Stover at Yale. Owen Johnson
bolted to make chapel, a cap riding on the exuberant wealth of blond hair. He broached the subject at once:
"Say, Hungerford, you're the man I want."
"Fire away."
Stover detailed his invitation to Regan, concluding:
"Now, tell me frankly what you think."
"Have him with us, by all means," said Hungerford impulsively.
"Might it not be a little embarrassing? How do you think the other fellows would like it?"
"Why, there's only one way to take it," said Hungerford directly. "Our crowd's too damned select now to suit me. We need him a darn sight more than he needs us."
"I knew you'd feel that way."
"By George, that's why I came to Yale. If there are any little squirts in the crowd think differently, a swift kick where it'll do the most good will clear the atmosphere."
Stover looked at him with impulsive attraction. He was boyish, unspoiled, eager.
"Now, look here, Dink—you don't mind me calling you that, do you?" continued Hungerford, with a little hesitation.
"Go ahead."
"I want you to understand how I feel about things. I've got about everything in the world to make a conceited, pompous, useless little ass out of me, and about two hundred people who want to do it. I wish to blazes I was starting where Regan is—where my old dad did; I might do something worth while. Now, I don't want any hungry, boot-licking little pups around me whose bills I am to pay. I want to come in on your scale, and I'm mighty glad to get the chance. That's why my allowance isn't going to be one cent more than yours; and I want you to know it. Now, as for this fellow Regan—he sounds like a man. I tell you what I'll do. I'll fix it up in a shake of a lamb's tail."
"Question is whether Regan will come," said Stover doubtfully.
"By George, I'll make him. We'll go right out together and put it to him."
Which they did; and Regan, yielding to the open cordiality of Hungerford, accepted and promised to change at the end of his week.
In the second week, having satisfactorily arranged his affairs—by what slender margin no one ever knew—Regan reported for practise. He had played a little football in the Middle West and, though his knowledge was crude, he learned slowly, and what he learned he never lost. His great strength, and a certain quality which was moral as well as physical, very shortly won him the place of right guard, where with each week he strengthened his hold.
Regan's introduction at the eating-joint had been achieved without the embarrassment Stover had feared. He came and went with a certain natural dignity that was not assumed, but was inherent in the simplicity of his character. He entered occasionally into the conversation and always, when the others were finished and tarrying over the tobacco, brought his plate to a vacant place and ate his supper; but, that through, though often urged, went his purposeful way, with always that certain solitary quality about him that made approach difficult and had left him friendless.
On the fourth afternoon of practise, as Stover, restraining the raging impatience within him, resolved that at all costs he would not show the chafing, went to his place on the imprisoning bench, watching with famished eyes the contending lines, Dana, without warning, called from the open field:
"Stover! Stover! Out here!"
He jumped up, oblivious of everything but the sudden thumping of his heart and the curious stir in the ranks of the candidates.
"Here, leave your sweater," shouted Tompkins, who had repeated the summons.
"Oh, yes."
Clumsily entangled in the folds of his sweater, he struggled to emerge. Tompkins, amid a roar of laughter, caught the arms and freed him, grinning at the impetuousness with which Stover went scudding out.
On the way he passed the man he was replacing, returning rebelliously with a half antagonistic, half apprehensive glance at him.
"Take left end on the scrub," said Dana, who was not in the line of scrimmage. "Farley, give him the signals."
The scrub quarter hastily poured into his ears the simple code. He took up his position. The play was momentarily halted by one of the coaches, who was hauling the center men over the coals. Opposite Stover, Bangs, senior, was standing, legs spread, hands on his hips, looking at him with a look Stover never forgot. For three years he had plugged along his way, doggedly holding his place in the scrubs, patiently waiting for the one opportunity to come. Now, at last, after the years of servitude, standing on the coveted side of the line, suddenly here was a freshman with a big reputation come in the challenge that might destroy all the years of patience and send him back into the oblivion of the scrubs.
Stover understood the appealing fury of the look, even in all the pitilessness of his ambition. Something sharp went through him at the thought of the man for whose position, ruthlessly, fiercely, he was beginning to fight.
Five or six coaches, always under the direction of Case, head coach, were moving restlessly about the field, watching for the first rudimentary faults. One or two gave him quick appraising looks. Stover, moving restlessly back and forth, his eyes on the ground, too conscious of the general curiosity, awaited the moment of action. The discussion around the center ended.
"Varsity take the ball," called out Dana; "get into it, every one!"
The two lines sprang quickly into position, the coaches, nervous and vociferous, jumping behind the unfortunate objects of their wrath, while the air was filled with shrieked advice and exhortation.
"On the jump, there, Biggs!"
"Charge low!"
"Oh, get down, get down!"
"Break up this play!"
"Wake up!"
"Smash into it!"
"Charge!"
"Now!"
"Block that man!"
"Throw him back!"
"Get behind!"
"Push him on!"
"Shove him on!"
"Get behind and shove!"
"Shove!"
"Shove! Oh, shove!"
Attack and defense were still crude. The play had gone surging around the opposite end, but in a halting way, the runner impeded by his own interference. Stover, sweeping around at full speed, was able to down the half from behind, just as the interference succeeded in clearing the way. At once it was a chorus of angry shouts, each coach descending on the particular object of his wrath.
"Beautiful!"
"You're a wonder!"
"What are you doing—growing to the ground?"
"What did I tell you?"
"Say, interference, is this a walking match?"
"Wonderful speed—almost got away from the opposite end."
"Say, Charley, a fast lot of backs we've got."
"Line 'em up!"
Two or three plays through the center, struggling and squirming in the old fashion of football, were succeeded by several tries at his side. Stover, besides three years' hard drilling, had a natural gift of diagnosis, which, with the savagery of his tackling, made him, even at this period, an unusual end, easily the best of the candidates on the field. He stood on guard, turning inside the attack, or running along with it and gradually forcing his man out of bounds. At other times he went through the loose interference and caught his man with a solid lunge that was not to be denied.
The varsity being forced at last to kick, Bangs came out opposite him