e 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