Jimmy nodded. “Bound to for a while. Of course, it’s hard luck having fellows like Harmon and Mawson on the same job, but Harmon won’t last the game; he plays too hard; and Mawson can’t punt much. Oh, yes, you’ll doubtless see little James rushed on in the last quarter to pull the game out of the fire.”
“I wouldn’t mind being in that game,” said Russell reflectively.
“Of course you wouldn’t! Even if you lose you don’t forget that you’ve been through one of the big hours of your life. Gosh, if something happened and I didn’t get in I’d just lie down and die, Rus!”
“And if you do get in you’ll probably die just the same, only more painfully! They say that Kenly’s got a rip-snorting team this year.”
Jimmy shrugged. “They say that every year—until we’ve licked them. Still, I do think they’re rather better than usual. And that’s sort of rotten, for we’re about half the team we were last year. Between you and me, old son, I guess we’re in for a drubbing. It’s against orders to say that, or even think it, but it’s my honest belief. Oh, well, we’ll make ’em work for it! And there’ll be some gorgeous and hectic moments before the old Gray-and-Gold is counted out! Besides, ding bust it, you can’t always tell, Rus. The under dog has won the battle before this! Well, see you to-morrow.”
[CHAPTER XIX]
STICK FINDS A BUYER
The first team worked its way slowly out of the Slough of Despond that week. Progress was not uninterrupted, to be sure, but it seemed certain enough. On Tuesday the first took slight revenge on the scrubs, but on Wednesday it slipped back a little, allowing the second to give a spirited imitation of its former high-handed methods. Thursday again saw the first team in the ascendancy and the scrubs got their first thorough licking in more than three weeks. Perhaps it needed just that to restore the first’s confidence, for thereafter, while the season lasted, it never again bowed to its friendly enemy. Russell saw hard work and took hard blows, but lived very fully those days and enjoyed life exceedingly. His comrade on his left, Wells, was wrought to new heights of eloquence daily, eloquence that, as his opponents gathered speed, failed more and more of effect. By the end of that week Wells had fairly exhausted his powers of sarcasm and vituperation and had subsided into an amazed silence that was almost pathetic to observe. He played on, but it was easily seen that his heart was not in it. Battle had lost its savor for the right tackle.