"What are you doing over here, you spy?" he demanded. "Trying to get our signals!"

"No, just looking," replied the other innocently.

"Looking at my tackles, maybe, eh! You tell George he can't have any of them. How the d.i.c.kens does he suppose I'm going to make a team if he keeps pulling a man out every little while?"

"That what he's been doing!" asked Detweiler sympathetically, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed speculatively on the squad that was dashing past. "That's Thayer on this end, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," agreed "Boots" reluctantly. "Suppose you'd like him, wouldn't you?"

"Well, you know the fix we're in over there, old man. Saunders is out of it for a fortnight and Trow and Tyler haven't any ginger at all. We might give him back to you next week, you know."

"Oh, yes, I know! You're likely to! What I'll get will be that fellow Crewe. I don't want him, understand? I wouldn't have him on my team.

Look here, if you only want a tackle for a week or so, why don't you take Robbins? He's a good man, Robbins."

"Is he? Which is Robbins?" Mr. Boutelle pointed him out. Detweiler shook his head.

"Too straggly, 'Boots.' Try again. Either Cupples or Thayer, I guess it will have to be. Sorry, you know."

"Oh, yes, you're plumb broken-hearted, aren't you?" asked "Boots" with bitter sarcasm. As a relief to his feelings, he shouted pungent criticism at Quarter-back Hinton. "Well," he said finally, "which do you want and when do you want him?"

"I guess we'll take Thayer," was the answer, "Tell him to report tomorrow, will you? Much obliged, old man."

"You're not welcome, confound you! Now get out of here! And tell George this is the last player he gets from me this Fall!"

Detweiler departed, grinning, and "Boots" returned, grumbling, to his charges and was so cross-grained for the rest of the practice that the team wondered. Later, in the gymnasium, "Boots" approached Clint.

"Thayer, they want you on the 'varsity," he announced shortly. "Report to Coach Robey tomorrow. And for goodness' sake show them that we know football over here. You'll do well enough to hold your job over there, I guess, if you'll just remember a few of the things I've tried to hammer into you. If you don't you'll be dumped back on my hands again, and I don't want you. I warn you right now that if you come back to me this season you'll go on the bench. I won't have any castaways from the 'varsity working for me!"

"Yes, sir; thank you, Mr. Boutelle. I'll try my best, sir."

Mr. Boutelle's frowns diminished. "Well, that's all you can do, Thayer.

I'm sorry to lose you, and that's a fact. And I hope you'll make good."

Then he scowled again. "It means learning a new set of signals, confound them!"

He went off, still grumbling, leaving Clint, attired princ.i.p.ally in a towel, a prey to very varied emotions.

Chapter XIX

Mr. Detweiler Instructs

"It isn't that I'm not tickled to death about getting on the 'varsity,"

explained Clint to Amy later, "but I'm mighty sorry to leave the second.

You see, a fellow gets sort of fond of the team."

"Fond!" jeered Amy. "You're positively foolish! It's a wonder you wouldn't go into mourning!"

"And then, too," continued Clint, a.n.a.lysing his emotions for his own satisfaction more than for Amy's benefit, "I'm scared. Suppose I don't do well enough for them on the 'varsity, Amy. I'd feel pretty cheap if they dropped me after a day or two, wouldn't I? 'Boots' swears he won't have anything to do with me if I come back. I--sort of wish Robey had chosen Cupples or Robbins. I really do!"

"Cheer up!" said Amy. "Faint heart ne'er won the 'varsity! I'll bet you'll make 'em open their eyes, Clint, when you get there. One trouble with you is that you're too modest. You need to have more--more faith in yourself, old top. And don't take 'Boots' too seriously, either. If you decide to return to his aggregation of world-beaters you'll find he'll do a heap of scolding and then fall on your neck. But you won't do anything of the sort. I'm no football connoisseur, whatever that is, but I have a feeling, Clint, that you can play all around Trow and Tyler.

Besides, after Joe Detweiler gets hold of you he'll do wonders for you.

Joking aside, Clint, I'm awfully pleased. It's great! And--and it's so mighty unexpected, too! That's what gets me! Of course, I've always known you were bound to become famous some day, but I didn't suppose it was going to happen so soon!"

"I didn't suppose it was going to happen at all," replied Clint rather ruefully.

"And it's going to be fine for me, too," continued Amy with gusto.

"Think what it will mean to be the chum of a regular 'Greek'! 'Hats off, fellows! Here comes Mr. Byrd! Good morning, Mr. Byrd. We trust we see you well today? And how is Mr. Thayer? We hope that his knee has quite recovered from its recent indisposition!'"

"You silly idiot!" laughed Clint.

"And then, Clint, think of following your meteoric career in the papers!

As I nibble at my toast of a morning I prop the New York _Herald_ against the water giraffe and read, spilling my coffee down my neck: 'The life of the party was Right Tackle Thayer. Seizing the elongated sphere and tucking it under his strong left arm, Thayer dashed into the embattled line of the helpless adversary. Hurling the foe right and left and biting the Claflin quarter-back in the neck, he emerged triumphant from the melee. Dodging the enemy's bewildered secondary defence, and upsetting the umpire with a dull thud, our hero dashed down the field.

Line after line vanished behind his flying feet. Shod with the wings of Mercury, he sped on and on and still on toward the far-distant goal line. Cheers thundered from the encompa.s.sing stadium, met overhead, broke and descended upon the head of the speeding runner in a shower of fragmentary vowels and consonants. Still on and on went Right Tackle Thayer. Friend and enemy were far behind. Victory stretched eager arms toward him. With a last, gallant effort he plunged across the goal line and fell unconscious beneath the cross-bar. At a given signal a wreath of laurel descended from above and fitted about his n.o.ble brow. The score: Thayer, 98; Claflin, 0!'"

"Just the same," muttered Clint, when he had stopped laughing, "I'm scared. And I _do_ wish Robey had let me alone."

"Coward!" taunted Amy. "Quitter! Youth of chilly extremities!"

"I'll have to learn new signals, too. And that's a beast of a job, Amy."

"Sluggard! Lazy-bones! Dawdler!"

"Shut up! I wish it was you, by ginger!"

"If it was me," replied Amy, "do you think I'd be sitting there clasping my hands agonisedly? Not much I wouldn't be sitting there handing my clasp ango--Well, I wouldn't! I'd be out on the Row with my head up and my thumbs in the pockets of my vest; only I haven't any vest on; and I'd be letting folks know what had happened to me. You don't deserve the honour of making the 'varsity in your fourth year, Clint. You don't appreciate it. Why, look at poor old Freer. He's been trying to make himself a regular for three years and he's still just a subst.i.tute!"

"That's what I'll be," said Clint. "You don't suppose, do you, that they're going to put me in the first line-up?"

"Well, not for a day or two," answered Amy airily. "But after that you'll be a regular feature of the day's entertainment. And, zowie, how the second will lay for you and hand it to you! They'll consider you a traitor, a renegade, a--a backslider, Clint, and they'll go after you hard. Better lay in a full supply of arnica and sterilised gauze and plaster, my n.o.ble hero, for you'll get yours all right, all right!"

"I don't see why they need to look at it that way," objected the other.

"I didn't _want_ to leave the second!"

"But they won't believe it, Clint. I'm sorry for you, but the path of glory is indeed hard!"

It was.

And Clint frequently doubted during the next week that glory had anything to do with it. When, on Tuesday afternoon, he reported to Mr.

Robey, that gentleman cast a speculative look over him, nodded and said briefly: "See Mr. Detweiler, Thayer."

Clint sought the a.s.sisting coach. "Mr. Robey told me to report to you, sir."

"Yes." Mr. Detweiler viewed him much as Coach Robey had, as though trying to see not only what showed but what was inside as well. The only difference was that Mr. Detweiler smiled. "Well, Thayer, now let's see."

He walked to the bench which the players were vacating, Clint following, and seated himself. "Sit down a minute," he directed. And when Clint was beside him he went on. "I really don't know much about your playing, Thayer. We had to have a new tackle and I took you because I liked your looks the other day. Maybe I ought to have taken one of the others. What do you think?"

Clint smiled uncertainly. "I reckon I'm not a fair judge," he replied after a moment's hesitation.