When the trials came Le Gette didn’t do so badly. The first time, called back from guard position to try a drop kick from second’s thirty, he showed nervousness but, since his line held fast, he put the pigskin over. A few minutes later, however, on a second attempt, an opposing tackle leaked through and hurried him and the ball went slewing off to a corner of the field. Again he made good, from close to the twenty, and, just before the end came, he failed miserably at a placement kick after touchdown. Afterwards, Stuart kept him out until it was too dark to see the ball, and, with an eager junior chasing the pigskin for them, drilled Le Gette in placement kicking so strenuously that all hands, including the willing junior, were thoroughly fagged out. But on Thursday Le Gette showed improvements both at morning practice and during the game with the second, and Stuart felt a deal of pride in the results of his coaching, even before Mr. Haynes sought him on the bench and congratulated him.
“You’ve done wonders, Harven,” said the coach earnestly. “You’ve pulled us out of a hole. No doubt about that. Le Gette’s as good right now as Towne. I’m mighty grateful to you.”
“That’s all right,” muttered Stuart. “He’s worked like a Trojan, Le Gette has. I’ll say that for him.”
“I guess you both have,” answered the coach warmly. “Perhaps you’d better ease up to-morrow. Mustn’t overdo it.”
“No fear, sir. Le Gette’s a whale for work. He’ll be twenty per cent better Saturday. I’m going to keep him right at it until the last minute.”
“We—ell, all right. Maybe you know best. See that he gets a good rubbing afterwards.” Mr. Haynes nodded and hurried off, leaving Stuart frowning after him. The frown was occasioned by the unwelcome realization that the coach’s commendation had pleased him, and Stuart didn’t want to be pleased by anything the coach said or did.
There was a stiff, grueling practice that afternoon, in which the first team rose in its might and, to use Billy Littlefield’s picturesque metaphor, “chewed the ear off the goats.” Which meant that the first stacked up fourteen points in the first period and twelve in the second, and that all the second could do was drop a rather lucky field goal from the thirty-five yards, aided by a brisk wind. Stuart played all of that second half and played about as usual. In spite of The Laird’s advice, he had not dared to put himself to the test. It was all well enough for The Laird to say that if he was stopped it didn’t matter, but it did matter. The first was on its mettle those days and a win over the second was something greatly to be desired, and Stuart never found a time when, in his judgment, to risk the loss of territory or, possibly the ball, would have been permissible. So he fed the pigskin to the other backs or shied it over the line to a waiting end and never attempted to gain the glory of a spurt outside of tackle or a “knife” through the line.
Thursday’s work-out was the last before the Pearsall game, although there was some signal and formation drill on Friday and a short session for the kickers. The second disbanded with much cheering and romped joyously off the field, elation over the end of a season’s martyrdom overweighing the degradation of a 26 to 3 defeat. That was Thursday. Friday Stuart and Le Gette got in an hour in the forenoon and an hour before twilight, and Le Gette kicked fourteen out of a possible twenty drops from various distances and at assorted angles, and Stuart, unable to dissimilate any longer, slapped his pupil on the back and exclaimed heartily: “That’s booting ’em!”
That was when the afternoon’s session was over. Le Gette, having rescued his sweater from the ground faced Stuart with a broad grin. “I guess I must be pretty good, Harven,” he replied, “to have you say so!”
Stuart frowned. “Oh, I’m not such a pup as that,” he protested. “You’ve done mighty well, and—I’m fair enough to say so.”