At that moment he was ripe to have entered into a closer intimacy with Tony, or even with Mr. Morris. But Deering was absorbed in the life of his form, and except at night he and Carroll had no opportunity of being together, and then Tony was so tired out with football practice that by “lights” he was ready to tumble into bed. And so they fell quite out of the way of having nocturnal talks. Mr. Morris had a great liking for Carroll, despite his obvious faults, but he had long since given up the hope of knowing him better, of getting beyond Carroll’s supercilious reserve and too-elaborate courtesy. The consequence was that he detected no change now in the boy’s attitude and failed to make the advances that Carroll would have responded to so readily. For the first time Carroll became seriously dissatisfied with his life at school. He was really bored, as he had always pretended to be, and also lonely, which of course he did not acknowledge, even to himself. He was a little inclined to think in his heart that his half-conscious efforts at reform were not worth while. However he decided to stick it out for the year at any rate, and settled down to the monotonous routine with an air of indifference, and kept steadily away from his old companions.
CHAPTER V
THE BOXFORD GAME
The first cold snap gave way again to Indian summer with just enough northwest wind to make good football weather. The practice went on diligently. Lesser rivals came week by week to Deal and literally and metaphorically bit the dust ere the great Boxford game drew near. The school was a-quiver with excitement. The form leaders marshalled the boys onto the field in the bright clear afternoons and stimulated them to cheer until they were hoarse. The pros and cons of winning were the principal theme of conversation during recreation times, and hours and minutes were counted as the great day came nearer and nearer.
The day before the game a mass meeting was held in the Gymnasium, and the Head and Mr. Stenton and such other masters as had athletic proclivities were called upon for speeches, while the boys cheered everything enthusiastically without discrimination. Sandy Maclaren, the doughty captain of the eleven, mounted the rostrum amongst others, and delivered his sentiments in a terse series of twelve stammering words, “Boys, we’ve got to win; and that’s all I have to say,” which was greeted with an applause that more skilled orators seldom evoke. The form games were over, and the form teams had disbanded; all effort was concentrated now upon the chief game of the year.
Tony, from his place amongst the scrub players, heard it all with tingling ears and beating heart, absorbing that intangible energy—school spirit—as air into his lungs. This unexpected and vehement stirring of his emotions bewildered him. He thought he was just beginning to understand what love of school might mean. Then they sang “Here’s to good old Deal” and “There’s a wind that blows o’er the sea-girt isle” in a fashion that brought the heart to the throat and tears of exquisite happiness to the eyes. And at last Doctor Forester dismissed them with a few encouraging words that sounded very much like a blessing.
Jimmie Lawrence sought Tony’s side, as the boys poured out of the Gymnasium. “Hey, Tony, ain’t it grand?” he exclaimed, as he twined his arms around his friend’s neck. “Oh, say, boy, we’ve got to win.”
Tony gave a little gulp and squeezed Jimmie’s hand. “Oh, Jimmie, I never felt so great in all my life.”