“I’d lay off awhile and give the luck a chance to catch up,” said Bert lightly.
“Yes, maybe I’d better,” muttered Chick. “After to-morrow.”
What happened at Mooney’s Wednesday night Bert didn’t learn. He was asleep when Chick returned, and since the latter made no mention of the previous evening’s events when morning came Bert didn’t inquire. Chick seemed in good spirits, whistling while he dressed, but Bert more than half suspected that much of the gayety was assumed. As a matter of fact, Chick was not the sort to arise from bed blithe and singing. It usually took him ten minutes to get his eyes thoroughly open, and during that period he was more the bear with the sore head than the nightingale! So if Chick whistled with intent to deceive he selected the wrong method.
Bert was rather too taken up with his own affairs for the rest of that week to pay very much attention to Chick’s, nevertheless he did make note of the fact that neither on Thursday nor Friday evenings did Chick resort to Mooney’s. Evidently then Chick had decided to act on Bert’s suggestion and allow Mr. Lester Devore’s phenomenal luck at pool to become exhausted. Perhaps, too, although he had not accepted Bert’s hint with much enthusiasm, Chick thought it wise to take no chances. Certain it was that he got to bed both nights by ten o’clock, or almost, and that his performances on the gridiron seemed animated by more vim.
Meanwhile Bert discovered that from an unimportant third substitute he had advanced in the period of a few days to the rôle of a player of consequence. Perhaps the degree of consequence wasn’t great, but certain it was that he never failed to get into the scrimmage line-up and that Coach Cade, suddenly and rather disconcertingly aware of his existence, gave him a good deal of attention. The attention was sometimes embarrassing, as when on Wednesday afternoon Bert balled a play all up and found himself on his back with two of the enemy kneeling on his diaphragm and the pigskin, tightly clasped, some six yards back of the point it had started from. Bert had heard of coaches who became tempestuous and profane under less provocation, but Mr. Cade was not one of them. Mr. Cade might raise his voice a note or two, but he never lost control of it—or of himself. He didn’t even call names; that is, not hard names. He might refer in a gentlemanly manner to a fellow’s apparent lack of mentality and address him as a “poor goat,” or he might, in cases where a lineman failed to show sufficient aggression, use the allowable term “loafer.” But such appellations left no smart. However, it is not to be assumed from this that Mr. Cade was tongue-tied. Not a bit of it. He had a surprising command of the English language and a remarkable fluency in the use of it. He also displayed a positive genius in the correct choice of words. If one could only remain sufficiently detached, as it were, during one of Johnny’s best orations one could without a doubt vastly improve one’s rhetoric.
But remaining detached was difficult, and on the occasion alluded to Bert profited not a whit in the matter of increasing his vocabulary or perfecting his speech. He did, however, profit in another way. After Mr. Cade had lucidly and in detail explained your mistake, you didn’t make that particular mistake again. Oh, you might turn right around and make another, but not that one! No, sir, never again; or, anyway, not for a long, long time! Bert’s ears got very warm and he looked so long and steadily at Johnny’s old sweater that he could have drawn a plan of it weeks later and located every hole exactly. Then suddenly the call-down was over and Mr. Cade was saying cheerfully: “All right, First! Let’s go now, and stop fooling! Let’s have a first down!”
But of course Bert wasn’t the only one to incur the coach’s displeasure. Even as experienced a hand as Nip Storer got his on one occasion. Bert, standing by while play ceased, felt sympathetic for Nip, but his sympathy was evidently misplaced since, as soon as Johnny had ended, Nip turned away with a jovial wink. Well, perhaps after you had played two years you got hardened, Bert thought. But as for him, he was still subdued. Chick was on the carpet, also, once, and to Bert it seemed that Mr. Cade’s voice was just a trifle colder than before. Chick never took any too kindly to criticism, even from the coach, and he looked slightly contemptuous, slightly mutinous during the proceeding. Bert wished he wouldn’t, for Mr. Cade could not fail to notice it, and Bert was fearful that the coach had already set down more than one black mark against Chick.
Thursday there were no misadventures for Bert. He even scored a mild triumph by breaking away from the congested area after a delayed pass and streaking something over thirty yards into the less populated section of the field. He might have kept on and quite lost himself in the vast open spaces around the Second Team’s goal line if a pesky long-legged youth named Simpkins hadn’t pursued him and eventually attached himself to his legs. Bert never had liked the name of Simpkins, and to-day he liked it less than ever. On Friday the work-out was light and confined principally to the essentials. But the Scrub paid a brief visit and indulged the First Team substitutes in a ten-minute scrimmage. Because of the dismissal of the regulars, Bert found himself starting the trouble at right half-back, with Tolman beside him and “Ben” Franklin playing full-back. That wasn’t much of a contest, for the Second took things into her own hands and marched up the field after the kick-off in a disgustingly irresistible manner, pushing the opposition contemptuously aside and eventually scoring without once losing possession. Bert, among others, was used rather roughly, and on one occasion caused a cessation of hostilities while Jake soused him with water and pumped air into his lungs. Such occasions can be extremely unpleasant while they last, but once over leave no painful effects, and consequently Bert was both surprised and indignant when Jake, in charge because Mr. Cade had accompanied the regulars to the gymnasium, a few moments later called him out. Not being in such awe of the trainer as he was of the coach, Bert voiced his indignation when he reached the side-line.
“What’s the idea, Jake?” he remonstrated. “I’m all right! Losing your breath isn’t anything to stop playing for!”
Jake viewed him with a cold and fishy eye and spoke briefly. “Shut your trap,” said Jake.