Afterwards Russell believed that he didn’t get his breath again until, at ten o’clock that night, he put the light out and crawled into his bed. Things had happened swiftly after the reading of that note from the first team manager. There had been dinner at the training table in the corner of the dining hall, a dinner of which Russell ate little. His appearance had evoked only few greetings and had been accepted in a surprisingly matter-of-fact fashion. Coach Cade was absent from table and it had been Johnson who had indicated his chair and briefly explained matters, talking across Rowlandson in an aside that probably reached the entire table.

“Crocker’s out of the game to-morrow, Emerson,” said Johnson, “and we’re shy an end. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had a shot at the enemy before the game’s over.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” growled Rowlandson, entering without apology into the conversation. “Seen you play, Emerson. You’re good. Pass the beets, some one.”

“Well, anyway, you be out at two-thirty this afternoon,” went on the manager.

“I’ve got a class at two,” said Russell.

“That’s all right. They’ve allowed cuts to-day.”

Jimmy came over from the other table where the substitutes sat while Russell was still toying with a large helping of tapioca pudding and sank into the chair at Russell’s left, recently vacated by Longstreth. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!” whispered Jimmy joyously. “Welcome to the Brotherhood of Hard Boiled Eggs, Rus! Say, accept it from yours truly, this is great! When did they nab you? What happened to Crocker? I heard he was out on bail and the old man had shipped him to South America.”

The afternoon was a hectic nightmare for Russell. He went through a slow but grueling signal practice with the third squad, conducted about the second team gridiron by Neirsinger, made innumerable mistakes, was scolded bitterly by all hands—who couldn’t, it seemed, make allowance for one who, only a few hours ago, had been a complete stranger to first team methods—and passed a very miserable, blundering forty minutes. Followed some throwing and catching with seven other youths, and here Russell regained a measure of his self-respect. Coach Cade had a good word for him as he came back to the bench, and Russell held up his head again. At a quarter to four they went back to the gymnasium and took possession of the floor, driving out a few thin-limbed young gentlemen who had been performing aerial feats on the rings. The doors were locked, benches were dragged noisily from the walls, the big blackboard was pushed out under the light and Mr. Cade, chalk in one hand and pointer in another, began to talk. Russell was pulled onto a bench between Jimmy and Harley McLeod. They seemed anxious to make him feel at home, and he was grateful. The chalk made dots and rings and figures and lines on the board and Mr. Cade’s voice went on and on. Russell tried to understand, but he found his mind and gaze wandering. Before him, his broad shoulders rounded as he sat hands between legs, was Paul Nichols, the center. Beside him on the right was Ned Richards, two-thirds his size, his scarred hands clasped behind his tousled head. Harmon, Alton’s best half-back in several years, came next. And then Putney and Stimson and Butler. Captain Proctor was at Russell’s left, further along the roughly curving row, with Browne, whose big, long legs stretched far under the bench before him. Russell couldn’t believe yet that he was really there, that he was one of this silent congregation of the school’s elect. A member of the Alton Football Team! Maybe he would wake up presently and find that he was dreaming!

He did wake up, but not with that result. Mr. Cade, noting his wandering glance, had shot a question at him. “Emerson, what’s the count on this play?” demanded the coach sharply.

Russell, startled, shook his head miserably. “I—I don’t know, sir,” he said.

“And you never will if you don’t listen! Kindly give me your attention now.”

After that Russell managed to concentrate his gaze and his mind and began to understand. Presently they were up, eleven of them, walking slowly through a play. Twice this was done. Then: “All right,” said the coach. “Now speed it!” A confused mingling of bodies and a rush half-way down the long floor followed. Then eleven more players went through the same antics, and, finally, eleven more. Then back to the benches, and the coach went on. The shadows deepened under the balcony and the white light from the windows and skylight no longer reflected from the shiny floor. Manager Johnson switched the electricity on. The clock at the end of the hall indicated twenty minutes to six. Mr. Cade tossed down the fragment of chalk and dusted his hands.

“That’s all,” he said. “Eight o’clock promptly, please.”

They filed out and down the stairs to showers and street clothes. At six they began to assemble again at the table for supper. To-night Mr. Cade was in his place at the end of the board and conversation was general and cheerful and laughter frequent. Some of the sixteen fellows who lined both sides of the long table didn’t laugh; some scarcely talked; and Russell was of the latter number. He was feeling strangely apprehensive. To-morrow he might—indeed, if he was to believe some, undoubtedly would—be called on to play against Kenly Hall, and the realization was decidedly unnerving. Going up against the first team was one thing; that held no terrors; but facing the school enemy, the redoubtable wearers of the Cherry-and-Black, gave him a sort of sick feeling in his stomach. There were periods when he longed for his erstwhile obscurity with all his heart!

There was an hour or longer of respite after supper, but it didn’t help Russell much to regain his courage and peace of mind. The school talked football incessantly. No other subject was for the moment acknowledged to exist. Long before it was time for him to accompany Jimmy to the gymnasium the fellows were flocking to the Assembly Hall for the final cheer meeting. Football songs sounded on all sides. Fellows who couldn’t sing them, whistled. They just wouldn’t let you forget for a minute, thought Russell resentfully.

Back in the gymnasium, Mr. Cade and the blackboard came again into action, but now there was a veritable “quiz,” and the players were called on to answer questions that, as it seemed to the new member of the team, might have floored the inventor of football himself! Signal practice once more followed, several plays were again run through and then “Johnny” put aside his pedagogic manner, pushed the blackboard aside and talked to them very quietly for ten minutes during which time a dropping pin would have caused a stampede of alarm. What he said doesn’t matter. Coaches all say pretty much the same thing all over this broad land on the eve of the big battle. But “Johnny” got it across, and grave faces looked back at him and told him things that tongues couldn’t have put in words. And then there was a sudden silence broken at last by Captain Mart.

“Three cheers for Mr. Cade, fellows!” cried Mart passionately. “Come on! Come on!” Then there was a cheer for Alton, and they went out rather silently and sought their rooms. Overhead a star-pricked sky promised a fair day for the supreme test. Russell fell asleep at last just after midnight had sounded.

Russell was not late for chapel the next morning only because Stick, in spite of all protests and pleas, pulled him bodily from bed. The bell was ringing as they went tumbling down the stairs and they reached the goal just as the final stroke sounded. Doctor McPherson, as was his yearly custom, added to the prayer an intercession for the football team. “For those of us who do contend this day in manly sport we pray thy countenance. If in thy sight they be deserving, give them, O Lord, strength of soul and of body that they may attain their goal.”

Breakfast was a melancholy meal, for under the pretense of merriment and nonchalance lay dubiety and dread. To Russell it seemed that he had awakened to a Roman holiday for which he was cast in the rÔle of the Christian Martyr. After breakfast, with a long two hours ahead of them, he and Jimmy walked over to the Sign of the Football. Stick was already busy, for trade was brisk to-day, and promised to be brisker. The counter was fairly piled with pennants of Alton and Kenly colors, with small gray-and-gold megaphones and with arm-bands of the rival hues. Russell took his place behind the counter with his partner and managed to forget for a short time the impending fate. But after he had made the wrong change twice he decided to let Stick manage alone. Jimmy had gone to the back of the store where Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer seemed unusually busy and unusually cheerful. Out on the street again, Jimmy chuckled and, in reply to Russell’s unspoken question, said:

“Well, J. Warren’s got his release, and the old boy’s as happy as a lark!”

“His release?” echoed the other.

“Yes, he’s going out of business, Rus. Packing up right now. Monday you’ll have the place to yourself.”

“But, how—why—”

“That’s what I wanted to know,” chuckled Jimmy. “Well, J. Warren says that what happened Thursday night settled it. Says he thought it all over carefully and decided that Aunt Mary—or whatever her name was—wouldn’t want him to continue the business after it had become dangerous. Aunt Mary, he says, was very tender-hearted, and he knows that she wouldn’t approve of his getting beaten up merely to keep to the terms of the will. It sounds sort of weak to me, but he’s perfectly satisfied with his reasoning, and he’s the doctor! Funny, isn’t it?”

Russell laughed for the first time that day. “Funny? I should say so!” Then he sobered suddenly. “Look here, though, Jimmy, that puts the whole place on us! What about the rent?”

“Well, J. Warren’s lease isn’t up until the first of the year, so you fellows will have six weeks, nearly, to look around. But if it was me, I’d take the whole premises, Rus.”

Russell was thoughtfully silent for several minutes. Then he nodded resolutely. “That’s what we’ll do, Jimmy,” he declared. “Something tells me that the Sign of the Football is going to be a success. Of course, it will mean nearly twice as much rent, and we’ll have to sign a lease for a whole year, but—still—”

“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said Jimmy gayly. “The store’s going to be a winner, Rus. Accept that from yours truly. You’ve tied the can to old Crocker, and he won’t trouble you again, I’ll bet. From now on you’ll have clear sailing, old son. Such is the prediction of James W. Austen. The W, Rus, stands for Wisdom!”