preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable
and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be
entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually
tabooed. The menu was elaborate. There were soup, two or three kinds of
meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding
or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the
milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. At one end of the
table--whether head or foot is yet undecided--sat the captain, at the
other end the head coach. Other coaches were present as well, and the
trainer sat at the captain's left.

There was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched
upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part.
When all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes
to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a
manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling.
This is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try
it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well
studded with suspended disks of crockery. Bread fights--so named because
the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes--were extremely popular,
and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which
coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging
vegetable.

His evenings usually belonged to Joel to spend as he wished, though not
unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some
visiting authority curtailed them considerably. He had always to be in
bed by ten o'clock.

But sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not
readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on
the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of
the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held
in view for him. And one night he awoke to find Outfield shaking him
violently by the shoulder.

"Wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily.

"You," answered Outfield. "You've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for
half an hour. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

"The signals," muttered Joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a
run around left end by left half-back. And don't forget to start
when the ball's snapped. And jump high if you're blocked.
And--don't--forget--to--" Snore--snor