Chick was a revelation that day, and continued as such right through the week, or at least until the end of practice on Thursday. Thursday saw the last hard work of the season. Chick was like the player who had held down the right end position last fall; into everything hard, fighting every minute, taking knocks and giving them with a laugh, tackling like a demon and tackling for keeps, pulling down passes even when it seemed they couldn’t be reached and comporting himself generally during those four last days like the brilliant player that he really was. Fitz Savell fought him desperately, performing great deeds himself in a despairing effort to hold his place, and the Team and the School talked and marveled and credited a miracle. It was Tommy Parish who advanced the theory, based on the two-inch wound that decorated Chick’s forehead, that Chick had had an operation performed on his brain! Tommy didn’t accept Chick’s come-back with any enthusiasm. To Tommy the rejuvenation was too good to be true; at least too good to be permanent. He stated to all and sundry that it was merely a flash in the pan, a grand-stand play that wasn’t to be taken seriously. He wandered into Number 21 Thursday morning between recitations, when the open door revealed Bert alone over a book, and eased himself against the closed portal and lugubriously munched nuts until the host took cognizance of his presence. “Get out of here, Tommy, you and your everlasting peanuts,” said Bert sternly. “I’ve got a recitation in fifteen minutes and two more pages of this stuff to go over. Fade away, son!” “These aren’t peanuts,” replied Tommy with funereal gravity, “they’re pecans. Have some?” “No, and you heard what I said.” “Sure.” But Tommy didn’t move. “Say, tell me this, will you, Bert? Is Chick going to get into that game day after to-morrow? First-off, I mean.” “How the dickens do I know? But why shouldn’t he? Hasn’t he been playing corking good football lately?” “Lately? Three or four days, yes. That doesn’t mean anything. Put him in against Kenly and he’ll play as rotten as ever.” “Oh, forget it, Tommy. And get out of here before I lam you with a book.” “I’m going. Don’t be so jumpy. Say, you want to look after your nerves for a couple of days, Bert, or you’ll be shot to pieces by Saturday. You ought to take long walks and--” “I’m going to take a short walk in just about three seconds,” answered Bert grimly, “and it’s going to end where you’re standing, Tommy.” “No, but honest, Bert. Long walks are what you need.” Bert pushed back his chair and Tommy moved with a celerity no one would have suspected him capable of. “All right, all right! Keep your dickey on! But, say, let me tell you something, will you?” “Yes, if you make it mighty short.” “Well, it’s this. I don’t approve of Johnny starting Chick next Saturday and I’m going to see that he doesn’t.” “You are! _You_ are! Don’t make me laugh, Tommy! How are you going to do it?”