Left End Edwards Part 31

"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?"

But now, back in his room, with his books spread out before him and his mind in a strange tumult of elation and fear and dejection, he hardly knew whether to be glad of or sorry for his promotion. Study, at all events, was quite out of the question to-night, but luckily he was well enough up in his lessons to be able to afford one hour of idleness. He considered writing home to his father and recounting the story of his good fortune to him, for it seemed that he must talk to someone about it, and he even dragged a pad of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain pen. But, after tracing meaningless scrawls for several minutes, he gave it up. He didn't want to write a letter; he wanted to talk to Tom!

He saw the hands of his watch creep toward the hour of eight, after which he might give up pretence of study, don a sweater and a pair of canvas "sneakers" and go over to the gymnasium. The thought of that and of the next three days put him in a blue funk. What if he couldn't learn the signals, or, having learned them, forgot them in the game? What if he disappointed Andy and Coach Robey when the time came? He had visions of getting his signals mixed, of fumbling the ball at critical moments, of losing the game through his stupidity. There were times when he devoutly hoped that Joe Benson would recover the use of that ankle and get into the contest so that he [Steve] might not be called on to take part!

Then, at last, eight o'clock struck sonorously in the tower of Main Hall, and he closed his books with a sigh of relief, piled them up and went to the closet. When he was ready to go out Tom was still bent over his studies. Steve hesitated a moment with his hand on the k.n.o.b. He wanted Tom to wish him luck. He wondered if Tom guessed how sort of lonesome and scared he felt. But Tom never even raised his eyes and so Steve went out, closing the door softly behind him, and made his way through a dripping rain to the lighted porch of the gymnasium. Only a half-dozen fellows were there when he reached the meeting room. The settees had been moved aside and the floor was empty and ready for them.

Steve nodded to the others and perched himself on one of the low windowsills to wait. In twos and threes the players stamped up the stairs, laughing, jostling. Milton and Kendall, entering together, seized each other and began to waltz over the floor. Steve wondered how they could take such a serious business so light-heartedly. Then Joe Lawrence, the manager, a football under his arm, came in with Williams and, glancing at his watch, began calling the roll. In the middle of it Coach Robey and Andy Miller and Danny Moore arrived. More lights were turned on and Mr. Robey swung the blackboard on the platform nearer the front.

"We'll try Number Six," he announced. Very quickly and surely he scrawled the formation on the board, added curving lines and dotted lines, dropped the chalk and faced the room. "All right, Milton.

First-string fellows in this and the rest of you watch closely."

"Line up!" chirped Milton. "Formation A!" The players sprang to their places, their rubber-soled shoes patting softly on the boards.

"21--14--63--66!" called the quarter. "21--14--63----"

The backs, who had s.h.i.+fted to the left in a slanting tandem, trotted forward, the ball was pa.s.sed, the line divided and Still slipped through.

"Norton, you were out of position," said Mr. Robey. "Look at the board, please. Your place is an arm's length from left half. You've got to follow closely on that. Try it again, please."

So it went for nearly an hour, the subst.i.tutes gradually taking the places of the first-string players. Steve, who had had the signals explained to him earlier, managed to get through without mistakes, but as an end he had little to do in the drill. After the coach had watched them go through some fourteen plays, the settees were dragged out into the floor again, the players seated themselves and the coach drew diagrams and explained them and examined the squad in signals as he went along. It was all over at a little after nine, but not for Steve. Andy Miller took him back to his room with him and for a good half-hour Steve was coached on formations, plays and signals. When, finally, he went back to Billings his head was absolutely seething and it was long after eleven before sleep finally came to him. When it did, it was a restless and disturbed slumber that was filled with dreams and visions.

He awoke earlier than usual the next morning, feeling almost as tired as when he had gone to bed. But, although he strove to s.n.a.t.c.h a nap before it was time to get up, sleep refused to return to him. His mind was too full. Across the room Tom was snoring placidly, both arms clutched about a pillow and his face almost buried from sight. Steve envied him his untroubled state of mind. Then he began to go over what he had learned the evening before and found himself in a condition of panic because for the life of him he couldn't remember half of the stuff that had been hammered into his tired brain! Steve was not the only fellow at training table that morning who showed a distaste for the excellent breakfast that was served. More than one chap looked pale and anxious and only trifled with the food before him. Steve stumbled through recitations, earning a warning look from "Uncle Sim," managed to observe more or less faithfully the schedule he had set for himself and turned up at dinner table with a very good appet.i.te. After dinner he wrote a notice and posted it on the bulletin board in the gymnasium.

"No Swimming Cla.s.ses until Monday. S. D. Edwards."

The school turned out to a boy that afternoon and paraded to the field to watch the final practice. Ma.s.sed on the grand stand, they sang their songs and cheered the players and the team all during a half-hour of signal drill and punting. There was no scrimmage until the first-string men had trotted off the field. Then the 'varsity subst.i.tutes and the second team faced each other for fifteen minutes and the second scored a field-goal. Steve played at left end on the subst.i.tute eleven, made one or two mistakes in signals and failed at any time to distinguish himself. But the game was slow and half-hearted, for the subst.i.tutes were continually warned against playing too hard and so risking injury.

When it was over, the second cheered the 'varsity, the subs cheered the second and the spectators formed two abreast again and trailed across the field to the gymnasium and there once more cheered everyone from Captain Miller and Coach Robey down to the last subst.i.tute--who was Steve--Danny Moore and Gus, the rubber. It had drizzled at times during the afternoon, but before the final "Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brim-f-i-e-l-d!" had died away, the clouds broke in the west and the afternoon sun shone through. This was accepted joyfully as a good omen and the crowd outside the gymnasium broke into a chorus of ecstatic "A-a-ays!"

Practice was over early, and at half-past four Steve, parting from Thursby at the corner of Wendell, made his way along the Row, half wis.h.i.+ng that he had not cancelled the swimming hour to-day. At the entrance to Torrence a voice hailed him from the doorway, and "Penny"

Durkin, wild of hair and loose-limbed, stepped out.

"h.e.l.lo," said Durkin. "Say, I've got the dandiest rug upstairs you ever saw, Edwards. It's a regular Begorra."

"What's a Begorra?" asked Steve with a smile.

"Oh, it's one of those rare Oriental rugs, you know."

"You mean Bokhara," laughed Steve.

Durkin blinked. "Something like that," he agreed. "Anyway, it's a peach.

Come up and have a look at it."

"No, thanks. I'm not buying rugs to-day."

"Tell you what I'll do," pursued Durkin, undismayed. "I'll fetch it over to your room and you can see how it looks. It's got perfectly wonderful tones of--of old rose and--and blue and----"

"Nothing doing, Durkin. We don't need any rugs."