e could go out an' play on a field like that to-day, did I?"

"All right. It can't be helped now. Where's Captain Miller?"

Danny bent his head backward toward the rubbing room. "In there," he
answered shortly.

"Heard about Benson?" asked the coach.

Andy, looking a trifle pale and tired, nodded silently as the rubber
kneaded his back. Mr. Robey frowned a moment.

"You'll have to change over," he said finally. Andy grunted agreement.
"And we'll have to take Turner or Edwards from the second to-morrow and
beat him into shape."

"Edwards is the better," said Andy.

"I suppose so. If he played the way he played yesterday and to-day he
might have a chance against Mumford. Still----"

"I'd better take that end," said Andy. "Let Roberts start the game at
left and then put in Edwards--unless Benson mends enough."

"He won't," said the coach pessimistically. "You can't play end with a
sore ankle. He's out of it, Andy. Tough luck, too. I'll find Edwards and
tell him to join the squad to-night. He's got to learn signals and plays
and----" The coach's voice dwindled into silence and he gloomed
frowningly out the window. "I wish now I'd let Danny have his way," he
lamented. "We could have run through plays indoors and had a hard
practice to-morrow. Well----" He shrugged his shoulders again and his
gaze came back to Andy. "How are you?" he asked. "You look a bit
fagged."

"I'll be all right after supper," replied the captain. "I'll be glad
when Saturday night comes, though." And he smiled a trifle wanly as he
slipped off the table.

Mr. Robey grunted. "So will I. Somehow, this year seems to mean more,
Andy. Still, there's no use in worrying about it. Much better not think
of it any more than you can help."

"I know," agreed Andy as he wrapped a big towel about his glowing body
and moved toward the door, "but when you're captain it--it's a whole lot
different. There's Edwards over there. Shall I call him?"

The coach nodded. "I think so. He's better than Turner, isn't he? Left
end is Turner's position, though."

"Edwards'll take to it quick enough. He's got more bulldog than Turner
has, too. I guess he's the man for us. Oh, Edwards! Will you come over
here a minute?"

Steve pushed his way through the crowded aisles, past Thursby who winked
and grinned and whispered "You're going to catch it!" past Tom who
turned his head away as he approached, past Eric Sawyer, a big hulk in a
crimson bathrobe, who scowled upon hi