He considered writing home to his father and recounting the story of his good fortune to him, for it seemed that he must talk to someone about it, and he even dragged a pad of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain pen.

But, after tracing meaningless scrawls for several minutes, he gave it up.

He didn't want to write a letter; he wanted to talk to Tom! He saw the hands of his watch creep toward the hour of eight, after which he might give up pretence of study, don a sweater and a pair of canvas "sneakers" and go over to the gymnasium.

The thought of that and of the next three days put him in a blue funk.

What if he couldn't learn the signals, or, having learned them, forgot them in the game?
What if he disappointed Andy and Coach Robey when the time came?
He had visions of getting his signals mixed, of fumbling the ball at critical moments, of losing the game through his stupidity.