When they wrested the ball away it was just past the centre line and Ira had made a good forty-five yards in that plucky run. Fred Lyons hugged him as he helped drag him to his feet, and Basker shouted: “That’s going some, Rowland! That’s going some, boy!” and thumped what little breath was left in his lungs away. That ended Crane’s session and Conlon went in at his position. After that Parkinson took the ball forty-eight yards without losing it and shot Cole across for the fourth score. When the whistle shrilled Billy Goode summoned Ira out and sent him trotting back to the gymnasium and Neely came into his own. Ira was not at all pained at being taken out, for he had had a pretty busy fifteen minutes and was glad enough to get under a shower. He was dressed and out of the building before the others returned and only heard the final score at supper time.
Coach Driscoll had put in too many substitutes in the fourth period, he was told, and one of them—some said Cheap and some said Mason—had fumbled a pass near goal and a Smart Aleck Chancellor youth had fallen on the ball. It had taken the full allowance of downs to get the ball over, but they had done it, and the final score stood 26 to 7. Ira was something of a hero at Mrs. Trainor’s table that evening, but he must have been a disappointing one, for his account of his achievement had to be dragged from him piecemeal and sounded extremely flat as he told it. To his credit, it may be stated that he didn’t look on his feat as at all remarkable and didn’t feel at all heroic. Only rather tired. He fell asleep over his Latin about nine and was in bed ten minutes later.
When he wrote home the next morning—it was a rainy Sunday and so eminently suited to the writing of letters and the balancing of bank books and the “getting up” on neglected studies—he did mention his part in the Chancellor game, but he didn’t make much of it, first, because he didn’t think much of it and, second, because his father didn’t know as much about a game of football as Ira himself had known before coming to Parkinson!
On Monday Ira might have seen evidences of new respect in the looks and behaviour of his teammates, but he wasn’t looking for them. It didn’t occur to him that picking up a football and carrying it through the opposing team for a matter of forty-five yards could make any difference in his status. But there was a difference, and he was ultimately forced to perceive it. For awhile, however, he was far too busy. Coach Driscoll beckoned him from the bench before practice started. The coach had a quizzical smile on his face as Ira approached.
“Rowland,” he said, “that was a nice little piece of work of yours on Saturday, and it seems too bad to find fault with you, but, my boy, you had no more business with that ball than a tramp with a cake of soap!”
“Oh!” murmured Ira. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Your duty was to play your position, no matter what went on behind. As it turned out you got away with it, but you might not have. It was Wirt’s place to pick up that ball, or Basker’s, but not yours. When you left the line you left a hole open for half the opposing team to pile through. If you’d made a slip they’d have brushed you and Wirt aside and had a touchdown in the shake of a lamb’s tail. See it?”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Ira sheepishly. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of that.”
“No, but those are the things you must think of, Rowland. You must use your head every minute. You’re not likely to do the same thing again and we’ll say no more about it. Aside from the fact that it was wrong at the start, Rowland, that was as pretty a piece of running in a broken field as I ever saw. And I was mighty glad to see one thing in especial: you didn’t stop when you were tackled. I liked that. You got a good seven yards after Myers grabbed you, and when you did go down you went down the right way, toward the other fellow’s goal. That may seem a small thing to you, Rowland, but if you put together all the ground lost during a game by men who give in too soon when tackled and who don’t ‘stretch’ when they’re down you’d have a fairly respectable slice of territory. All right. Now, here’s something else. Do you think you could play centre?”
“Centre?” Ira stared blankly. “I don’t know, sir.”