, sir.”
“Now you didn’t do that. You went down with your eyes on your man only, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You never looked at your back to see if he fumbled, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“And if he had, where’d you have been? If he holds it all right, knock over your end, but if he fumbles you’ve got to beat everyone to it and recover it. You’re one of eleven men, not a newspaper phenomenon—get that in your head. You didn’t know I was trying you out as well as Bangs. Now let it sink into you. Do you get it?”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Stover, furious at himself, for if there was one thing that was instinctive in him it was this cardinal quality of following the ball and being in every play.
It was a day of the hardest, trying alike to the nerves of coaches and men, when the teams were driven without a rest, when tempers were strained to the snapping point, in the effort to instil not so much the details of the game as the inflaming spirit of combat.
It was dusk before the coaches called a halt to the practise and sent them, steaming and panting, aching in every joint, back to the gymnasium for a rubdown.
Climbing wearily into the car to sink gratefully into a seat, Dink suddenly, to his confusion, found himself by the side of Bangs.
“Hello,” said the senior, looking up with a grin, “I hope every muscle in your body’s aching.”
“It certainly is,” said Stover, relieved.
Bangs looked at him a long moment, shook his head, and said:
“I wish I could drop a ton of brick on you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve plugged away for years, slaved like a nigger at this criminal game, thought I was going to get my chance at last, and now you come along.”
“Oh, I say,” said Stover in real confusion.
“Oh, I’ll make you fight for it,” said the other, with a snap of his jaws. “But, boy, there’s one thing I liked. When that old rhinoceros of a Harden was putting the hooks into me, you never eased up for a second.”
“I knew you’d feel that way.”
“If you’d done differently I’d slaughtered you,” said Bangs. “Well, good luck to you!”
He smiled, but back of the smile Stover saw the cruel cut of disappointment.
And this feeling was stronger in him than any feeling of elation as he returned to his rooms, after the late supper. He had never known anything like the fierceness of that first practise. It was not play with the zest he loved, it was a struggle of ambitions with all the heartache that lay underneath. He had gone out to play, and suddenly found himself in a school for character, enchained to the discipline of the Caesars, where the test lay in stoicism and the victory was built on the broken hopes of a comrade.
For the first time, a little appalled, he felt the weight of the seriousness, the deadly seriousness of the American spirit, which seizes on everything that is competition and transforms it, with the savage fanaticism of its race, for success.
VII
After a week of grueling practise, the first game of the season came like a holiday. Stover was called out after the first few minutes, replacing Bangs, and remained until the close. He played well, aided by several fortunate opportunities, earning at the last a pat on the back from Dana which sent him home rejoicing. The showing of the team was disappointing, even for that early season. The material was plainly lacking in the line, and at fullback the kicking was lamentably weak. The coaches went off with serious faces; throughout the college assembled on the stands was a spreading premonition of disaster.
Saturday night was privileged, with the long, grateful Sunday morning sleep ahead.
“Dink, ahoy!” shouted McNab’s cheerful voice over the banister, as he entered the house.
“Hello, there!”
“How’s the boy wonder, the only man-eating Dink in captivity?”
“Tired as the deuce.”
“Fine. First rate,” said McNab, skipping down. “Forget the past, think only of the bright furniture. We’ve got a block of tickets for Poli’s Daring-Dazzling-Delightful Vaudeville tonight. You’re elected. We’ll end up with a game at Reynolds’. Seen the Evening Register?”
“No.”
“My boy, you are famous,” said McNab, brandishing a paper. “I’m lovelier, but you get the space. Never mind, I’ll be arrested soon—anything to get in the papers!”
While McNab’s busy tongue ran on, Stover was gazing at the account of the game, where, among the secondary headlines, there stared out at him the caption:
Stover, a Freshman, Plays
Sensational Game.
The thing was too incredible. He stood stupidly looking at it.
“How do you feel?” said McNab, taking his pulse professionally.
There was no answer Stover could give to that first throbbing sensation at seeing his name—his own name—in print. It left him confused, almost a little frightened.
“Why, Dink, you’re modest,” said the irrepressible McNab; and, throwing open the door, he shouted at the top of his voice: “I say, fellows, come down and see Dink blush.”
A magnificent scrimmage, popularly known as a “rough house,” ensued, in which McNab was properly chastised, though not a whit subdued.
McCarthy arrived late, with the freshman eleven, back from a close contest with a school team. They took a hurried supper, and went down a dozen strong, in jovial marching order.
The sensations of the theater were still new to Stover, nor had his fortunate eye seen under the makeup or his imagination gone below the laughter. To parade down the aisle, straight as a barber’s pole, chin carefully balanced on the sharp edge of his collar, on the night of his first day as end on the Yale varsity, delightfully conscious of his own startling importance, feeling as if he overtopped everyone in the most public fashion, to be absolutely blushingly conscious that everyone in the theater must,
