Stover, dropping a little behind, confident in his measure of the man, caught him with his shoulder on the start, throwing him off balance for a precious moment, and then followed him down the field, worrying him like a sheep-dog pursuing a rebellious member of his flock, and caught him at the last with a quick lunge at the knees that sent him sprawling out of the play. Up on his feet in a minute, Stover went racing after his fullback, in time to give the impetus of his weight that sent him over his tackle, falling forward.
"How in blazes did that scrub end get back here?" shouted out Harden, a coach, a famous end himself. He came up the field with Bangs, grabbing him by the shoulder, gesticulating furiously, his fist flourishing, crying:
"Here, Dana, give us that play over again!"
A second time Bangs sought to elude Stover, goaded on by the taunts of Harden, who accompanied them. Quicker in speed and with a power of instinctive application of his strength, Stover hung to his man, putting him out of the play despite his frantic efforts.
Harden, furious, railed at him.
"What! You let a freshman put you out of the play? Where's your pride? In the name of Heaven do something! Why, they're laughing at you, Ben—they're giving you the laugh!"
Bangs, senior society man, manager of the crew, took the driving and the leash without a protest, knowing though he did that the trouble was beyond him—that he was up against a better man.
Suddenly Harden turned on Stover, who, a little apart, was moving uneasily, feeling profoundly sorry for the tanning Bangs was receiving on his account.
"Look here, young fellow, you're not playing that right."
Stover was amazed.
"What's the first thing you've got to think about when you follow down your end?"
"Keep him out of the play," said Stover.
"Never!" Harden seized him by the jersey, attacking with his long expostulating forefinger, just as he had laid down the law to Bangs. "Never! That's grand-stand playing, my boy; good for you, rotten for the team. The one thing you've got to do first, last, and always, is to know where the ball is and what's happening to it. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now you didn't do that. You went down with your eyes on your man only, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You never looked at your back to see if he fumbled, did you?"
"No, sir."
"And if he had, where'd you have been? If he holds it all right, knock over your end, but if he fumbles you've got to beat every one to it and recover it. You're one of eleven men, not a newspaper phenomenon—get that in your head. You didn't know I was trying you out as well as Bangs. Now let it sink into you. Do you get it?"
"Yes, sir, thank you," said Stover, furious at himself, for if there was one thing that was instinctive in him it was this cardinal quality of following the ball and being in every play.
It was a day of the hardest, trying alike to the nerves of coaches and men, when the teams were driven without a rest, when tempers were strained to the snapping point, in the effort to instil not so much the details of the game as the inflaming spirit of combat.
It was dusk before the coaches called a halt to the practise and sent them, steaming and panting, aching in every joint, back to the gymnasium for a rub-down.
Climbing wearily into the car to sink gratefully into a seat, Dink suddenly, to his confusion, found himself by the side of Bangs.
"Hello," said the senior, looking up with a grin, "I hope every muscle in your body's aching."
"It certainly is," said Stover, relieved.
Bangs looked at him a long moment, shook his head, and said:
"I wish I could drop a ton of brick on you."
"Why?"
"I've plugged away for years, slaved like a nigger at this criminal game, thought I was going to get my chance at last, and now you come along."
"Oh, I say," said Stover in real confusion.
"Oh, I'll make you fight for it," said the other, with a snap of his jaws. "But, boy, there's one thing I liked. When that old rhinoceros of a Harden was putting the hooks into me, you never eased up for a second."
"I knew you'd feel that way."
"If you'd done differently I'd slaughtered you," said Bangs. "Well, good luck to you!"
He smiled, but back of the smile Stover saw the cruel cut of disappointment.
And this feeling was stronger in him than any feeling of elation as he returned to his rooms, after the late supper. He had never known anything like the fierceness of that first practise. It was not play with the zest he loved, it was a struggle of ambitions with all the heartache that lay underneath. He had gone out to play, and suddenly found himself in a school for character, enchained to the discipline of the Cæsars, where the test lay in stoicism and the victory was built on the broken hopes of a comrade.
For the first time, a little appalled, he felt the weight of the seriousness, the deadly seriousness of the American spirit, which seizes on everything that is competition and transforms it, with the savage fanaticism of its race, for success.
CHAPTER VII
After a week of grueling practise, the first game of the season came like a holiday. Stover was called out after the first few minutes, replacing Bangs, and remained until the close. He played well, aided by several fortunate opportunities, earning at the last a pat on the back from Dana which sent him home rejoicing. The showing of the team was disappointing, even for that early season. The material was plainly lacking in the line, and at full-back the kicking was lamentably weak. The coaches went off with serious faces; throughout the college assembled on the stands was a spreading premonition of disaster.
Saturday night was privileged, with the long, grateful Sunday morning sleep ahead.
"Dink, ahoy!" shouted McNab's cheerful voice over the banister, as he entered the house.
"Hello, there!"
"How's the boy wonder, the only man-eating Dink in captivity?"
"Tired as the deuce."
"Fine. First rate," said McNab, skipping down. "Forget the past, think only of the bright furniture. We've got a block of tickets for Poli's Daring-Dazzling-Delightful Vaudeville to-night. You're elected. We'll end up with a game at Reynolds'. Seen the Evening Register?"
"No."
"My boy, you are famous," said McNab, brandishing a paper. "I'm lovelier, but you get the space. Never mind, I'll be arrested soon—anything to get in the papers!"
While McNab's busy tongue ran on, Stover was gazing at the account of the game, where, among the secondary headlines, there stared out at him the caption:
STOVER, A FRESHMAN, PLAYS
SENSATIONAL GAME.
The thing was too incredible. He stood stupidly looking at it.
"How do you feel?" said McNab, taking his pulse professionally.
There was no answer Stover could give to that first throbbing sensation at seeing his name—his own name—in print. It left him confused, almost a little frightened.
"Why, Dink, you're modest," said the irrepressible McNab; and, throwing open the door, he shouted at the top of his voice: "I say, fellows, come down and see Dink blush."
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