But now, back in his room, with his books spread out before him and his mind in a strange tumult of elation and fear and dejection, he hardly knew whether to be glad of or sorry for his promotion. Study, at all events, was quite out of the question to-night, but luckily he was well enough up in his lessons to be able to afford one hour of idleness. He considered writing home to his father and recounting the story of his good fortune to him, for it seemed that he must talk to someone about it, and he even dragged a pad of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain pen. But, after tracing meaningless scrawls for several minutes, he gave it up. He didn't want to write a letter; he wanted to talk to Tom!
He saw the hands of his watch creep toward the hour of eight, after which he might give up pretence of study, don a sweater and a pair of canvas "sneakers" and go over to the gymnasium. The thought of that and of the next three days put him in a blue funk. What if he couldn't learn the signals, or, having learned them, forgot them in the game? What if he disappointed Andy and Coach Robey when the time came? He had visions of getting his signals mixed, of fumbling the ball at critical moments, of losing the game through his stupidity. There were times when he devoutly hoped that Joe Benson would recover the use of that ankle and get into the contest so that he [Steve] might not be called on to take part!
Then, at last, eight o'clock struck sonorously in the tower of Main Hall, and he closed his books with a sigh of relief, piled them up and went to the closet. When he was ready to go out Tom was still bent over his studies. Steve hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. He wanted Tom to wish him luck. He wondered if Tom guessed how sort of lonesome and scared he felt. But Tom never even raised his eyes and so Steve went out, closing the door softly behind him, and made his way through a dripping rain to the lighted porch of the gymnasium. Only a half-dozen fellows were there when he reached the meeting room. The settees had been moved aside and the floor was empty and ready for them. Steve nodded to the others and perched himself on one of the low windowsills to wait. In twos and threes the players stamped up the stairs, laughing, jostling. Milton and Kendall, entering together, seized each other and began to waltz over the floor. Steve wondered how they could take such a serious business so light-heartedly. Then Joe Lawrence, the manager, a football under his arm, came in with Williams and, glancing at his watch, began calling the roll. In the middle of it Coach Robey and Andy Miller and Danny Moore arrived. More lights were turned on and Mr. Robey swung the blackboard on the platform nearer the front.
"We'll try Number Six," he announced. Very quickly and surely he scrawled the formation on the board, added curving lines and dotted lines, dropped the chalk and faced the room. "All right, Milton. First-string fellows in this and the rest of you watch closely."
"Line up!" chirped Milton. "Formation A!" The players sprang to their places, their rubber-soled shoes patting softly on the boards. "21—14—63—66!" called the quarter. "21—14—63——"
The backs, who had shifted to the left in a slanting tandem, trotted forward, the ball was passed, the line divided and Still slipped through.
"Norton, you were out of position," said Mr. Robey. "Look at the board, please. Your place is an arm's length from left half. You've got to follow closely on that. Try it again, please."
So it went for nearly an hour, the substitutes gradually taking the places of the first-string players. Steve, who had had the signals explained to him earlier, managed to get through without mistakes, but as an end he had little to do in the drill. After the coach had watched them go through some fourteen plays, the settees were dragged out into the floor again, the players seated themselves and the coach drew diagrams and explained them and examined the squad in signals as he went along. It was all over at a little after nine, but not for Steve. Andy Miller took him back to his room with him and for a good half-hour Steve was coached on formations, plays and signals. When, finally, he went back to Billings his head was absolutely seething and it was long after eleven before sleep finally came to him. When it did, it was a restless and disturbed slumber that was filled with dreams and visions.
He awoke earlier than usual the next morning, feeling almost as tired as when he had gone to bed. But, although he strove to snatch a nap before it was time to get up, sleep refused to return to him. His mind was too full. Across the room Tom was snoring placidly, both arms clutched about a pillow and his face almost buried from sight. Steve envied him his untroubled state of mind. Then he began to go over what he had learned the evening before and found himself in a condition of panic because for the life of him he couldn't remember half of the stuff that had been hammered into his tired brain! Steve was not the only fellow at training table that morning who showed a distaste for the excellent breakfast that was served. More than one chap looked pale and anxious and only trifled with the food before him. Steve stumbled through recitations, earning a warning look from "Uncle Sim," managed to observe more or less faithfully the schedule he had set for himself and turned up at dinner table with a very good appetite. After dinner he wrote a notice and posted it on the bulletin board in the gymnasium.
"No Swimming Classes until Monday. S. D. Edwards."