Stuart’s return to the fold was a matter of almost as much discussion as his previous retirement had been. But where he had been censured before for leaving the squad he was now censured for returning to it. Among his friends and closer acquaintances, of course, his action was approved, but there were some three hundred and fifty students at Manning that fall and to the bulk of them Stuart Harven was known by sight only, and it was from outside his small circle of friends and admirers that disapproval came. It was largely held that, having left the team, he should have stayed off it for the season; that his return would only have the effect of upsetting football affairs again. Even among the squad there were some who viewed his reappearance on the field rather coldly. There was, however, no doubt as to the sentiment of most of the players, and Stuart was grateful to those for their hearty welcome and friendliness. He needed the encouragement such friendliness gave, for it was speedily evident that his absence from practice, as brief as it had been, had played hob with his game. Much of the old dash was gone, much of his former initiative lacking. He had to prod himself constantly in order to show a semblance of his old form. It was as though the ability to play was inside him but wouldn’t come out! By the middle of the week he despaired of “coming back” and realized disheartenedly that so far as the big game was concerned he might just as well have stayed away. But he was of use to the team, and knew it. He found some comfort in the knowledge, and, which is to his credit, refused to be downcast and kept pegging away as hard as he knew how.
Of course what Stuart realized others saw, too. Wednesday evening Jack brought up the subject after a conference in Coach Haynes’s quarters. “I don’t know what’s the matter with Stuart,” he said troubledly. “He isn’t playing anywhere near his real game.”
“No,” said the coach. After a moment he added: “I’m afraid his coming back is going to make more unhappiness for him, Brewton. I suppose he expected to get his place again, but it doesn’t look now as if he could have it, and I’m afraid he will think he is injured and blame me.” Mr. Haynes shook his head regretfully. “It’s too bad. There’s enough ill feeling on his side toward me already; and there’s another year to go through with yet. That is, if I’m back again.”
“But you will be, sir, won’t you?”
“I hope so, Brewton, but a good deal depends on how things go this year. I was given a one-year contract with the understanding that if things went well this fall I should have another for two. If Pearsall shows us up I fancy I’ll be looking for a new job.” Mr. Haynes smiled. Then he looked grave again. “This trouble with Harven has been mighty unfortunate. The Committee has stood by me, but I suppose they can’t help thinking that another man might have got along with less friction. And I guess they’re right. If I had understood Harven as well in September as I do now I’d have handled him differently. I can’t comfort myself with the assurance that the fault has all been his, you see. I’ve made mistakes, too, Brewton.”
Jack frowned. “Stuart’s awfully sort of touchy and stubborn,” he muttered. “I guess it would be mighty hard for any coach to get along with him much better than you have. He—hang him!—he’s got it in for me now. I don’t know why. He’s as stiff as a ramrod. It can’t be because I took his place, for I went to him before I accepted it and he said it was all right, that he’d rather see me captain than any other fellow. But he acts as if I’d done something against him!”
Mr. Haynes smiled. “Human nature has some queer angles, my boy,” he said. “I fancy Harven really thought he was glad to see you become captain, and I dare say he’s tried to be, but there’s a little hurt feeling that persists, and he can’t help showing it. But I wouldn’t let it bother me. He’ll get over it in time. By the way, what about Towne? Have you heard from him since afternoon?”
“No, sir, but I guess it’s only a cold.”
“Well, I hope so,” answered the coach grimly. “We can’t afford to lose our best guard just now. And we’d certainly be in a hole if he wasn’t on hand to kick field goals. That’s a weak department with us, Brewton. Outside of Towne and Harven we haven’t a fellow we can depend on for field goals. Tasker is a whale of a punter, but if the Pearsall game depended on a three-point tally I’d hate to have to leave it to him! Of course, if Harven was in we’d be safe, but unless he bucks up a whole lot inside of the next week he’s likely to see that game from the bench. If I were you I’d look in on Towne to-night and see how he’s making it.”
Jack agreed and took his departure.
Thursday morning it became known that Wally Towne was ill with something that looked a whole lot like tonsillitis, and consternation reigned throughout the school. That afternoon Baker played right guard and the most promising of the second team’s guards was requisitioned by Mr. Haynes. Baker, however, was not a success, and the second team fellow, although he was scrappy and quick and worked hard, was much too light for the place. On Friday the coach tried an experiment, and Steve Le Gette, second-string tackle, was shoved into the line between Cutts and Thurston. Le Gette had the weight and the size and he soon showed that he had the fight. It was not certain that Towne would not be back for the Pearsall game, but tonsillitis, if you have it severely enough, can play hob with you, and even if Wally was able to enter the final contest it was doubtful that he would be able to play it through; and just now the doctor’s report was far from reassuring. So Coach Haynes set about the development of a new guard, to the chagrin of several substitutes for that position, and, recalling the fact that, with Towne out of the game, there’d be a dearth of goal kickers, looked about him for likely material. In the end, it was Le Gette who seemed the most promising. Tasker would have to do the bulk of the punting and, while he might add to his field goal ability by hard practice, it seemed neither wise nor fair to add to his duties. Le Gette had done some punting the year before on the second team as substitute fullback, and so the coach’s choice fell on him.
Stuart, well wrapped in a big gray blanket against the chill wind that was sweeping across the field, was watching the first and second plugging away down by the thirty-yard line at the far end of the field when some one seated himself on the bench beside him. Stuart, interested in seeing the result of Tasker’s effort to punt into the teeth of the wind, didn’t turn his head until Mr. Haynes’s voice startled him.
“Harven,” the coach was saying, “how are you fixed for time in the morning?”
“Time?” Stuart looked rather blank for an instant, trying to focus his thoughts. It was a trifle disconcerting to find the coach’s eyes on a level with his at a distance of two feet.
“Perhaps I’d better explain what I’m after,” continued the other. “We need another man who can kick goals, Harven. If Towne shouldn’t make the Pearsall game we’d be in a fix. If you were playing I’d not worry, but, to be candid, you may not be.” He paused, but Stuart, turning his gaze away, only nodded. “We need another man, if only to be on the safe side,” Mr. Haynes resumed. “I know that a week is a mighty short time to work in, but I think that if you gave an hour to the business in the mornings and perhaps a half hour in the afternoons you could come pretty close to giving us a new goal kicker. A good deal would depend on the other chap, of course, but I’ve got a fellow who has done some punting and who is willing to learn. He was on the second last year and I’ve frankly told him that his chance of getting into the big game depends on his ability to kick goals fairly well. You’ll find him eager to learn, Harven. I’d take him in hand myself, but I’m no kicker and never was, and I wouldn’t be able to teach him half as well as you will. Now what do you say?”
“Of course I’ll do what I can, sir,” answered Stuart soberly and a bit stiffly. “I can find an hour every morning, if my time suits the other fellow’s. Is it certain that Towne won’t be able to play?”
“No, but we’ve got to be prepared. We may never have a chance to score from the field in that game, but we want to have the goods if the chance does come.”
“Of course. Who is the fellow, Mr. Haynes?”
“Le Gette,” replied the coach promptly.
Stuart looked startled. “Steve Le Gette?” he exclaimed.
The coach nodded. “Yes, I’m trying him at guard in Towne’s place and I think he’ll fit. I’ll tell him to see you after practice and you can fix a time for the instruction I hope.”
Stuart was frowning at his scarred hands. “We—he and I aren’t very friendly, sir,” he muttered.
“I know that, but this is a time when such things don’t matter, Harven,” answered the other quietly. “Each of you has a duty to perform for the team. Personal differences can be forgotten for an hour or so each day, I fancy.”
Stuart was silent a moment. Then: “I can do it if he can,” he replied.
“Good!” Mr. Haynes stretched out his hand and Stuart had put his in it before he realized what was happening. He even grinned a little in response to the coach’s smile. Afterwards he told himself that he wished Haynes wasn’t so keen on hand-shaking. “Much obliged, Harven,” the coach went on. “Don’t spare Le Gette. He’s game for all you can pile on to him. See what you can do in a week. If you think I can help, let me know, but I shan’t butt in on you. It’s up to you and Le Gette.” He nodded and hurried off down the side line.
When the second period started Stuart took Wheaton’s place at quarter and, it seemed to him, did better than he had done any day since his return. He was not confident enough to carry the ball himself, although had he tried a quarterback run in one instance and made it good he might have added another six points to the first team’s score. But he ran the team with not a little of his old brilliance, and Coach Haynes, following the plays, smiled thoughtfully.
The meeting of Stuart and Le Gette was extremely polite and formal. They walked back to the gymnasium together and compared schedules, finding that on every day save Tuesday it would be possible to get an hour together on the field. On Tuesday they fixed on a half hour, possibly forty minutes, following breakfast. They parted with mutual relief on the gymnasium steps.
There was a most enthusiastic cheer meeting that evening, and Stuart and Neil attended, although the former tried to get out of it. New songs and old songs were sung, every one who had the courage to face that sea of faces and could think of anything to say made a speech. There was wild and noisy applause on every provocation and the cheering was deafening. Neil, noting that Stuart’s name brought as vociferous a response as any, glowed proudly.
On their way out of the hall Stuart collided with Mr. Moffit and the instructor took him by the arm and led him aside. “You didn’t come back to report,” he accused smilingly. Stuart grinned. “I meant to, sir, but I couldn’t make it. I suppose you’ve heard——”
“Yes, and I was very glad, Harven. It is always a satisfaction to one to learn that one’s prophesies have been—er—correct. You see, I expected you to go back on the team and laid a wager with myself that you would. It pleases me to win. I thank you.”
Stuart laughed. “You took chances, sir. I didn’t think I would go back.”
“On the contrary, my boy, I was betting on a sure thing. I was rather ashamed to take that end of the wager: it was almost like cheating myself. You see, Harven, what we think and what we think we think are frequently very different thoughts. Well, the best of luck to you!” The instructor nodded and smiled and was borne on and Stuart joined Neil again. As he steadied the latter through the throng at the entrance he said with conviction:
“Miss Muffit’s a mighty decent old guy, Neil.”
“Sure,” agreed Neil. “Every one is when we think so.”
Stuart’s rôle as teacher of the gentle art of kicking field goals began the next forenoon. He had grimly determined to follow Mr. Haynes’s instructions and not spare the pupil, and, as they crossed to the second team gridiron, he announced:
“Haynes tells me that you want to learn, Le Gette, and that I’m to teach you. I wasn’t crazy to take the job, as you can guess, but I did take it and I’m going to do my best with it. What I’m trying to get at is just this.” He stopped and scowled sternly. “You’ve got to work if anything’s to come of this, and I’m going to see that you do work. But you’re not to think that I’m—I’m trying to put anything over on you. I’m doing this for Haynes—I mean for the team, and it won’t get us anywhere if you grouch or sulk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Le Gette. “I’m not any crazier about this than you are, but if you keep your shirt on I’ll do the same. And I’ll take all the work you can give me, Harven. Let’s go.”
After half an hour Stuart concluded that it was going to be less a matter of the teacher’s not sparing the pupil than of the pupil’s not sparing the teacher. Le Gette was a veritable whale for work, and all Stuart’s admonitions to take time were wasted. Le Gette spared neither himself nor Stuart. And he proved an apt student, too. Stuart had to acknowledge that. He listened to what was told him, copied the other’s methods and got results. A knowledge of punting aided to some extent, but drop-kicking is an art by itself and the pupil had much to learn. When the hour was up and they had to hurry back to the campus, Stuart couldn’t have said whether he or Le Gette was the more exhausted! In the afternoon there was a brief half hour after the Williston game was over, but as Le Gette had played through most of that contest he wasn’t in very good shape for his lesson. For that matter, neither was Stuart, for he, too, had participated. Both were glad enough when the darkness put an end to the session. They went back to the gymnasium in the twilight, crossing the deserted first team gridiron in silence until, just short of the lighted windows of the building ahead, Le Gette said feelingly:
“A shower isn’t going to be so rotten, eh?”
And Stuart answered, almost amiably: “You said something!”
The Williston game had resulted about as predicted. The visitors had proved rather more formidable than expected, perhaps, and Coach Haynes had been forced to use most of his first-string players well into the third period. The exceptions were Whaley and Wheaton. The right end had been roughly used in a tackle and had given way to Wesner in the second period and Wheaton had yielded to Stuart soon after the beginning of the third quarter. Stuart had done well enough; had run the team fast and surely, had recovered a fumble of Tasker’s that might have resulted disastrously and had pulled off three perfect heaves to Tom Muirgart. But as for “stunts” Stuart simply wasn’t there. Those old-time quarterback runs for thirty, forty, sometimes sixty yards were missing. Only once during the time he had played had he dared attempt a run and then he had been spilled promptly for a two-yard loss. On the whole, though, the Cherry-and-Gray had played a hard, snappy game against a doughty opponent, and the final score of 19 to 6 was generally considered satisfactory. There were those who maintained that Williston should not have scored, but there are always pessimists in every community.