When Myron returned to Sohmer at dusk he found a scrawled note from Chas Cummins. “No one home!” he read. “Looked for you on the train coming back, but couldn’t find you. What do you know about us? Looks like Fortune favours the brave and all that sort of thing, doesn’t it? Watch for developments tomorrow! Yours, C.C.”
Myron found the note somewhat cryptic. For a minute he thought of going around to see Chas in the evening, but then he decided that if Chas had wanted to see him he would have said so. As a result, he stayed at home and did some much-needed studying.
Monday afternoon found a number of the regulars absent from practice. The game on Saturday had been a strenuous one and several of the players had earned a rest. Chas was on hand, however, although not in togs, and the same was true of Jud Mellen. Cantrell and Garrison and Cater were absent, and one or two others, and the first squad had a sort of shot-to-pieces look. Dummy practice started the proceedings, and, since much poor tackling had been shown in the Musket Hill contest, the drill was a long one. It seemed to Myron that every one had nerves today, from Coach Driscoll down to the last and least important substitute. Manager Farnsworth, pulling the rope that shot the canvas dummy across the trolley, was short of speech and jerky of manner, Jud Mellen, watching grimly from beside the freshly-spaded pit, frowned and twisted his hands about in his uprolled sweater and made biting comments, and even Billy Goode, normally sweet-tempered as a cherub, looked and spoke as if some one had been casting aspersions on Ireland! Only Chas, grinning like a catfish, appeared unaffected by the general epidemic. Chas joked and jollied and got himself thoroughly hated by all.
Back on the gridiron, Coach Driscoll called Myron from the bench and fixed him with a calculating eye. Myron had visions of clearing out his locker and retiring from football affairs. But what the coach said was: “Cummins tells me he had you at full-back the other day. Ever played there?”
“No, sir, not until Friday.”
“You’re a half, aren’t you? Well, we’ve got plenty of those, such as they are. Think you could learn full-back? Ever done any punting?”
“Some, yes, sir.”
“Get a ball and show me.”
Over on the second gridiron, with a substitute back to catch or chase, Myron swung his foot and dropped the ball and saw it go off at a tangent, and heard the coach say: “Take your time, Foster; you’ve got all day.” When the back had relayed the pigskin from the first team gridiron and Myron had it again in his hands he decided to try to forget that the coach was watching. The result was much better, for the ball went straight toward the other goal and into the waiting arms of the back. The punt wasn’t long, but it had been true, and Mr. Driscoll nodded hopefully.