Bread fights--so named because
the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes--were extremely popular,
and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which
coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging
vegetable.
His evenings usually belonged to Joel to spend as he wished, though not
unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some
visiting authority curtailed them considerably. He had always to be in
bed by ten o'clock.
But sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not
readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on
the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of
the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held
in view for him. And one night he awoke to find Outfield shaking him
violently by the shoulder.
"Wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily.
"You," answered Outfield. "You've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for
half an hour. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"
"The signals," muttered Joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a
run around left end by left half-back. And don't forget to start
when the ball's snapped. And jump high if you're blocked.
And--don't--forget--to--" Snore--snore! "Well," muttered West as he
stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all
crazy games--"
But West was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to
sleep when his head struck the pillow.
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