“Haynes tells me that you want to learn, Le Gette, and that I’m to teach you. I wasn’t crazy to take the job, as you can guess, but I did take it and I’m going to do my best with it. What I’m trying to get at is just this.” He stopped and scowled sternly. “You’ve got to work if anything’s to come of this, and I’m going to see that you do work. But you’re not to think that I’m—I’m trying to put anything over on you. I’m doing this for Haynes—I mean for the team, and it won’t get us anywhere if you grouch or sulk.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Le Gette. “I’m not any crazier about this than you are, but if you keep your shirt on I’ll do the same. And I’ll take all the work you can give me, Harven. Let’s go.”

After half an hour Stuart concluded that it was going to be less a matter of the teacher’s not sparing the pupil than of the pupil’s not sparing the teacher. Le Gette was a veritable whale for work, and all Stuart’s admonitions to take time were wasted. Le Gette spared neither himself nor Stuart. And he proved an apt student, too. Stuart had to acknowledge that. He listened to what was told him, copied the other’s methods and got results. A knowledge of punting aided to some extent, but drop-kicking is an art by itself and the pupil had much to learn. When the hour was up and they had to hurry back to the campus, Stuart couldn’t have said whether he or Le Gette was the more exhausted! In the afternoon there was a brief half hour after the Williston game was over, but as Le Gette had played through most of that contest he wasn’t in very good shape for his lesson. For that matter, neither was Stuart, for he, too, had participated. Both were glad enough when the darkness put an end to the session. They went back to the gymnasium in the twilight, crossing the deserted first team gridiron in silence until, just short of the lighted windows of the building ahead, Le Gette said feelingly:

“A shower isn’t going to be so rotten, eh?”

And Stuart answered, almost amiably: “You said something!”

The Williston game had resulted about as predicted. The visitors had proved rather more formidable than expected, perhaps, and Coach Haynes had been forced to use most of his first-string players well into the third period. The exceptions were Whaley and Wheaton. The right end had been roughly used in a tackle and had given way to Wesner in the second period and Wheaton had yielded to Stuart soon after the beginning of the third quarter. Stuart had done well enough; had run the team fast and surely, had recovered a fumble of Tasker’s that might have resulted disastrously and had pulled off three perfect heaves to Tom Muirgart. But as for “stunts” Stuart simply wasn’t there. Those old-time quarterback runs for thirty, forty, sometimes sixty yards were missing. Only once during the time he had played had he dared attempt a run and then he had been spilled promptly for a two-yard loss. On the whole, though, the Cherry-and-Gray had played a hard, snappy game against a doughty opponent, and the final score of 19 to 6 was generally considered satisfactory. There were those who maintained that Williston should not have scored, but there are always pessimists in every community.

CHAPTER XV
THE CONFERENCE

After Breakfast Sunday morning Jack appeared at Number 12 Lacey with a big bundle of newspapers under his arm. It was his first call for over a week and, had Neil been absent, there might have been an appreciable restraint in the atmosphere. But Neil saved the situation, and in a minute the conversation was going smoothly enough. Jack was full of the football news, dumping all save the sporting sections of the Sunday papers on the floor, and read aloud the story of the Pearsall—St. Charles game, which Pearsall had captured by the staggering score of 39 to 0. Stuart forgot his grievances in surprise and concern.

“Golly! That’s three scores more than we made against them! It’s double what we did! St. Charles must have been ’way off her game, Jack. You can’t tell me that Pearsall is that much better than we are.”