“Yes, Tucker, that’s the idea,” answered the First Team coach. “As you know, we’ve lost Curran for the season. We still have a couple of good quarters in Noyes and Winfield, but I’ll feel safer with another to fall back on. I can’t promise you much glory, Tucker, for you may not be needed this season. Perhaps all you’ll get is a lot of hard work, my boy, but you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that you’re doing your bit for the School. Anyhow, there’s next year to look forward to. And I dare say that, if you take hold the way I expect you to, you’ll get your letter in the Broadwood game. Well, you report to me to-morrow, will you?”
“Yes, sir, thanks!”
“Good!” Mr. Lyle shook hands again as though to seal the bargain, and then Mr. Burtis shook hands in a way that conveyed the idea that he was very pleased for Toby’s sake, and Toby escaped. Most of the First and Second Team fellows had gone on ahead and he had the path pretty much to himself on the way to the gymnasium. And he was glad, because he wanted to think. He was a First Team man! That was wonderful, but it was also disquieting. Suppose that by some strange and unforeseen combination of events he was called on to play against St. John’s, or even Broadwood! Gee, that would be pretty fierce! He guessed he just couldn’t do it! No, sir, he’d be ill or something. Playing on the Second was one thing and running up against a big team like St. John’s was quite another. He would make a horrible mess of things, probably, and die of disgrace! Then the comforting thought came to him that there wasn’t the least chance of his getting into action in either of the remaining contests, that all he would be required to do would be to substitute now and then in practice. It would be pretty hard work, of course, but it would be worth while. Even to be numbered among the First Team was a proud privilege and cheap at any cost of labor. And there was also the alluring possibility that he would get in for a minute or two at the last of the big game, long enough to win the right to wear the big blue Y!
He remembered Frick then and wondered if he would have been chosen had Frick been out to-day. His modesty didn’t prevent his suspecting that his work had pleased the coach better than Frick’s during the last week or so, and he hoped that Frick’s absence from practice to-day was not the reason for the choice falling where it had. But he couldn’t be certain as to that, and in consequence he found no temptation to be “swell-headed.”
It wasn’t until he had dressed and was leaving the gymnasium with Sid Creel and Frank Lamson and one or two more that he remembered that summons to the Office. Remembering, his heart sank. Suppose something—he couldn’t think what it might be—but suppose something had gone wrong and he was to learn that this new and wonderful good fortune was to be denied him! Of course, that was perfect rot, for he hadn’t done anything! Just the same he’d feel better when that conference with the Principal was over.
The School Secretary waved him silently toward the inner office a few minutes later and Toby confronted Doctor Collins. There was nothing formidable about the Principal, but to-day Toby’s spine experienced the sensation of becoming suddenly liquefied, for Doctor Collins fixed a kind but stern look on him as he swung about in his chair.
“Ah, Tucker! Be seated, please.” The Doctor removed his glasses, held them between him and the light from the broad windows, seemed satisfied with their clarity and replaced them astride his nose. “One of our fellows was set on last night by two other boys, Tucker, and badly hurt. Perhaps you know him?”
“Roy Frick, sir? I know him a little. We’re—we were on the Second Team together.”
“And you had heard of his—ah—injuries?”