Afterwards Russell believed that he didn’t get his breath again until, at ten o’clock that night, he put the light out and crawled into his bed. Things had happened swiftly after the reading of that note from the first team manager. There had been dinner at the training table in the corner of the dining hall, a dinner of which Russell ate little. His appearance had evoked only few greetings and had been accepted in a surprisingly matter-of-fact fashion. Coach Cade was absent from table and it had been Johnson who had indicated his chair and briefly explained matters, talking across Rowlandson in an aside that probably reached the entire table.
“Crocker’s out of the game to-morrow, Emerson,” said Johnson, “and we’re shy an end. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a shot at the enemy before the game’s over.”
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” growled Rowlandson, entering without apology into the conversation. “Seen you play, Emerson. You’re good. Pass the beets, some one.”
“Well, anyway, you be out at two-thirty this afternoon,” went on the manager.
“I’ve got a class at two,” said Russell.
“That’s all right. They’ve allowed cuts to-day.”
Jimmy came over from the other table where the substitutes sat while Russell was still toying with a large helping of tapioca pudding and sank into the chair at Russell’s left, recently vacated by Longstreth. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!” whispered Jimmy joyously. “Welcome to the Brotherhood of Hard Boiled Eggs, Rus! Say, accept it from yours truly, this is great! When did they nab you? What happened to Crocker? I heard he was out on bail and the old man had shipped him to South America.”
The afternoon was a hectic nightmare for Russell. He went through a slow but grueling signal practice with the third squad, conducted about the second team gridiron by Neirsinger, made innumerable mistakes, was scolded bitterly by all hands—who couldn’t, it seemed, make allowance for one who, only a few hours ago, had been a complete stranger to first team methods—and passed a very miserable, blundering forty minutes. Followed some throwing and catching with seven other youths, and here Russell regained a measure of his self-respect. Coach Cade had a good word for him as he came back to the bench, and Russell held up his head again. At a quarter to four they went back to the gymnasium and took possession of the floor, driving out a few thin-limbed young gentlemen who had been performing aerial feats on the rings. The doors were locked, benches were dragged noisily from the walls, the big blackboard was pushed out under the light and Mr. Cade, chalk in one hand and pointer in another, began to talk. Russell was pulled onto a bench between Jimmy and Harley McLeod. They seemed anxious to make him feel at home, and he was grateful. The chalk made dots and rings and figures and lines on the board and Mr. Cade’s voice went on and on. Russell tried to understand, but he found his mind and gaze wandering. Before him, his broad shoulders rounded as he sat hands between legs, was Paul Nichols, the center. Beside him on the right was Ned Richards, two-thirds his size, his scarred hands clasped behind his tousled head. Harmon, Alton’s best half-back in several years, came next. And then Putney and Stimson and Butler. Captain Proctor was at Russell’s left, further along the roughly curving row, with Browne, whose big, long legs stretched far under the bench before him. Russell couldn’t believe yet that he was really there, that he was one of this silent congregation of the school’s elect. A member of the Alton Football Team! Maybe he would wake up presently and find that he was dreaming!
He did wake up, but not with that result. Mr. Cade, noting his wandering glance, had shot a question at him. “Emerson, what’s the count on this play?” demanded the coach sharply.