Chapter 23

DURKIN SHEDS LIGHT

Steve felt frightfully lonely that evening. He wanted so much to talk over his good fortune with Tom. But Tom, very grave of countenance, sat in frozen silence across the table and never so much as glanced his way. Had he done so he might have caught one of the 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 relief, piled them up and went to the closet. When he was ready to go out Tom was still bent over his studies. Steve hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. He wanted Tom to wish him luck. He