None of the thrilling, dramatic feats which story tellers love to relate, and which sometimes really are performed, fell to his portion. As a matter of unromantic fact, he had the ball but once and lost better than two yards in an ill-advised attempt to knife through inside tackle. Better men than he had repeatedly failed at that play already. He emerged from that fray with no more glory than he had entered, but he had at least emerged a full-fledged member of the Alton Academy Football Team, with the right to wear a big golden-yellow A on his gray sweater, a tiny yellow football on his cap and a gray-gold-gray ribbon on his straw hat in summer. There were other privileges and benefits, too, although of secondary importance. For instance, he could reserve four seats in the center of the stand for the Kenly games, he could cast a vote in the election of captain—a prerogative he had subsequently exercised—and his countenance, together with some thirty other countenances, would grace the wall of the gymnasium for posterity to gaze upon with awe—or boredom.
Bert was mighty proud of his membership, but his satisfaction was dulled by the suspicion that he didn’t really deserve the honor. There were fellows—he could think of half a dozen, perhaps—who played better football than he did and who had not won the coveted A. In short, Bert secretly looked on himself as a Letter Man in name only! But he meant to correct all that. This fall he was going to deserve the prize he had won. He was going to try so blamed hard that success simply wouldn’t be able to escape him! He had added several pounds since last winter and at least an inch of height, and he had handled a football nearly every day during the summer, generously obeying Mr. Cade’s injunction to the members of the squad. If all the milk he had drunk and all the eggs he had eaten could have been mixed together the result would have been an omelet as big as—well, I don’t know how big. But I do know that in August Bert’s mother had to call the family physician in to advise a bilious boy to omit eggs from his diet for the rest of the summer. Perhaps what had kept Bert from attaining the height of Captain Jonas and the rotundity of Lum Patten by the middle of September was the fact that when he wasn’t throwing or kicking a football around he was playing tennis or swimming.
No matter how he figured it, Bert couldn’t make himself out better than a third-choice substitute half-back. Storer, Ness, Savell, Keys and Tyron were the mainstays, and then there were at least three other backfield candidates who, in Bert’s estimation at least, were held in higher esteem than he. And goodness only knew who else might suddenly spring into the spot-light before the season was over! Well, if hard work and the most determined efforts would avail he meant to land considerably nearer the head of the list than he was now. What he feared more than all else was a repetition of last fall’s catastrophe. He was light and so subject to rude handling, and last season’s experience had proved how surprisingly easy it was to get hurt. Why, he had merely stumbled over some fellow’s legs and been out of the game for almost a fortnight with a wrenched knee! Even as late as early summer the silly thing had twinged him occasionally, although he had been careful not to mention the fact. He believed it to be as good as ever now, but he was haunted by the fear that it might not be, that he would hurt it again and be laid off. Being laid off was a fatal thing sometimes. Like time and tide, football seasons wait for no one, and more than one poor fellow on the injured list has watched a hale substitute run off with his position under his very eyes. Fear of another injury to that left knee or to some other portion of his anatomy was threatening to become an obsession, although he didn’t realize it.
Going back to Upton after practice was over, Bert asked Chick whether Coach Cade had said anything about Saturday night. Chick laughed. “Not a word, old scout. Know what I think? Well, I think he was so taken up with getting that train that he forgot all about seeing me. Anyway, he didn’t say a word to-day. Didn’t even look cross-eyed at me!”
“That’s luck,” said Bert. “Take my advice, Chick, and don’t get caught again.”
“Not going to, believe me. Another time I’ll come home by River street, even if it is longer. It’s a safe bet Johnny doesn’t wander around over there!”
“Maybe not, but the safest thing is to be in the dormitory by nine-thirty, and that’s your play from now on. You can’t be quite certain about Johnny. Maybe he’s forgotten about meeting you the other night and maybe he hasn’t. I wouldn’t want to bet either way, Chick.”
“Oh, well, he’s got too many other things to worry about, I guess. Say, he had an awful cheek to work A Squad the way he did to-day. Regular beginners’ stuff! Gosh, I’ve got more dirt in my hair than I’ll be able to get out in a dozen shampoos. Funny thing was, though,” added Chick as they started upstairs, “that we tackled the dummy like a lot of pups!”
“The tackling in the Southport game was pretty rotten,” said Bert. “I don’t believe there were more than two clean tackles made by our gang, Chick.”
“And I made them both?” laughed Chick. “Thanks!”