“No, Pete or Bert, I suppose.” “Well, you go for Bert, then. You could just say something about it’s being pretty near time to think about a new captain, and wonder who he will be. Then you could say that you think Kendall would make a pretty good one. See?” “Ye-es. But, say, Gerald, have you thought how we’d feel if they did make Kendall captain and he didn’t turn out to be the right fellow, after all?” “No, because he will be the right fellow. What’s the use of considering things that aren’t so? Dan picked Kendall for the place, and Dan knows.” The corridor was filling with students, and Gerald dropped his voice. “I had a letter from him the other day, and he particularly asked about Kendall. Come on, it’s nine o’clock.” Harry groaned. “What do you suppose we have recitations for?” he asked. “Life would be so much nicer without them!” CHAPTER XVI COTTON WRITES A LETTER That afternoon the fog changed to a soft drizzle that puffed in from the Sound on a southwest breeze and cast a pall of gloom and moisture over the school. Luckily there was no outdoor practice scheduled, for the field was soft and slippery and just in condition to produce a crop of sprains and bruises. Instead, there was a solid two hours of signal drill and talk in the gymnasium. The plays selected for the morrow were drawn on the blackboard and explained again by the Coach, after which the players were “quizzed” on each and afterwards were made to go through them, first at a walk and then at a trot, until they went off smoothly. Toward the last the lights had to be turned on, and the players, their rubber soles patting the boards, moved back and forth, two squads of them, with their foreshortened shadows dodging and leaping about the floor with strange effect. The voices of Simms and Holmes, the first high and sharp and the latter like an angry growl, called the signals, the centers shot back the balls, the poised players broke into seeming confusion, there was the sound of pattering shoes on the floor, of hurried breathing, and then quiet again as the teams reformed, quiet broken by the even voice of Coach Payson. “Cousins, you started too soon. Wait until quarter turns. Your duty is to make the play safe. If there had been a fumble you’d never have got the ball. Try that again, please. And, Burtis, keep your head straight. If you turn it you may give away the play. Remember that, everyone. Don’t indicate by a look or movement where the ball is going or where the attack is to be made. Same play, Simms.” At the edge of the shadow cast by the running track a half-dozen substitutes watched and awaited their turns. With them were Davis, making interminable notes in his book, and Andy Ryan, the little red-headed trainer, his sharp eyes following the players’ every movement. Finally it was over, and the fellows trooped down the stairs to the showers, the edict “Ten o’clock bed, fellows!” ringing in their ears.