“Stood there like a silly dummy and let St. Matthew’s jump on him, that’s what he did!”

“Lost his head completely, Teddy! Worst case of stage fright I ever saw on a football field!”

“Had a clear field ahead of him if he’d started on the jump. Gee, it’s enough to sour your disposition!”

“I always said he’d never make another Ginger. Anyone can see that by looking at him. Don’t see what the dickens Cotting kept him on for!”

“Well, he’s played a pretty fair game at times, Bill, you’ve got to say that for him. I suppose every fellow is likely to make mistakes——”

“Mistakes! He didn’t make any mistake; he just didn’t do anything—until it was too late. Of course, the St. Matthew’s game doesn’t mean much to us, although they looked such a cocky lot I’d liked to have seen them beaten, but, if he does things like that in an unimportant game, he’s likely to do them when we’re playing Bursley, I guess. Best thing Cotting can do is drop him.”

This is the conversation Rodney overheard that evening in the corridor of West Hall. He had hurried through his own supper in order to catch Mr. Cotting before the latter left the school dining-hall, and arriving there early, had perched himself on top of a radiator in a dim angle of the corridor to wait. The three boys who had emerged from supper a minute later either didn’t see him or failed to recognize him, and their remarks lasted from the doorway to the entrance, a few yards distant, where they stood a few moments before going their separate ways. Rodney’s thoughts had not been pleasant before, but this exposition of what Rodney believed to be the popular judgment left him tingling and miserable. As little inclined as he was to be seen just now, he left his corner and stood in the light for fear that others might come out, and, not noticing him, give further expression of public opinion. He was glad when Mr. Cotting emerged presently. A boy who followed him out started toward the coach, but Rodney got ahead of him.

“Mr. Cotting, may I speak to you, please, sir?”

The coach, slipping into his raincoat, turned.

“Hello, Merrill! Why, yes, certainly.” He put his cap on and led the way to the entrance. Rodney was relieved to find that the three critics had taken their departure. “Will you walk along with me toward my place, or shall we drop into the library?”

“I’ll walk, sir. It isn’t much, what I want to say. I——”

“Stopped raining, I guess. How do you feel after your game, Merrill?”

“All right, thanks.”

The coach took the circling path that led around Main Hall and Rodney ranged alongside.

“I just wanted to say, sir, that—that I’ve decided to resign from the team.”

“Have, eh?” Mr. Cotting seemed neither surprised nor disturbed. “Decided to give up football, have you?”

“Yes, sir, for this year, anyway.”

“Think you’d like to try again next fall?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“It doesn’t occur to you, does it, that I might hesitate to take you back and give you another trial if you had run away on the eve of battle, so to speak?”

Rodney glanced up in surprise and found the coach smiling.

“Why, sir, I thought—it seemed the best way out of it!”

“Best way out of what, Merrill?”

“Out of—out of the mess I made to-day. I lost the game, you know, sir!”

“Hardly that, Merrill. You failed to win it, but you can’t be said to have lost it. Even if you had, though, what’s that got to do with it? Seems to me if you made a mess of things you’d want to stick around and see what you could do another time. Sort of weak, isn’t it, to cut and run?”

“But—I thought—” Rodney stopped, trying to get the coach’s surprising point of view.

“I know what you thought, Merrill.” Mr. Cotting laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You thought everyone had it in for you, that we blamed you for the loss of the game, and that we wouldn’t want you any longer, eh?”

“Yes, sir, about that.”

“Yes. Well, let me tell you something that happened to me, Merrill, when I was here, and that’s a good many years ago now. I made the team in my second year. Our game was a good deal different then from what it is now, but we took it pretty nearly as seriously. I was rather a clever end for a youngster, and so when we played Bursley I got in at the beginning of the second half. In those days an end had less to do than he has now, but he was supposed to get down under punts no matter what else he did or didn’t do, and that was rather a specialty of mine. I had a neat way of fooling my opponent and getting off quickly, and once off I was hard to stop. Bursley had us six to four when the second half began and we needed a touchdown to win. Half way through that half we punted and I streaked down under the ball. I remember that Stallings was our punter—he played with Princeton afterwards—and he was a wonder. Used to get fifty yards often. This time he outdid himself, and the Bursley quarter saw that the ball was going over his head and started back toward his goal for it. I was after him hard and the ball struck beyond both of us and bounded away at a funny angle toward the side of the field. We each got to it at about the same instant. I stood as good a chance of getting it as he did, better, I’ve always thought, because I was rather a clever kid with a rolling ball; and if I had got it I could have romped over the line for an easy score. Well, what do you suppose I did, Merrill?”

Rodney shook his head.

“I tackled that quarter! I brought him down good and hard when we were both a couple of yards from the ball, and I wound my arms around him and held him tight. I can still remember the surprised grunt he gave when I crashed into him. Don’t ask me why I did it! Heaven only knows, Merrill! Call it mental aberration, that’s as good a name for it as I know of. I did it, though. And I thought I knew football!”

“And—and what happened to the ball, sir?”

The coach shrugged his shoulders. “A Bursley man came along and picked it up and romped back a few dozen yards with it before anyone got to him. That ended our chance and we lost the game.”

“That was too bad,” said Rodney sympathetically.

“I thought so then. I didn’t dare look anyone in the face the rest of that day. The coach called me all the kinds of a fool he could think of. I didn’t mind that half as much as I minded what the fellows didn’t say but thought! A week after I was surprised to discover that I was holding my head up again, that the world was still turning around, and that from a tragedy the thing had become a joke. It was a pretty sore joke for me, but I took it many and many a time, and gritted my teeth and smiled. Well, it took me two years to even up. The next season I was so afraid I’d do some other fool trick that I didn’t play half the game I could have. Every time we got into a tight place I was haunted with the fear that I’d make another costly mistake. As a result I played everything safe, and was probably one of the worst ends the team ever had. I don’t know now why they kept me on. But the next year I got together again and—I made good.”

“How, sir?”

“Oh, it’s ancient history now, Merrill. I had my chance in the Bursley game and took it, that’s all. They said I won the game, but I didn’t win it any more than you lost to-day’s. I’ve told you all this just to show you, Merrill, that the world doesn’t bust up and blow away because you make a mistake or let a chance slip in a game of football. If it comes to that, every game that is lost can be traced to someone’s failure at some moment in the contest, Merrill. If there were no mistakes the game would be pretty uninteresting. We’re all human and all likely to fall down at a critical moment some time or other. My advice to you is, forget it, Merrill. Have you got time to come in for a minute?”

They had reached the steps of the house in which the coach had his rooms.

“Yes, sir, if you want me to,” replied Rodney.

He followed the other into the house, and waited at the door of the room while Mr. Cotting found the gas jet and lighted it.

“Sit down, Merrill. Throw your coat off first. Put it anywhere. Now then, let’s talk this thing over. Your brother and I were good friends, my boy, and we’ve had some fine old chats in this room. You may have wondered sometimes why I kept you on the squad when you weren’t showing very much in the way of football, Merrill. I’m speaking quite frankly, you see. I did it because, in spite of appearances, I had it in my head that you could be taught the game, taught to play it—well, perhaps not quite the way your brother did, but well enough to make it worth the trouble. I still think so, Merrill. But there’s something wrong yet. You haven’t found yourself. Perhaps you don’t put your whole soul into it. Now tell me about to-day. You had the ball, the way was clear. What went wrong?”

“I hardly know, sir. I—I wasn’t supposed to take the pass, and when it came I—somehow I didn’t seem to know what to do for a second. And then—it was too late.”

Mr. Cotting nodded. “I see. Mind didn’t work quick enough. Well, that’s something that will remedy itself, I think. After all, the best way to learn football is to play it. What you need is, I fancy, only experience, after all. So, Merrill, I guess we won’t say anything more about resigning.”

“Then, sir, you think——”

“I think you’d much better stick it out. Watch the way other fellows play the game, do the best you can when you get your chance and, above all, don’t imagine that because your wits failed you to-day they’re bound to do it again. I made that mistake, as I’ve told you, and wasted a year. Perhaps you won’t get into the game next week, it’s likely your turn won’t come; but keep on watching and learning, Merrill. We may need you badly next year.”

Rodney tramped back toward school through the dim, leaf strewn streets comforted and encouraged. And he made up his mind that when the next chance came, if ever it did come, he’d be ready for it.