A Master's Degree [24]
in love. Poor fellow! The strength of his spirit was like the strength of his body--unbreakable.
He had no fear of pneumonia after the stormy night, for he was used to hard knocks. And he meant to go again by daylight and explore the rocky glen and hidden ways, and to find out, if possible, whose face it was that was behind that cavern wall, whose voice had whispered in his ear, and what loot was hidden there. For reasons of his own, he had mentioned this matter to nobody. But the cold, wet days, little Bug's illness, and the hard study to keep up his class standing, took all of his time. Especially, the study, that he might not be shut out of the great football game of the year on Thanksgiving day. Sunrise was stiff in its scholastic requirements, and conscientious to the last degree. The football team stood on mental ability and moral honor, no less than on scientific skill and muscular weight and cunning. Dr. Fenneben watched Burleigh carefully, for the boy seemed to be always on his heart. The Dean knew how to mix common sense and justice into his rulings, so the word was sent quietly from the head office-- the suggestion of leniency in the matter of Burleigh's absence. Burleigh was good for it. It lay with his professors, of course, to grant or withhold scholarship ranking, but the Dean would be pleased to have all latitude given in Burleigh's case.
Bug was better now, and Vic was burning midnight oil in study, for the hours of practice for the game were doubled.
On the evening before Thanksgiving the coach called Vic aside.
"Everything is safe. Only one report not in, but it will be in tomorrow." the coach declared. "I asked Professor Burgess about your standing, and he says your grades are away above average. He's got to reckon up your absent marks, but that's easy. All the teachers understand about that. I guess Dean Funnybone fixed 'em. And now, Vic, the honor of Sunrise rests on you. If you fail us, we're lost. Can I count on you?"
The tiger light was behind the long black lashes under the heavy black brows, as Vic shut his white teeth tightly.
"Count on me!" he said, and turning, he left the coach abruptly.
"Hey, there, Burleigh, hold on a minute," Trench, the right guard, called, as Vic was striding up the steep south slope of the limestone ridge. "Say, wind a fellow, will you! You infernal, never-wear-out, human steam engine. I'm on to some things you ought to know. Even a lazy old scout like I am gets a crack at things once in a while."
"Well, get rid of it once in a while, if you really do know anything," Vic responded.
"Say, you're nervous. Coach says you spend too much time in your nursery; says you'd better get rid of that little kid."
"Tell the coach to go to the devil!" Vic spoke savagely.
"Say, Coach," Trench roared down from the hillslope, "Vic says for you to go to the devil."
"Wait till after tomorrow," the coach shouted back, "and I'll take you fellows along if you don't do your best."
"Now, that's settled, I'll tell you what I know," Trench drawled lazily. "First, Elinor Wream, what Dean Funnybone calls `Norrie,' is heading the bunch that's going to shower us with roses tomorrow, if we win. And you know blamed well we'll win. They came in from Kansas City on the limited, just now, the roses did. The shower's predicted for tomorrow P. M."
A sudden glow lighted Vic's stern face, and there was no savage gleam in his eyes now.
"Is Elinor well enough to come out tomorrow?"
He had been caught unawares. Trench stared at him deliberately.
"Say, Victor Burleigh." He spoke slowly. "Don't do it! DON'T DO IT! It will kill a man like you to get in love. Lord pity you! and"--more slowly still--"Lord pity the fool girl who can't see the solid gold in the rough old nugget you are."
"What's the rest of your news?" Vic asked.
"I gave the best first. Coach tells me ab-so-lute-lee, you are our only hope. The hope of Sunrise, tomorrow. You've got the beef, the wind, the speed, the head, and the will. Oh, you angel child!"
"The coach
He had no fear of pneumonia after the stormy night, for he was used to hard knocks. And he meant to go again by daylight and explore the rocky glen and hidden ways, and to find out, if possible, whose face it was that was behind that cavern wall, whose voice had whispered in his ear, and what loot was hidden there. For reasons of his own, he had mentioned this matter to nobody. But the cold, wet days, little Bug's illness, and the hard study to keep up his class standing, took all of his time. Especially, the study, that he might not be shut out of the great football game of the year on Thanksgiving day. Sunrise was stiff in its scholastic requirements, and conscientious to the last degree. The football team stood on mental ability and moral honor, no less than on scientific skill and muscular weight and cunning. Dr. Fenneben watched Burleigh carefully, for the boy seemed to be always on his heart. The Dean knew how to mix common sense and justice into his rulings, so the word was sent quietly from the head office-- the suggestion of leniency in the matter of Burleigh's absence. Burleigh was good for it. It lay with his professors, of course, to grant or withhold scholarship ranking, but the Dean would be pleased to have all latitude given in Burleigh's case.
Bug was better now, and Vic was burning midnight oil in study, for the hours of practice for the game were doubled.
On the evening before Thanksgiving the coach called Vic aside.
"Everything is safe. Only one report not in, but it will be in tomorrow." the coach declared. "I asked Professor Burgess about your standing, and he says your grades are away above average. He's got to reckon up your absent marks, but that's easy. All the teachers understand about that. I guess Dean Funnybone fixed 'em. And now, Vic, the honor of Sunrise rests on you. If you fail us, we're lost. Can I count on you?"
The tiger light was behind the long black lashes under the heavy black brows, as Vic shut his white teeth tightly.
"Count on me!" he said, and turning, he left the coach abruptly.
"Hey, there, Burleigh, hold on a minute," Trench, the right guard, called, as Vic was striding up the steep south slope of the limestone ridge. "Say, wind a fellow, will you! You infernal, never-wear-out, human steam engine. I'm on to some things you ought to know. Even a lazy old scout like I am gets a crack at things once in a while."
"Well, get rid of it once in a while, if you really do know anything," Vic responded.
"Say, you're nervous. Coach says you spend too much time in your nursery; says you'd better get rid of that little kid."
"Tell the coach to go to the devil!" Vic spoke savagely.
"Say, Coach," Trench roared down from the hillslope, "Vic says for you to go to the devil."
"Wait till after tomorrow," the coach shouted back, "and I'll take you fellows along if you don't do your best."
"Now, that's settled, I'll tell you what I know," Trench drawled lazily. "First, Elinor Wream, what Dean Funnybone calls `Norrie,' is heading the bunch that's going to shower us with roses tomorrow, if we win. And you know blamed well we'll win. They came in from Kansas City on the limited, just now, the roses did. The shower's predicted for tomorrow P. M."
A sudden glow lighted Vic's stern face, and there was no savage gleam in his eyes now.
"Is Elinor well enough to come out tomorrow?"
He had been caught unawares. Trench stared at him deliberately.
"Say, Victor Burleigh." He spoke slowly. "Don't do it! DON'T DO IT! It will kill a man like you to get in love. Lord pity you! and"--more slowly still--"Lord pity the fool girl who can't see the solid gold in the rough old nugget you are."
"What's the rest of your news?" Vic asked.
"I gave the best first. Coach tells me ab-so-lute-lee, you are our only hope. The hope of Sunrise, tomorrow. You've got the beef, the wind, the speed, the head, and the will. Oh, you angel child!"
"The coach