“Right-o! Well, see you this afternoon, doubtless. So long, Mister Employer!”
There was nothing very dramatic about Russell’s return to the football fold. A hurried and curt-spoken Gaston welcomed him with a sudden smile and a brief congratulatory nod. “Fine, Emerson!” he called as he passed. “B Squad for you.”
Followed half an hour’s work that proved to Russell very conclusively that he was in no good shape for the task ahead of him. He had lost a fortnight’s training and the fact was evident. Long before signal drill was done he was aching in most of his muscles and puffing like a grampus. He was glad indeed of a short respite on the bench before the squad walked across to the first team gridiron, where, although the time for scrimmage had arrived, a squad under leadership of Ned Richards was still hustling down the field, Ned’s voice, sharply imperative, rising above the tones of Coach Cade and Captain Proctor, trailing behind and rapping out criticism. That bunch, reflected Russell as he paused with his companions to form a sweatered and blanketed group along the edge of the field, was the first team’s A Squad, although there were two players on it whose presence surprised him. These were Crocker, at left end in place of Lake, and Greenwood, at full-back. Joe Greenwood was Sid’s brother, a heavy, dark-complexioned youth who had played with Russell on last year’s second. Russell hadn’t thought him varsity material, but he was displacing the veteran Browne. Possibly, though, Browne was on the hospital list or in trouble at the Office: Russell hadn’t been following football very closely.
The rest of the squad were first-string men: Butler, playing at left tackle for Captain Mart Proctor, Rowlandson, Nichols, Stimson, Putney, McLeod, Richards, Harmon, Moncks. Across the sunlit field, the substitutes’ bench showed far fewer huddled forms than had sat there last week, indicating that the first cut had taken effect. In the stands a score or so of onlookers were scattered, their hands more often than not thrust deeply in their pockets, for the afternoon was chill in spite of the flood of late sunlight. Captain Proctor detached himself from the followers behind the squad as it trotted past down the center of the gridiron and cupped his hands.
“Ready for you in five minutes, Gaston!” he called. “Help yourself to the field, will you?”
Steve Gaston nodded and tossed a ball to the turf. “Pass it around,” he ordered crisply, “and keep moving.”
So the second team players strung out along the edge of the gridiron in two roughly formed ranks and, walking briskly, shot the ball from one to another, frequently tripping over a trailing blanket when the pigskin eluded them and bobbed across the turf. Finally there was the hoarse squawking of a horn and Manager Johnson was signaling them. Two sweatered substitutes were unsnarling the chain. From the stand came a rat-a-tat of chilling feet against the boards.
“Second team’s ball,” announced Coach Cade through his small megaphone. “We’ll take this goal!”
“Yah,” derided the scrub’s captain sotto-voce as he pranced about, limbering his legs, “why don’t you let us toss for it, Tightwad?” Russell grinned as his glance met Falls’. “They haven’t kicked off to us for a week,” the captain added ruefully, yet smiling. “Come on, fellows! Let’s take it away from them!”