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12 was a waste of time, and the coach had no right to expect impossibilities.

He took his bath and rub-down as quickly as possible, and slipped into his street clothes. He felt hot and uncomfortable. He wanted to get out in the open air.

The head coach was talking to a brawny, pink-cheeked fellow near the door, and beckoned to Elton. The big man looked at him curiously.

“’Chuck’ Walters, ’92, the best football-player the old college ever had,” announced the coach.

Elton shook hands gladly, and the graduate walked from the gymnasium with him, When they came to Elton’s room, Walters said carelessly, “I ’ll come up for a minute or two, if you don’t mind?”

The boy took him upstairs, and found him an easy-chair in which to lounge. The man sank back into the cushions with a sigh of relief.

“It’s good to get into a college chap’s room again,” he acknowledged. “Yours reminds me of the one Binner had, back when I was playing the game. Ever hear of Binner?”

Every man in the college had heard of him. Elton asked for more information. Walters talked freely.

“He was the pluckiest punter and drop-kicker that was ever on a team,” he declared, “Never hesitated; never offered to quit. Why, once in a critical game they gave the signal for a try for goal when the ball was out beyond the middle of the field.” He paused, and looked out the window absently.

“Yes?” said Elton, eagerly. “What did Binner do?” The boy’s cheeks were red and the words came fast. He remembered the incident of the afternoon.

“What did he do?” echoed Walters. “What did he do?” The man’s eyes were glowing with the recollection. “Why, he stood there, with the whole crowd in the grand stands and bleachers hushed and waiting, as calm and confident as if he had been asked to punt twenty yards. After a bit, he lifted his arms, caught the ball, and drop-kicked a goal as neat as you please. Sixty-two yards, it was, too; they measured it then and there. Ah! Binner was the man. I suppose they have as good players to-day, but it seems to us old chaps as if things were a bit better then,”

“Yes, sir,” said Elton, humbly,

“But of course they were not,” said Walters, with a keen look at the boy. “I ’ve been talking with a few of you fellows, and I ’ve been converted. There is n’t a quitter among you; there is n’t one who would n’t fight for the old college till he dropped. Not one!” And, with a word of adieu, he was gone.

A half-hour before the game, the head coach gathered the men for a final talk.

“Boys,” he said,—he always called them “boys,” with a little note of affection and pride,—“boys, you are about to meet the strongest team, with the exception of your own, in the whole country. I ‘ve been training you for this game since the season opened. Up in the grand stands and bleachers the people will cheer you, and think that you are doing your best, just as they know they would if they were down on the field. They do not appreciate the fact that this game is only seventy minutes of your three months of work. They do not realize that day after day you have worked till you were ready to drop, till the breath was out of your body, till only your pride and your love of the old college kept you on your feet. You know it, though—you understand; and I want you to prove that all this work, all this training, all this sacrifice, has been worth while. I want you to win!

“I want you to win for my sake and for your own. It’s my business to make football-players of you. It’s all the work I know, and to have you win the championship game is all the ambition I have. It means a deal to me, boys, a very great deal. I’ve been working and thinking and planning for a whole year just for these seventy minutes that are before you. And you, who have worked with me, who have been waiting for a chance to play this game, and to feel the ball tucked under your arm and bear thousands cheering you on—you know what it means to you. I want you