The Brother of a Hero

by Ralph Henry Barbour

With a leap of his heart Rodney’s eyes swept down the list. “Johnson, Kittson, Merrill——”

He wasn’t dropped! He still had a chance!

For a full minute he stood there with his eyes on that one word, stood there until the sudden turning of the big latch behind him warned him that others were coming. Then he pushed on through the swinging doors, turned to the stairway, and took the stairs at four bounds, stopping, however, at the foot to pull his features into an expression of becoming calm before he entered the dressing-room. The room was well filled, for most of the thirty-two fellows who had been retained were already there, but the first figure that Rodney’s gaze fell on was Phineas Kittson, Phineas in his new togs, now somewhat soiled, with his ridiculous trousers dropping half way to his feet. Kitty smiled and blinked at his roommate, and as Rodney joined him he said:

“Saw your name on the board up there, Merrill. Awfully glad. Cotting’s sensible, though. Said so right along. Better hurry. Most half past.”

Rodney got into football attire in record time, his heart beating a very happy tune, and raced across to the field. Stacey Trowbridge saw him and walked to meet him.

“Glad you made it, Rodney,” he said kindly. “Good luck to you.”

Then he smiled and walked away. It was the first time Stacey had called him by his first name. Rodney felt happier than ever, and a little bit proud. To-day practice went with a vim. Even tackling the dummy seemed rather good sport, and usually most of them hated it. There was a full twenty minutes of scrimmage later. Rodney and Kitty were on the second team, Kitty as substitute guard and Rodney as substitute left half. Both got into the play in the second ten minutes and both performed acceptably if not brilliantly. The coach seemed to take a good deal of notice of Phineas, and more than once instructed him. Slowness, Rodney gathered, was Kitty’s failing. Had he but known it, lack of initiativeness was his own trouble. More than once he was stopped with the ball for the simple reason that, finding himself unable to gain where the signals indicated, he slowed up, at a loss, and was brought down.

“Why don’t you fight, Merrill?” demanded the second team quarter once. “Hang it, what do you stop for? This isn’t a game of tag!”

And Rodney, returning to his position, would make up his mind to do better the next time. And when the next time came he would fail in just the same way.