Payson nodded again. They had reached the corner of the gymnasium now and had halted in front of the steps.
“I—we tried it last year by having the quarter make the pass, but it didn’t work. He had to run five yards and by that time the other team was through on us enough to spoil the throw. Then we made it from a kick formation and that worked better, although we lost about seven yards at the start from throwing the ball from a position farther back of the line. But it worked better, for the other fellows could never be sure whether we were going to kick or pass.”
“But it gave them a chance to cover their backfield,” objected the coach.
“Yes, sir, but toward the last of the season we’d all got so we were on the lookout for forward passes whenever anything except close formation was used by the opponent.”
“I suppose so. Well, we will have to try the crazy play ourselves this year, I suppose. You seem to be able to use your brain, my boy, so study this forward pass business up. See what you can contrive for attack and defense. Come and see me some time. By the way, what did you say your name is?”
Dan hadn’t said, but he forbore to mention the fact.
“Vinton, sir; I’m in the Third Class.”
“Vinton, eh? Sounds like an automobile, doesn’t it?” The coach absolutely smiled, which so surprised Dan that he hadn’t the presence of mind to smile back. When he had recovered himself the big oaken door was swinging shut behind the coach’s broad shoulders.
Dan crossed the colonnade between the gymnasium and Merle Hall and cut through the Yard. It was getting well toward twilight and the old stone sun-dial cast a long purple shadow across the turf. Some of the windows were still open in Dudley and Whitson and Clarke, and Dan caught glimpses of groups of fellows at the casements. But this evening the sight neither made him depressed nor envious. At last someone had recognized his existence, someone who counted. Dan climbed the stairs of Clarke with a light heart and when he reached the door of Number 28 flung it open with a bang, for all the world as though he was a person of importance!
Tubby Jones was sprawled Turk-fashion on his bed, with his own pillows and Dan’s at his back, reading a novel. He looked up in scowling bewilderment.