“That’ll do,” said Dana, after a moment’s hesitation.
“All over?” said Dink, dazed.
“All over!”
The scrubs, with a yell, broke up, cheering the varsity, and being cheered in turn. Stover, with a sinking, realized that the week of preparation had gone and that as he was he must come up to the final test—the final test before the thousands that would blacken the arena on the morrow.
The squad went rather silently, each oppressed by the same thought.
“We’ll go out to the country club for the night,” said Tompkins’s shrill voice. “Get your valises ready. And now stop talking football until we tell you. Go out on the trot now!”
From the gymnasium he went back to the house. As he came up the hall he heard a hum of voices from his room.
“Dink’s got the nerve, but what the deuce can he do against that Princeton line? Do you know how much he weighs? One hundred and fifty.”
Stover listened, smiled grimly. If they only knew his real weight!
“Do you think he’ll last it through?”
“What, Dink?” said McCarthy’s loyal voice. “You bet he’ll last!”
“Blamed shame he isn’t at end!”
“By ginger! he’d make the All-American if he was.”
“Yes, and now everyone will jump on him for being a rotten fullback.”
“Dana be hanged!”
Stover went back to the stairs and returned noisily At his entrance the crowd sprang up instinctively. He felt the sudden focus of anxious, critical glances.
“Hello, fellows,” he said gruffly. “Tough, help me to stow a few duds in my valise.”
“Sure I will!”
Two or three hurried to help McCarthy, in grotesque, unconsciously humorous eagerness; others patted him on the back with exaggerated good spirits.
“Dink, you look fine!”
“All to the good.”
“Right on edge.”
“Dink, we’re all rooting for you.”
“Every one of us.”
“You’ll tear ’em up.”
“We’re betting on you, old gazebo!”
“Thanks!”
He took the bag which McCarthy thrust upon him. Each solemnly shook his hand, thrilling at the touch, and Hungerford said:
“Whatever happens, old boy, we’re going to be proud of you.”
Stover stopped a moment, curiously moved, and obeying an instinct, said brusquely:
“Yes, I’ll take care of that.”
Then he went hurriedly out.
That night, after supper—a meal full of nervous laughter and assumed spirits—two or three of the older coaches came in, and their spirit of hopefulness somehow communicated itself to the team. Other Yale elevens had risen at the last moment and snatched a victory—why not theirs? It lay with them, and during the week they certainly had forged ahead. Dink felt the infection and became almost convinced. Then Tompkins, moving around as the spirit of confidence, signaled him.
“Come out here; I want a little powwow with you.”
They left the others and went out on the dim lawns with the lighted clubhouse at their backs, and Tompkins, drawing his arm through Stover’s, began to speak:
“Dink, we’re in for a licking.”
“Oh, I say!” said Stover, overwhelmed. “But we have come on; we’ve come fast.”
“Stover, that’s a great Princeton team,” said Tompkins quietly, “and we’re a weak Yale one. We’re going to get well licked. Now, boy, I’m telling you this because I think you’re the stuff to stand it; because you’ll play better for knowing what’s up to you.”
“I see.”
“It’s going to depend a whole lot on you—how you hold up your end—how badly we’re licked.”
“I know I’m the weak spot,” said Stover, biting his lips.
“You’re a darn good player,” said Tompkins, “and you’re going to leave a great name for yourself; but this year you’ve had to be sacrificed. You’ve been put where you are because you’ve got nerve and a head. Now this is what I want from you. Know what you’re up against and make your brain control that nerve—understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’ve got to do the kicking in the second half as well as in the first. You’ve got to keep your strength and not break it against a wall. You won’t be called on for much rushing in the first half; you’ll get a chance later. The line may go to pieces, the secondary defense may go to pieces; but, boy, if you go to pieces, we’ll be beaten thirty to nothing.”
“As bad as that!”
“Every bit.”
“That’s awful—a Yale team.” He drew a long breath and then said: “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get off every punt without having it blocked; and that’s a good deal, with what you’re up against.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And hold on to every punt that comes to you—no fumbling.”
“No fumbling—yes, sir.”
“And kick as you’ve never kicked before—every kick better as you go on. Put your whole soul into it.”
“I will.”
“You won’t miss a tackle—I know that; but you’ll have some pretty rum ones to make, and when you tackle, make them remember it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, Stover, above all, hold steadfast. Keep cool and remember the game’s a long one. Boy, you don’t know what it’ll mean for some of us old fellows to see Yale go down, but out of it all we want to remember something that’ll make us proud of you.” He stopped, controlled the emotion that was in his voice, and said a little anxiously: “I tell you this because a first game is a terrible thing, and I didn’t want you to be caught in a panic when you found what you were up against. And I tell you, Stover, because you’re the sort of fighting stuff that’ll fight harder when you know all there is to it is the fighting. Am I right?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“And now, do a more difficult thing. Get right hold of yourself. Put everything out of your mind; go to bed and sleep.”
This last injunction, though he tried his best to obey it, was beyond Stover’s power. He passed the night in fitful flashes of sleep. At times he awoke, full of a fever of eagerness from a dream of success. Then he would lie staring, it seemed for hours, at the thin path across the ceiling made by a street lamp, feeling all at once a weakness in the pit
