“You said that last week,” remarked a small youth beyond him. “So did I. But we’re still here. Change!”
He started the ball around in the other direction and the fellows shifted to meet the new order. Presently Cheap returned, watched disapprovingly for a minute and then called: “That’ll do, squad! You’re fine and rotten! On the run to the bench, and put your blankets on!”
Trotting half the length and width of the field seemed to Ira the final insult, but he managed to reach the substitutes’ bench without falling by the way and sank on to it with a deep sigh of gratitude. The rest of the practice time was spent by his squad and one other in watching the half-hour scrimmage. Then came the return to the gymnasium, showers and a leisurely dressing, during which nearly every muscle in Ira’s body ached protestingly.
But after he had eaten his dinner he felt, in spite of his soreness, particularly fit, and found himself looking forward to the next day’s work with a sort of eagerness. It wasn’t so much that he expected to enjoy it as that he was curious to know whether he would survive it! He did survive it, however, although when he rolled out of bed in the morning he had to groan as his stiff muscles responded to the demands put on them. He underwent an examination at the hands of the physical director, Mr. Tasser, at noon, and was put to all sorts of novel tests. Mr. Tasser was not very communicative. His conversation consisted entirely of directions and non-commital grunts. While Ira donned his clothes again the director filled out a card with mysterious figures and symbols, and it was when he handed the card to Ira that he attained the zenith of his loquacity.
“Very good,” he said. Then he grunted. And after that he added: “Better than the average. Lower leg muscles weak, though. Twelve pounds overweight, too. Good morning.”
Practice that afternoon, which was no different from the day before except that it contained a strenuous session of dummy tackling, left Ira lamer than ever, so lame that he couldn’t go to sleep for some time after he was in bed. And the next morning he groaned louder than before when he tumbled out. He wondered what they would say or think if he begged off for that one day’s practice! But when he had been up and about awhile he found that the lameness had miraculously disappeared, or most of it had, and it didn’t come back again that Fall! He was given easier work that afternoon, for Billy Goode, the trainer, informed him that he was losing too fast.
“’Tain’t good to drop your weight too suddenly, boy. You do some handling today and run the field a couple o’ times at a fast trot and come in. That’ll do for you.”
Oddly, Ira somehow resented being pampered and was inclined to grumble when, having had thirty minutes of kindergarten work and trotted twice around the oval, he was remorselessly despatched to the showers. That, having dressed, he did not return to the gridiron to watch his companions disport themselves shows that so far as football fever is concerned Ira was still free from contagion. Instead, he went to his room and put in an extra hour of study which shortened his evening’s duty by that much and allowed him to do something that he had had in mind to do for some time, which was to call on Mart Johnston.