“You’re mighty lucky to get a chance at quarter,” answered his chum severely. “Don’t you know that?”
“Oh, yes,” said Toby, “I’m painfully aware of it!”
By Saturday he had forgotten his aches and the lameness was gone and he could toe the pigskin in a fairly creditable manner and for decent distances, so long as direction was not important. But when he was told to place a punt near the right side line about thirty yards distant, either he sent it toward the left side line or down the middle of the field. Or if by any possible chance he got the direction right, then the ball went fifteen yards instead of thirty. There was, he allowed, a lot more to punting than he had suspected. Of course, life wasn’t all swinging a scuffed shoe against a stained and battered football those days. There was signal work, too. And some experimenting in forward passing. And other things. And Toby frequently regretted the fact that he had not dared to tell Coach Burtis the truth when he had been accused of quarter-back aspirations. Still, when things weren’t at their worst, he enjoyed it. No one took him seriously as a quarter, not even Grover Beech; and when scrimmaging began Frick and Rawson and Stair had the call over him. Only once that week had Toby worked at quarter, and then for only a matter of five minutes or so on B Squad. For many days he disliked to recall the event, for he had dared a quarter-back run and Farquhar, an opposing tackle, had chased him back and back until, in sheer fear of being forced over his own goal line, he had toppled to earth, snuggling the ball, a good fifteen yards back of where he had started from! It was a very sheepish Toby who scrambled to his feet again, for there was a ripple of laughter from the bench and many amused faces about him. For the few remaining moments of play he was too wretched to be of much use. Fortunately for him, perhaps, A Squad had the ball and Toby was able to retire up-field and nurse his wounded feelings in solitude. Afterwards he reached the pleasing conclusion that he was not necessarily dishonored for life, but it was some time before he cared to recall the incident.
On Saturday practice was over early in order that the Second might profit by watching the First Team play Greenburg High School. High School wasn’t a formidable opponent even for a first game of the season. Yardley had started her schedule with High School for many years, generally winning by a comfortable margin of points. The contest served to try out a large number of players, and it was usually on the Monday following the Greenburg game that the first cut in the squad was made. In consequence to-day’s battle meant a good deal to some candidates who felt their positions to be none too secure, and there were many anxious faces amongst the substitutes who graced the bench after the game had started.
Toby and the rest of the Second Team fellows didn’t reach the scene until the second period had begun. Then they perched themselves, still wrapped in their blankets like so many Indians, in the nearer corner of the old stand and proceeded to be extremely critical. Sid Creel squeezed into a place beside Toby with a huge sigh of enjoyment. “Nothing to do but watch a lot of poor boobs work themselves deaf, dumb, and blind,” he said with relish. “Who’s at center for them, Toby?”
“Simpson.”
“Well, he’s the best they’ve got, to my thinking. He’s light, though.”
“Oh, well, his weight’s where it ought to be, Sid.”
“Meaning?”