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In the coach's was just the merest twinkle, a very ghost of a smile; but Neil saw it, and it said to him as plainly as words could have said, "I know just how you feel, my boy, but you'll get over it after a while." The coach passed on and the flush faded from Neil's cheeks; he even smiled a little. It was all right; Mills understood. It was almost as though they shared a secret between them.
With the first gray dawn they would come again, leaping to the coach's wheels, yelling, triumphant, mad with new ferocity and he was alone, except for the girl. And where was she? He felt for her on the floor, but only touched the Mexican's feet. He had to lean across the seat where Moylan's body lay, shrouded in darkness, before his groping fingers came in contact with the skirt of her dress.
The pupils came there, and the coach's manner captivated them from the first, and made the work easy for both; they came out high on the list, and were succeeded by others, whose fees paid the rent of the chambers he took in the Temple shortly after.
"Why, John," came the mother's sweet complaint, "I wanted to see Brother Garnet." "Oh, I'm sorry," said the complaisant son. Garnet paused on the coach's platform to get rid of his tremors. "He'll not tell," he said aloud, the uproar of wheels drowning his voice. "He's too good a Rosemonter to tattle. At first I thought he'd got on the same scent as Cornelius.
Never before had he made such a hit among his schoolmates. It was sweet, at last, to taste the pleasures of local fame. He stood gazing about him, drinking in the evident delight of the High School boys. In fact he did not hear the coach's order until it came again. "Try another one, Ripley!" The young man moistened his fingers, placing the ball carefully. Of a sudden his arm shot out.
Now pausing; now rushing on with a shriek and a roar; nearer, nearer to the scene of the new life, dawning grimly upon the fair girl, all unconscious, unheeding. They halted at a wayside station just one of those little hamlets only a few miles removed from, and really a part of the great city. One passenger came on board, sauntering down the coach's length listlessly, wearily.
Melton, pumping the coach's hand up and down like a pumphandle. "It certainly is, old timer," replied Hendricks, "and you sure are a welcome sight to me. But how in the name of all that's good did you happen to get here?" "I came as a guest of our young friends here," replied Mr. Melton; "they mentioned your name, but I didn't think that it might be you.
Ken somehow got the impression that he was blamable for being a member of the coach's green squad. So Ken Ward fluctuated between two fears, one as bad as the other that he would not be selected to play, and the other that he would be selected. It made no difference. He would be miserable if not chosen, and if he was how on earth would he be able to keep his knees from wobbling?
Dave was down with the ball, with men of two teams piled above him. At the sound of the referee's whistle the mass disentangled itself. Dave and Jetson were at the bottom of the heap. Jetson was the last man up, but Dave still lay there. "Surgeon here?" called the coach's steady voice, devoid of excitement.
Danny followed close behind, cautioning and scolding, and more than one player was dragged out of the mêlée and sent off to the gym in spite of the coach's pleas and protestations. "I'll not have them hurted," reiterated Danny stubbornly. "'Tis no sort of a day for hard work, Coach.
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