It was surprising how nice the other Vests were to him the next few days, Rodney thought. Old Kitty seemed to be trying, awkwardly enough, to make him understand that nothing that had happened or that might happen would make any difference. Jack Billings went out of the way to be nice to him, and even Warren Hoyt, whom Rodney liked less than any of the other Vests, showed unusual friendliness. Tad, of course, was eagerly sympathetic and tried not to show it too much lest Rodney resent it. Any of the fellows would have gladly discussed the incident in Saturday’s game had Rodney introduced the subject, and would have told him to “Forget it!” and “Buck up!” but Rodney kept silence.

But the attitude of his friends was not the attitude of the school in general. The consensus of opinion was that Ginger Merrill’s brother was a failure at football. “He’s a wonder in class,” said one youth, “but he’s no good on the gridiron. It all comes of jumping to the conclusion that because you’ve got a brother who has done wonders you can do them yourself. What the dickens did Cotting keep Merrill on the team for? I could show as much football as he has!”

The school did not feel unkindly toward Rodney, save perhaps for a brief hour or two after the game was over, but it seemed to think that Rodney had been trading on the reputation of his famous brother. Some charged him with having worked a sort of confidence game on the usually astute coach. And most all agreed that his usefulness to the team was over. Consequently when they found him back at practice on Monday they were surprised and somewhat inclined to criticism.

“He’s got Cotting hypnotized, I guess,” grumbled one fellow. “Thought he had more sense.”

His companion shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the difference? I suppose it’s so near the end of the season that Cotting thinks he might as well let him stay. He can’t do any harm just practicing.”

Coach Cotting felt the loss of the second team during the first three days of that final week of preparation. And he also doubtless felt the absence of Terry Doyle. Doyle’s fate was still undecided, although it was generally believed that he would be reinstated in time for Saturday’s game. Mr. Cotting had enough candidates on hand to make two teams for scrimmage purposes, but as each team used the same signals, and as the players on one side were continually being shifted to the other, the scrimmages were not especially valuable. Rodney played in various positions on the substitute teams; left half, right half and, on one occasion, fullback. He had no chance to distinguish himself but played a steady game and showed a lot more fight than at any time previously.

In the meantime disturbing accounts of Bursley’s prowess reached the school. Bursley had played through a most successful season without a serious upset, losing but one game of the seven, and at Maple Hill it was conceded that she would bring over a stronger team than she had presented for several years. The last hard work came on Wednesday. On Thursday there was a long signal practice on the field, and on Friday evening the fellows walked through the plays to be used against Bursley on the morrow. This final preparation took place in the gymnasium and after it was over Coach Cotting, according to custom, made a short speech to the players.

“My position to-night, fellows,” he said earnestly, “is that of a general who has marched and manoeuvered his army to its position for the battle. To-morrow I shall be on hand to watch the fray and to direct it to some extent, but from a distance. After the first shot is fired it is up to you. The outcome of the battle will show whether I have done my part well or ill, and if a defeat awaits us I shall accept my share of the blame. But from now on, fellows, it depends on you, individually and collectively. I’ve watched my army pretty closely for two months, and I think I know pretty well what it is capable of. It is weak in some places, as all armies are, but it is strong in others, and I am firmly convinced that its strength exceeds its weakness and that as a whole it is mighty enough to command victory. But an army is made up of fighting units and success depends on each unit doing his level best, fighting hard from the first gun fire to the end of the combat. I want you to remember that.

“But, leaving out metaphors, fellows, we’ve got a hard game ahead of us. Bursley has a good team and she’s coming across the river to-morrow to win—that is, she’s coming to try to win. Whether she does or does not depends now on you. You may start handicapped by the absence of your captain, although that is not certain. If you do, you’ll just have to work all the harder. My experience has shown me that the competitor who enters with a handicap against him is generally the one who wins. Let’s have it that way to-morrow. Now, in spite of all my talk about armies and battles, we both know that what we are going to do to-morrow is play a game. There’s no harm in playing it earnestly, no harm in doing all you can to win. Playing a game is like anything else. That is, if it’s worth doing it’s worth doing well. But let’s remember that it is a game, fellows. Let’s play it cleanly and like gentlemen. And if we lose, let’s lose like gentlemen. But, and I say this convincedly, if you play as you can play you won’t lose!”

Then there were cheers, sturdy, confident cheers, for the coach, and for the second team that wasn’t there to hear, and finally for the school. And then, a little serious, as befits the warriors on the eve of battle, they went out and sought their rooms just as nine o’clock was striking.

Stacey, Kitty, and Rodney walked home together through the starlighted night. There was a sharp breath in the air that promised a brisk day for the game. They went in silence until the lights of West Hall greeted them through the branches of the leafless trees. Then it was Stacey who spoke.

“Funny,” he said thoughtfully, “the feeling you always have the night before a big game. You don’t get it any other time. At least, I never do.”

“What sort of a feeling?” asked Kitty curiously.

Stacey laughed. “I guess I can’t tell you if you haven’t got it, Kitty. I suppose, though, it’s a case of nerves.”

“Probably,” agreed Kitty. “That comes of poor circulation due to weak respiration. If you developed your lungs——”

“Help!” laughed Stacey. “Stop him, Rodney!”

“You can’t when he gets started,” replied Rodney. “I guess, though, I know the sort of feeling you mean, even if old Leather Lungs here doesn’t. It makes me kind of glad I’m not going to play. If I was I’d be in a blue funk!”

“Hm,” said Stacey. “You never can tell.”

What it was you never could tell Rodney didn’t find out, for they reached the cottage just then. Mrs. Westcott came out of her room to inform them that she had made some cocoa for them. “You’ll find it on the stove, Stacey. And the cups and everything are on the dining room table. You know there’s nothing better than cocoa to give you a good night’s sleep.”

They thanked her a trifle doubtfully, since none felt inclined for the beverage, and, rather than disappoint her, went out to the kitchen and bore the steaming pot of cocoa back to the dining room. It didn’t taste so bad, after all, nor did the crackers she had provided. Stacey explained softly that once some ten years before one of Mrs. Westcott’s boys who was a football player had asked for a cup of cocoa the night before a game, and that ever since she had provided it religiously. “And,” concluded Stacey, “if you don’t drink it she feels terribly hurt.”

“Tastes very good,” commented Kitty, “but it’s fattening. One shouldn’t drink much of it. I’m sleepy. Good night.”

Stacey watched Kitty depart with an envious smile. “Hasn’t a nerve in his whole body,” he said to Rodney. “I suppose he will sleep eight solid hours to-night!”

“And snore all the time,” laughed Rodney.

Stacey sighed. “Wish I could,” he said. “Good night, Rodney.”