The night before the game they were in Jimmie’s rooms in Standerland and a crowd of Third Formers came trooping in. “No school to-night,” cried Kit Wilson, “there’s to be a P-rade around the campus at eight-thirty sharp. Tony, you lucky dog, don’t it feel good even to be a despised scrub?”
Tony laughed. “Say, fellows, you don’t know how it all strikes a greenhorn like me. Why, it makes me feel bully to be alive.” And as he stood there in the center of the room, with smiling friendly faces about him, health and excitement glowing in his cheeks and a happy smile playing on his boyish lips, there was an unconscious feeling within them all that it was bully for him to be alive.
Rush Merton, an irrepressible, black eyed, black haired youth, proposed a fresh song and started to bellow it forth, but the boys were keen for talk and promptly smothered him with sofa pillows—an assault that was resented so violently that in much less time than it takes to tell Jimmie’s attractive rooms were in that sad condition, technically known as “rough-house.” In the midst of the hubbub a stentorian voice made itself heard, “Here stop this nonsense!” And Jack Stenton, the hardy popular athletic director, came in. “Don’t make nuisances of yourselves, children. Pick up those sofa pillows, compose yourselves, and listen to words of wisdom from an older and wiser man.”
“Hear, hear!” came in boisterous good-nature from a dozen throats. Rush gathered himself together from the pile of cushions, made an absurd bow, and indicated Mr. Stenton with a pompous wave of the hand. “Gentlemen, I yield the center of attention (and the center of gravity,” he added sotto voce) “to our beloved athletic director. Mr. Athletic Director, we are all ears.”
“Good! You are all Third Formers, eh?” said Stenton, with a smile, as he looked them over good-naturedly. “I fancied that I might find you congregated in this den of iniquity. Well, I have come up here to tell you fellows how much I appreciate Kit Wilson’s spirit in cheerfully giving his best form players to the scrub. He has set an example to the other forms that is bound to be a fine thing for the athletics of the school. And I want to tell you also that the form, this time, is going to get something out of it—an honor that I don’t think has fallen to the Third Form previous to this in the history of Deal School. After due consideration Captain Maclaren and I have decided to play Deering at left end in to-morrow’s game.”
For a moment there was silence, due to the overwhelming surprise, for they had hardly dared hope that Tony would be given a chance except as a substitute; and this meant that he had won out against Marsh who had played on the team last year. Deering himself looked in helpless amazement, first at Stenton, then at his form mates. Jimmie broke the stillness at last by exclaiming in a shrill voice, “Come to my arms, my frabjous boy,” and clasped Tony wildly about the waist. Then the cheers rang forth, despite Stenton’s protest, until Mr. Morris came running out of his study to find out what the racket was.
“Come, come,” Mr. Stenton cried at last, “cut this now; and you, young ‘un, get to bed and don’t celebrate any more to-night. Hello, Mr. Morris, we have decided to put Deering in the game to-morrow—hence this bedlam.”
“That’s fine!” exclaimed Morris heartily, as he shook Tony’s hand. “But you boys had better get out now and join the procession; they are meeting before the Chapel.”
