“Oh, I’ll get it,” answered the other resignedly. “I always do.” Then, more cheerfully, he added: “Anyway, I won’t have Gym class for a while!”
At the door Bert stopped him. “By the way, Tommy, I wish you’d tell me something.” Tommy paused, turned and, holding a hand to the incipient boil, looked inquiring. “What you said about my playing,” went on Bert with some embarrassment. “You didn’t really mean it, eh?”
“What do you care if I did or didn’t?” asked Tommy, suddenly a pessimist. “You’re like all the others. Think I don’t know anything about football just because I don’t play it.”
“No, honestly, Tommy, I don’t think that. Fact is, I believe you know a lot about it. That’s why I’d like to know whether you really think I’ll make a player. You see, I’ve tried pretty hard, but I don’t seem to do as well as most of the others.”
“Huh,” said Tommy, evidently mollified, “you’re a player right now. Say, want to know how to break into fast company right away? All right, I’ll tell you.” Tommy lowered his voice, glancing left and right along an empty corridor, and became gravely confidential. “Don’t put your head down, Bert. Keep it up and use your eyes. Look for the opening. Sometimes it isn’t where it ought to be, you know. All right. If you look sharp you can find it. If you put your head down and just follow the interference blind you run into a snag half the time. Get the idea? Look where you’re going! Employer la oeil, mon ami! Aussi, chercher la trou! Thanks for the feed. Night!”
When Tommy had gone toward the stairs with a rather dejected amble, Bert closed the door, sat down and considered the advice. Of course Tommy was a good deal of a nut, but he evidently did use his bean, Bert reflected, and he did seem to know something about the art of football playing. Bert tried to remember whether he did or didn’t put his head down when he took the ball. He couldn’t decide until he got to his feet, stooped, with the knuckles of one hand on the carpet, listened to an imaginary signal and jumped forward, his hands wide for a mythical ball. When his hands were clasped against his stomach he stopped abruptly in his journey of the room, for he had discovered what he sought. The instant he had clasped the imagined ball to him he had dropped his head!
He went back to his chair and considered again. What he had just done he doubtless always did. In which case Tommy’s advice deserved respect. Hitting the line with the head down might be an excellent plan under some conditions, and Bert recalled that he had seen it done time and again, but when you were crossing over or running wide it plainly wasn’t the wise proceeding. He guessed that “Head up!” was right. To-day, for instance, he had gone through without difficulty because the hole was awaiting him, a fine wide opening made by four of his team-mates and neatly cleaned out by Fitz Savell, but suppose the hole hadn’t been so wide, or hadn’t been there at all. In that case he would have smashed up against Fitz or an enemy forward and there’d have been no gain, because there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that he had run blindly, his head lowered and his eyes on the ground. Well, that wouldn’t do. He would practice keeping the old bean up and look where he was going. Of course, once free of the line he had probably been in the habit of raising his head and using his eyes, but going through it he had fallen into the way of the plunging backs who, with ball hugged to stomach and body bent sharply over it, shot themselves forward like human battering-rams. Funny, he thought, that no one had noted that and corrected him before. Funny that it should have been first pointed out to him by a chap who didn’t play and was popularly considered a joke!
A few minutes later Bert took himself off to a room down the corridor and played two games of chess at which he was badly beaten because he kept thinking about football and Tommy Parish’s prediction most of the time. At ten o’clock he was in bed, if not asleep. Even if you couldn’t slumber you could obey the rules. Chick was still out when the hour struck. In fact, it was nearly a quarter past when he stole in. Bert gave him a drowsy greeting and got a grunt in reply. Plainly the luck had not gone Chick’s way to-night and he was rather out of temper. He made a good deal of unnecessary noise during the process of preparing for bed, with the result that eventually Bert became fully awake.
“You’re a noisy brute, Chick,” he yawned.
For reply Chick slammed a drawer emphatically. But presently, having put out the light and found his bed, speech came to him. “Well, why don’t you ask me if I won?” he demanded.