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 Cæsars, where the test lay in stoicism and the victory was built on the broken hopes of a comrade.