The captain, the head coach and the trainer of the Hillton Academy football team sat about the table in the head coach’s room. It was the evening of November 27th, and on the morrow, Thanksgiving day, the wearers of the crimson were to meet on the gridiron their old-time rivals of St. Eustace Academy, in the final and most important contest of the year.
The drop-light illumined three thoughtful faces. Bob Syddington, captain, a broad-shouldered and fine-looking lad of eighteen, traced figures on the green-leather table-covering and scowled intently. Gardiner, the head coach, a man of thirty, wrote on a sheet of paper with a scratching pen. The trainer and the school’s physical director, Mr. Beck, leaned back in his chair, his eyes from behind the gold-rimmed glasses fixed speculatively upon Syddington. Gardiner looked up.
“Cantrell at left half, of course?”
Syddington nodded.
“He won’t last the game,” said the trainer, “but he’s good for the first half.”
The coach’s pen scratched again. Syddington scowled more darkly and his hand trembled a little over the leather.
“How about right half?” Gardiner glanced fleetingly at the captain and then, questioningly, at the trainer. The latter spoke after a moment:
“Well, Lane’s first choice, isn’t he?”
“To my mind, yes,” answered Gardiner, “but Syddington thinks Servis should start the game; that while he’s not so brilliant as Lane, he’s more steady. I don’t share Syddington’s distrust of Lane, but if he thinks he’s going to feel that he has better support behind him, I’m willing to hold Lane out until he’s needed.”