That evening Hugh went back to the football book and discovered a trifle more of sense in what he read. After all, he concluded, perhaps the writer might last five minutes at end under Crowley. There was no work for the first team regulars on Friday, but the second-string players were lined up against the second for one twelve-minute period and barely saved their bacon by slipping Derry across the field unnoticed for a forward pass that brought a touchdown. Hugh congratulated himself that that play took place on the other side and that it was Bellows and not he who had to face the irate Mr. Crowley. Three minutes later, on the second’s thirty-five, first team tried the same trick on the other side and Hugh was fortunate enough to knock the ball down before the opposing left end could get it. For that he got a slap on the back from Myatt, a grin from Quarterback Ayer, and a grunt from Coach Crowley. Not much in the way of reward, perhaps, after all the scoldings he had suffered, but quite sufficient in Hugh’s estimation. Even though he was informed a minute later that he was the worst end that had ever donned canvas he refused to be dejected. “That,” he told himself hearteningly as he watched the opposing tackle and waited for the signal, “isn’t so. If I were as bad as that I wouldn’t be here.” Then he was trying to block off a big tackle, while Ayer’s voice shrilled “_In! In!_” and everything was excitedly confused and glorious. After another moment Hauser yanked him to his feet at the risk of dislocating his arm and Myatt shoved him into position again, and Quinn was crying: “Third down! Four to go!” and Ayer was barking his signals: “Manson back! 47――35――16!” The game ended when Manson’s punt had dropped into the arms of a first-team back, and, muddy and warm and panting, they trotted up to the field house. It was worth all the hard knocks and harder words to feel the tingling rain of the hissing shower on naked body, and afterwards, Hugh, deliciously weary, slowly pulled his clothes on and went half asleep in the task of tying a shoelace and heard the babel of voices as in a dream until Ben Myatt, scantily wrapped in a monstrous bath towel, sank to the bench beside him with a deep sigh and murmured: “They didn’t do much with our wing today, Ordway, did they?” And Hugh, emerging from his luxurious drowse, shook his head proudly and answered: “Rather not!” After which, with a supreme effort of the will, he finished tying that lace and got to his feet. Encountering the eyes of Forbes he smiled kindly but pityingly. It was too bad that Forbes was out of it. He was sorry for Forbes. But as events proved he need not have been. He found Bert lying on the window-seat scribbling on a scratch-pad when he got back to Lothrop. Perhaps the afternoon’s rest had benefited the first-team player, for he was undeniably in better humor.