Steve felt frightfully lonely that evening. He wanted so much to talk over his good fortune with Tom. But Tom, very grave of countenance, sat in frozen silence across the table and never so much as glanced his way. Had he done so he might have caught one of the wistful looks bent upon him and, perhaps, relented. Not being able to discuss the amazing thing which had happened to him, detracted at least half the pleasure, Steve sadly reflected. Of course Tom knew of it, for Steve had sat at the 'varsity training table at supper-time and he could still hear in imagination the buzz of interest that had filled the hall when, somewhat consciously skirting the second team table, he had walked to the corner and sank into a seat between Fowler and Churchill. They had been very nice to him at the 'varsity table. Only Roberts, who might be expected to view his appearance with misgivings, had eyed him askance. Poor Joe Benson was confined to the dormitory. Thursby, himself only a recent addition to the big squad, grinned at Steve from the length of the long table in a way which seemed to say: "They had to have us! I guess we fellows on the second team are pretty bad, what?"

But now, back in his room, with his books spread out before him and his mind in a strange tumult of elation and fear and dejection, he hardly knew whether to be glad of or sorry for his promotion. Study, at all events, was quite out of the question to-night, but luckily he was well enough up in his lessons to be able to afford one hour of idleness. He considered writing home to his father and recounting the story of his good fortune to him, for it seemed that he must talk to someone about it, and he even dragged a pad of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain pen. But, after tracing meaningless scrawls for several minutes, he gave it up. He didn't want to write a letter; he wanted to talk to Tom!

He saw the hands of his watch creep toward the hour of eight, after which he might give up pretence of study, don a sweater and a pair of canvas "sneakers" and go over to the gymnasium. The thought of that and of the next three days put him in a blue funk. What if he couldn't learn the signals, or, having learned them, forgot them in the game? What if he disappointed Andy and Coach Robey when the time came? He had visions of getting his signals mixed, of fumbling the ball at critical moments, of losing the game through his stupidity. There were times when he devoutly hoped that Joe Benson would recover the use of that ankle and get into the contest so that he [Steve] might not be called on to take part!

Then, at last, eight o'clock struck sonorously in the tower of Main Hall, and he closed his books with a sigh of relief, piled them up and went to the closet. When he was ready to go out Tom was still bent over his studies. Steve hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. He wanted Tom to wish him luck. He wondered if Tom guessed how sort of lonesome and scared he felt. But Tom never even raised his eyes and so Steve went out, closing the door softly behind him, and made his way through a dripping rain to the lighted porch of the gymnasium. Only a half-dozen fellows were there when he reached the meeting room. The settees had been moved aside and the floor was empty and ready for them. Steve nodded to the others and perched himself on one of the low windowsills to wait. In twos and threes the players stamped up the stairs, laughing, jostling. Milton and Kendall, entering together, seized each other and began to waltz over the floor. Steve wondered how they could take such a serious business so light-heartedly. Then Joe Lawrence, the manager, a football under his arm, came in with Williams and, glancing at his watch, began calling the roll. In the middle of it Coach Robey and Andy Miller and Danny Moore arrived. More lights were turned on and Mr. Robey swung the blackboard on the platform nearer the front.

"We'll try Number Six," he announced. Very quickly and surely he scrawled the formation on the board, added curving lines and dotted lines, dropped the chalk and faced the room. "All right, Milton. First-string fellows in this and the rest of you watch closely."

"Line up!" chirped Milton. "Formation A!" The players sprang to their places, their rubber-soled shoes patting softly on the boards. "21—14—63—66!" called the quarter. "21—14—63——"

The backs, who had shifted to the left in a slanting tandem, trotted forward, the ball was passed, the line divided and Still slipped through.

"Norton, you were out of position," said Mr. Robey. "Look at the board, please. Your place is an arm's length from left half. You've got to follow closely on that. Try it again, please."

So it went for nearly an hour, the substitutes gradually taking the places of the first-string players. Steve, who had had the signals explained to him earlier, managed to get through without mistakes, but as an end he had little to do in the drill. After the coach had watched them go through some fourteen plays, the settees were dragged out into the floor again, the players seated themselves and the coach drew diagrams and explained them and examined the squad in signals as he went along. It was all over at a little after nine, but not for Steve. Andy Miller took him back to his room with him and for a good half-hour Steve was coached on formations, plays and signals. When, finally, he went back to Billings his head was absolutely seething and it was long after eleven before sleep finally came to him. When it did, it was a restless and disturbed slumber that was filled with dreams and visions.

He awoke earlier than usual the next morning, feeling almost as tired as when he had gone to bed. But, although he strove to snatch a nap before it was time to get up, sleep refused to return to him. His mind was too full. Across the room Tom was snoring placidly, both arms clutched about a pillow and his face almost buried from sight. Steve envied him his untroubled state of mind. Then he began to go over what he had learned the evening before and found himself in a condition of panic because for the life of him he couldn't remember half of the stuff that had been hammered into his tired brain! Steve was not the only fellow at training table that morning who showed a distaste for the excellent breakfast that was served. More than one chap looked pale and anxious and only trifled with the food before him. Steve stumbled through recitations, earning a warning look from "Uncle Sim," managed to observe more or less faithfully the schedule he had set for himself and turned up at dinner table with a very good appetite. After dinner he wrote a notice and posted it on the bulletin board in the gymnasium.

"No Swimming Classes until Monday. S. D. Edwards."

The school turned out to a boy that afternoon and paraded to the field to watch the final practice. Massed on the grand stand, they sang their songs and cheered the players and the team all during a half-hour of signal drill and punting. There was no scrimmage until the first-string men had trotted off the field. Then the 'varsity substitutes and the second team faced each other for fifteen minutes and the second scored a field-goal. Steve played at left end on the substitute eleven, made one or two mistakes in signals and failed at any time to distinguish himself. But the game was slow and half-hearted, for the substitutes were continually warned against playing too hard and so risking injury. When it was over, the second cheered the 'varsity, the subs cheered the second and the spectators formed two abreast again and trailed across the field to the gymnasium and there once more cheered everyone from Captain Miller and Coach Robey down to the last substitute—who was Steve—Danny Moore and Gus, the rubber. It had drizzled at times during the afternoon, but before the final "Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brimfield! Rah, rah, Brim-f-i-e-l-d!" had died away, the clouds broke in the west and the afternoon sun shone through. This was accepted joyfully as a good omen and the crowd outside the gymnasium broke into a chorus of ecstatic "A-a-ays!"

Practice was over early, and at half-past four Steve, parting from Thursby at the corner of Wendell, made his way along the Row, half wishing that he had not cancelled the swimming hour to-day. At the entrance to Torrence a voice hailed him from the doorway, and "Penny" Durkin, wild of hair and loose-limbed, stepped out.

"Hello," said Durkin. "Say, I've got the dandiest rug upstairs you ever saw, Edwards. It's a regular Begorra."

"What's a Begorra?" asked Steve with a smile.

"Oh, it's one of those rare Oriental rugs, you know."

"You mean Bokhara," laughed Steve.

Durkin blinked. "Something like that," he agreed. "Anyway, it's a peach. Come up and have a look at it."

"No, thanks. I'm not buying rugs to-day."

"Tell you what I'll do," pursued Durkin, undismayed. "I'll fetch it over to your room and you can see how it looks. It's got perfectly wonderful tones of—of old rose and—and blue and——"

"Nothing doing, Durkin. We don't need any rugs."

"You're missing a bargain," warned the other. "Say, I've still got that shoe-blacking stand I told you about. No, I didn't tell you, did I? I left a note under your door one evening, though. Did you get it?"

"Note? Why, yes, I think so. Yes, we got it. I'd forgotten."

Durkin chuckled. "That was the time I gave Sawyer the scare."

"How?" asked Steve idly.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Sawyer? Not likely." And Steve smiled.

"That's so, I did hear that you and he were scrapping one day. You used to be pretty chummy, though, didn't you?"

"Never," replied Steve with emphasis. Durkin blinked again and looked puzzled.

"Well, he was trying to find you that night. So I supposed——"

"What night?"

"The night I went to tell you about that shoe-blacking stand. It's almost as good as new, Edwards——"

"You say Sawyer was looking for me that night? How do you know? He couldn't have been, because I'd met him earlier in the hall downstairs."

"I don't know. He said he was. Anyhow, he was in your room——"

"Sawyer?" demanded Steve incredulously. "Eric Sawyer?"

Durkin nodded.

"You're crazy," laughed Steve.

"Well, he was," answered the other indignantly. "He came out just as I was tucking that note under the door and fell over me and let out a yell you could have heard half-way to New York. You see, I didn't know there was anyone there. I knocked at first and thought I heard someone moving around in there. Then I tried the door and it was locked——"

"You had the wrong room," said Steve. "We never lock our door except when we go to bed."

"Wrong room nothing! You got the note, didn't you? Well, I didn't leave any notes anywhere else."

"But—now, look here, Durkin. I want to get this right. You say you went to our room and knocked and—— Was there a light there?"

"No. The transom was dark. When I couldn't get in I went back down the corridor to where the light is and scribbled that note. Then I went back and tucked it under the door. I guess I didn't make much noise because I had a pair of rubber-soled shoes on and so Sawyer didn't hear me. Anyway, he opened the door just then and it was fairly dark there and he nearly broke his silly neck on me. Scared me, too, for the matter of that! I didn't think there was anyone in there. Say, is there anything up? You look sort of funny."

"N-no, nothing much. You're sure it was Sawyer who came out?"

"Of course I'm sure. He let out a yell and picked himself up and began to scold. Wanted to know what I meant by it and I said I was sticking a note under your door and he said 'Oh!' and something about wanting to see you and waiting for you. Then he said he guessed you weren't coming back yet and he'd go on."

"What time was this, Durkin?"

"Oh, a little after eight, I suppose; half-past, maybe. I stopped to see Whittaker on the floor below, I remember. He said he'd look at that stand, but he never did. If you want a bargain, Edwards, now's your chance. I'll let you have it for a dollar and a quarter. It cost two and a half. I bought it from——"

"Oh, confound your old stand! Look here, Durkin, will you tell Mr. Daley just what you've told me if I want you to?"

"Eh?" asked Durkin in alarm. "Oh, I don't know. I don't want to get anyone into trouble. I—I'd rather not, I guess. You see, Sawyer——"

"If you will, I—I'll buy your old shoe-blacking stand or your rug or—or anything you like!" said Steve earnestly. "Will you?"

"Why, maybe I might if you put it that way. The rug's two dollars."

"All right," answered Steve impatiently. "Where are you going to be for the next hour?"

"Upstairs, practising. Come and see it any time you like. It really is a peach, Edwards, and it's scarcely worn at all. It—it's a prayer rug, too, and they're scarcer than hens' teeth nowadays!"

But Steve was already yards away and Durkin shrugged his shoulders and turned back into Torrence.

"Wonder what's up," he murmured. "I'd hate to get Sawyer into a scrape. Still, if he will buy that rug——"