“Thanks.” Locker closed his book and slipped it back into his pocket. “I suppose you know about your physical examination? But I forget; you’ve played this season already, you said. Report to the trainer after practice, please. Now, you big chump, come off your high horse and talk sense! Are you really going to play?”
Stuart nodded. “If they’ll let me, Fred.”
“Let you? Let—Say, where do you get that stuff? You watch ’em! I guess the only chap who won’t be tickled pink is Wheaton. And, at that, I fancy he won’t be awfully cut up, for Wheat’s bitten off more than he can Fletcherize, and he knows it! Here they come now!”
The squad was beginning to dribble across the field from the gymnasium. Once past the tennis courts, the balls began to soar. Stuart saw Coach Haynes well back in the second group, talking to Jack. Stuart kept his place beside Fred Locker, waiting, a trifle woodenly, for his presence to be discovered. It was Tom Muirgart who first recognized him and spread the news with a shout. Then Tom, followed by Billy Littlefield and Wallace Towne, hiked across the corner of the gridiron and assaulted him joyfully. It was hard to keep up that expression and manner of unconcern when Tom was banging him between the shoulders and Billy was ruffling his hair with jovial but ungentle hand. Stuart donned his headgear in protection and dodged Tom’s enthusiastic palm.
“Cut it out, fellows,” he growled, embarrassed, and darting an apprehensive look toward the approaching coach. “Don’t make a—a silly scene!” But in avoiding Tom’s blows he backed squarely into the stout arms of Joe Cutts, and Joe seized on him as though he were an opposing center and lifted him, struggling and wriggling, off his feet. After that there was no use in attempting to carry the affair off with dignity and decorum, and Stuart realized it and subsided in weak and futile remonstrances. “Thirsty” and “Howdy” and “Bee” and half a dozen others closed about him and pummeled him joyously or pumped his arms, or, unable to get close enough to lay violent hands on him, shouted their welcome. Stuart alternately grinned and scowled; grinned because grinning seemed to ease the sort of choky feeling in his throat, and scowled to prove that he hadn’t grinned!
And then, the group thinning, he found himself looking straight at the coach. Mr. Haynes smiled and held out his hand. “Glad to see you, Harven,” he said cordially.
Foes may clasp hands and still remain foes. Stuart returned the coach’s firm grip and said: “Thanks, sir.”
Then practice began.
Stuart discovered that a fortnight or so of idleness had told on his muscles surprisingly, but he didn’t allow any one else to suspect it. He went through formation drill in a squad of substitutes, playing his old position. He felt that the atmosphere here was not so sympathetic as it had been among that group of older players, but he didn’t resent it. Nor did he resent being left on the bench when, after an hour’s practice, the second team trailed across from the further gridiron and the scrimmage began. He couldn’t expect to get his place back without a struggle. That wouldn’t be fair to Wheat, who, no matter what might be said of his shortcomings, had tried loyally and hard. For that matter, Stuart reflected, he might get no better than first substitute’s place for the rest of the season. To-day he didn’t care very much. It was so jolly good to get back at all! He had been an idiot to stay out so long, he told himself. Haynes had acted pretty decently. Shown good form, too. Some men would have been sloppy and hypocritical and some would have been sneering or sarcastic. Haynes had hit just the right note, and Stuart was grateful. “You might dislike Haynes,” he said to himself, “but you have to respect the guy!”