Syddington entertained no illusions. He knew that when he had caused Servis’s name to be placed in the line-up instead of Lane’s he had done a dishonorable thing. And he knew that both the head coach and the trainer were equally aware of the fact, and that he had fallen far in their estimation; that henceforth they must hold him, at the best, in pitying contempt. A monstrous price, he told himself bitterly, to pay for next year’s captaincy!
And he was not only injuring himself, but by deposing Lane he was placing in jeopardy the team’s success in the “big game.” There was never a doubt but that Lane was the man for the position of right half-back. Without exception he was the most brilliant player at Hillton. He had won the game with Shrewsburg by a sixty-yard run for a touch-down. More than once in minor games he had brought the spectators to their feet by his daring running or hurdling. It was almost a certainty that if he went into the St. Eustace game he would do just what the school expected, and by brilliant playing become the hero of the year. And there lay the rub.
Only the day before, Carter, the right tackle, had warned him: “If there was an election now, Bob, we’d make you captain again by a majority of one or two. But if Lane goes in and does his usual spectacular stunt, he’ll be the next captain as sure as fate. Take my advice and keep him out somehow. You’ve got Servis and Jackson, and—well, don’t be an ass!” And Syddington had shaken his head and answered righteously, “I can’t do that, Tom.”
And now he had done it!
He clenched his hands under the table and hated himself with an intensity that hurt. Gardiner and the trainer talked on. The clock on the mantel ticked monotonously.
It was not as if Lane would make a poor captain. On the contrary, Syddington knew that he would prove a good one. That the captain did not altogether like him, Lane knew. He had said a few days before—it had never been meant for Syddington’s ears, but nevertheless had reached them—“I’ll never get into the St. Eustace game until every other back is in the hospital. Syddington’s no fool!” And now Syddington hated Lane more than ever because he had rightly judged him capable of dishonesty.
And Lane would know, and Gardiner and Beck and Carter; and the fellows would suspect. But—and that was the worst of all—he himself could never forget. The clock struck the half-hour, and Gardiner looked up.
“Half after nine! This won’t do. We must get to bed. Don’t bother about to-morrow, Syddington. Get your mind off the game and go to sleep. It’ll be all right.”
Syddington rose and took up his overcoat. After he had struggled slowly into it he faced the others as if about to speak, but instead walked to the door in silence.
“Good night!” said Gardiner.