s too much for any fellow. In his docile way the substitute
went into the trying place, working along as faithfully, and to all
appearance with as little concern, as in his old position. Secretly, the
responsibility wore upon him. It was a hopeless undertaking to be like
Blake; but everybody expected it of him. He tried his best to grasp the
patient coaching of Diemann and to put it in play at the right time, but
he never seemed quick enough; that cursed slowness of his came in to
show how futile it all was. Everything he did or could do as a football
man was made negative by the fact that he was in Blake's place. It was a
hard graft.

Diemann had known all along what the fellow was suffering, and he pitied
him. According to Ashley's room-mate, the boy talked in his sleep, all
night sometimes, chiefly about Blake and the play. If they did not look
sharp, the coach said to himself, there might be another stale man on
their hands.

Diemann had been thinking of this that very morning when he got the
doctor's telegram. The shock had driven out every thought of Ashley and
the team. All through his work with the sub it had not occurred to him
that anything fatal could come to Blake, he had been doing so well;
then, without warning, came the message saying that he was sinking. He
had got there just in time. Now it was all over and he was going back
to college, where Fred would never hear them shout for him again, never
feel an arm about him in the long walks over the hills.

When the train drew into Palo Alto, Frank Lyman, the football manager,
quiet and sober-faced, stood under the station-light.

"Can you come to dinner with me?" asked Diemann.

The two rode along under the oaks to the instructor's Palo Alto
boarding-house. When they were alone upstairs, the manager said:

"Will you tell me about it? You got up there all right?"

"Yes," said the other, slowly; "not any too soon. The boy was conscious
at the last, and knew me and talked a bit. It was all football, pretty
much. I don't think he was quite clear enough to talk about other
things."

"What did he say--that is, anything special?"

"No; he said he was more than sorry that he wasn't going to get in the
game; it was his last and he wanted to play, but, of course, it wasn't
his fault, and the college wouldn't think he had thrown them down. He'd
never been a quitter, he said."

"No, never," said the manager.

"He went on in that strain a good deal; said tha