The school turned out to a boy that afternoon and paraded to the field to watch the final practice. Massed on the grand stand, they sang their songs and cheered the players and the team all during a half-hour of signal drill and punting. There was no scrimmage until the first-string men had trotted off the field. Then the 'varsity substitutes and the second team faced each other for fifteen minutes and the second scored a field-goal. Steve played at left end on the substitute eleven, made one or two mistakes in signals and failed at any time to distinguish himself. But the game was slow and half-hearted, for the substitutes were continually warned against playing too hard and so risking injury. When it was over, the second cheered the 'varsity, the subs cheered the second and the spectators formed two abreast again and trailed across the field to the gymnasium and there once more cheered everyone from Captain Miller and Coach Robey down to the last substitute—who was Steve—Danny Moore and Gus, the rubber. It had drizzled at times during the afternoon, but before the final "Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brim-f-i-e-l-d!" had died away, the clouds broke in the west and the afternoon sun shone through. This was accepted joyfully as a good omen and the crowd outside the gymnasium broke into a chorus of ecstatic "A-a-ays!"
Practice was over early, and at half-past four Steve, parting from Thursby at the corner of Wendell, made his way along the Row, half wishing that he had not cancelled the swimming hour to-day. At the entrance to Torrence a voice hailed him from the doorway, and "Penny" Durkin, wild of hair and loose-limbed, stepped out.
"Hello," said Durkin. "Say, I've got the dandiest rug upstairs you ever saw, Edwards. It's a regular Begorra."
"What's a Begorra?" asked Steve with a smile.
"Oh, it's one of those rare Oriental rugs, you know."
"You mean Bokhara," laughed Steve.
Durkin blinked. "Something like that," he agreed. "Anyway, it's a peach. Come up and have a look at it."
"No, thanks. I'm not buying rugs to-day."
"Tell you what I'll do," pursued Durkin, undismayed. "I'll fetch it over to your room and you can see how it looks. It's got perfectly wonderful tones of—of old rose and—and blue and——"
"Nothing doing, Durkin. We don't need any rugs."