Monday's practice was short and easy. Even the second had an off-day. The 'varsity players were given a blackboard lecture in the meeting-room in the gymnasium after supper and were put through an examination on plays and signals. On Tuesday the practice was as stiff as ever. Coach Robey was not altogether satisfied with the defence, and there were forty-five minutes of the hardest sort of scrimmage in which the second was given the ball at various distances from the 'varsity goal and told to put it over. The field was closed to spectators that day and it was hard hammer-and-tongs football all the way. "Boots" drove the second with whip and spurs and the second responded nobly. But the best it could do was to drop a field-goal over the bar in the third period of the scrimmage, after having been held a half-dozen times by a desperate adversary. Steve played about as well that afternoon as he had ever played in his life. For once he had no worries on his mind. To be sure, there was still his falling-out with Tom and his quarrel with the school at large, but those things seemed rather to lend him a new strength than to bother him. He played with a dash and a reckless disregard for life and limb that made Coach Robey observe him with a new interest. Tom performed with his customary steadiness and more than once put it over on Fowler and on Churchill, who substituted him. They were some three dozen very tired youths who finally straggled back to the gymnasium when the work was over.
On Wednesday the last real practice of the season was to be held, since the Thursday performance was more in the nature of an exhibition for the school than real work, and on Friday afternoon the team was to journey over to Oakdale, on the Sound, and remain there until Saturday forenoon. But the weather proved unkind on Wednesday. In the middle of the forenoon the wind veered around to the south and a drizzle of rain set in. By three o'clock the drizzle had grown into a very respectable downpour and the gridiron was slow and slippery. But Mr. Robey was not to be deterred and, with Danny Moore anxiously hovering about like a hen with a batch of ducklings, the 'varsity was put through a half-hour of signal work, punting and catching. Then the second, wet and muddy, came across to the first team gridiron and the two elevens leaped at each other again. Danny followed close behind, cautioning and scolding, and more than one player was dragged out of the mêlée and sent off to the gym in spite of the coach's pleas and protestations.
"I'll not have them hurted," reiterated Danny stubbornly. "'Tis no sort of a day for hard work, Coach. I've got 'em through this far an' I'll not be havin' them breakin' their legs an' arms for the sake of a bit of practice, sir."
"Hang their arms and their legs!" fumed Mr. Robey. "They might as well not have any as start the game Saturday half-baked! Give me a chance, Danny!"
"'Tis takin' big chances, sir, playin' 'em on this sort of a field."
"Then we'll take chances!" growled the coach. "Now get in there, first, and rip it up! Show what you can do! You've got six to go on third down; put it over! Wait a minute! Thursby! Get in there for Innes and hold that centre of the line steady."
"Trot all the way in, my boy, and get a good rubbin'," directed Danny to the discomforted Innes. "Hi! Put your blanket on! Are you crazy?"
"Play lower there, Hall! Throw them back, second!" entreated "Boots." "Don't let them have an inch!"
Then the first piled through Brownell for three yards, slipping in the mud, panting, grunting to the accompaniment of thudding feet and the swish of wet canvas. Above the players a cloud of steam hovered as they disentangled themselves. Danny darted into the confusion. Benson was on his back, thrashing his arms.
"Water!" bawled Danny.